knife. Frank looked in bewilderment at them all, at first uncomprehending, and as he realized their merriment was real he laughed, too, wiping away his tears on the sleeve of his grey shirt. Emma hugged him to her. ‘Don’t take on so, Frank luv. I meant no harm, yer silly duck nut. And don’t wipe yer nose on yer sleeve,’ she scolded gruffly as she stroked back his hair and kissed the top of his head with tenderness.
A feeling of friendliness and genuine family affection was miraculously restored. Emma sighed with relief and began her managerial bustling again. ‘We’ll all have ter look sharp and get a move on, or we’ll be late for work,’ she cried, catching sight of the clock on the mantel. It had just turned a quarter to five and her father and Winston had to leave at five o’clock to reach the brickyard by six, when they had to clock in. She felt the teapot under the cosy. The pot was still hot. ‘Come on, Frank, take this tea up ter our mam for me,’ she said, pouring tea into a mug and adding generous portions of milk and sugar. ‘And, Dad, mend the fire for me, will yer, please. Bank it up so that it lasts till me Aunt Lily comes in. And, Winston, wash the pots whilst I finish making yer jock. And, Dad, don’t forget the fireguard.’
She handed the mug of tea to Frank. ‘And ask me mam if she wants some bread and jam, and hurry up about it, me lad, there’s still a lot of chores ter be done afore I go ter the Hall.’ Frank took the tea carefully in both of his small hands and hurried across the room, his boots ringing hollowly on the brick floor as he headed for the staircase. Whistling under his breath, Winston gathered the dirty mugs and plates from the table and carried them over to the sink, whilst Jack turned to the fireplace and began stacking on the logs. Emma smiled to herself. Peace was restored. She moved to the set pot and began to wrap the sandwiches in the cotton serviettes her mother had so carefully hemmed, dampening them first so that the sandwiches would stay fresh.
Jack devoted his attention to the fire, interspersing the logs with treasured pieces of coal and then heaping on coal dust so that the fire would last until his sister Lily came in to tend to Elizabeth later in the morning. As he swung his great body around to reach for the fireguard he glanced surreptitiously at Winston, who was mechanically washing the pots at the kitchen sink. He regretted his outburst of anger earlier. There was no deep-rooted hatred between them, only this irritation that was increasingly difficult to repress in them both. He did not even blame the boy for wanting to leave Fairley; nevertheless, he could not permit him to go. Dr Malcolm had said nothing specific about Elizabeth’s health, but Jack did not require a medical opinion to confirm what he already suspected. She was dying. Winston’s departure at this time would be the last nail in her coffin. He was her favourite child. She loved all of her children, but Winston was special, being the eldest and so like her in looks. Jack dare not let him leave and yet he could not tell the boy his reasons. ‘And he always picks the wrong time ter discuss it,’ Jack muttered to himself as he put the fireguard around the grate. He rested for a moment against the guard, staring into the fire, blinded by searing grief and overwhelming despair. It was grief for Elizabeth, who had been so brutalized by life, despair for his young children, who would be motherless before the last of the snows melted into spring.
He felt a light touch on his arm and he knew it was Emma. He swallowed hard, his throat constricted. He coughed hoarsely and straightened himself to his full height, attempting a smile. ‘Yes, luv, what is it?’
‘Yer’ll be late, Dad. Yer best go and see me mam now, afore yer leave.’
‘Aye, lass. I’ll just wash this coal dust off me hands.’ Jack moved to the sink, where Winston was drying the pots. ‘Go up and see thee mam, lad, and I’ll be up in a minute. Thee knows how upset she gets if we don’t all see her afore we leaves.’ Winston nodded, wiped the last of the mugs quickly, and left the kitchen, still nervously whistling between his teeth.
Jack looked over at Emma, who was standing at the set pot, the tea caddy in her hands. She was measuring out their mashings of tea and sugar into small pieces of paper, screwing the ends together securely so nothing would be spilled. ‘Thee’ll be catching thee death in that nightgown, Emma, and there’s no warmth in that shawl. Thee best get dressed lass, now everything’s in order down here.’
‘Yes, I will, Dad. I’ve finished putting up yer mashings,’ she said with a sunny smile that illuminated her serious face with sudden radiance. Her eyes, so unusually deep and vividly green, were bright and shining, and Jack knew that her affection for him was intact. She ran across the kitchen to her father. He was smiling down at her. Emma stood on tiptoe and, putting her thin arms around his neck, she pulled his face down to hers. She kissed his cheek and said, ‘I’ll see yer next Saturday, Dad.’ Jack held her for a brief moment longer, his sinewy arms tightening around her protectively as a surge of tenderness swept through him. ‘Aye, luv, and take care of theeself up yonder at the Hall,’ he mumbled in a tight voice. She was gone before he could catch his breath, slipping out of his arms and streaking across the room like a flash of lightning, and Jack was alone in the kitchen.
He sighed and reached for his coat on the peg behind the door. He felt around in the pockets for the small leather straps he fastened around his corduroy trousers to prevent the dust from the bricks rising up his legs. He sat down at the table and buckled them on, wondering as he did whether he should tell Elizabeth he had given in his notice at the brickyard. He frowned, his large hands expertly tightening the straps until he had just the right pressure. It had been a hard decision for Jack to make, since jobs were scarce and so many men were out of work, and also he liked working in the fresh air, even though slinging wet clay up on to a gantry for ten hours a day was killing work for any man. He did not object to the hard work, he did object to the pay it brought him and he had said so to Stan, the gaffer, last Friday. ‘Eighteen shillings and tenpence is nowt much ter take home at the end of the week, Stan. And me a married man with three kids. I’m not blaming me kids on anybody but meself, mind thee, but bloody old man Fairley’s paying starvation wages. That he is, Stan, and thee knows it,’ he had said with a quiet vehemence.
Stan had shaken his head, and even though he had spoken with some sympathy he had not been able to meet Jack’s fixed stare. ‘Aye, Jack, there’s summat in what thee says. It’s a bloody crime, it is. But there’s gaffers walking around that only get twenty bob a week. I don’t get much more meself. Nowt I can do about it, though. Take it or leave it, lad.’ He had told Stan he would leave it, in no uncertain terms, and he had reluctantly gone to the Fairley mill on Saturday morning, cap in hand, swallowing his pride. He had seen Eddie, the foreman, his friend since boyhood, who had signed him on to start in a week’s time at twenty shillings a week, which was an improvement if not much of one. He pondered the question of telling Elizabeth and abruptly decided against it. She knew he loathed mill work and it would only grieve her and aggravate her condition. No, he would not tell her until he was already working at the mill next week. He had one consolation, small though it was. The mill was down at the bottom of the village, in the valley on the banks of the river Aire, and it was only ten minutes away from the cottage. He was close at hand if Elizabeth needed him, if there was an emergency, and this thought cheered him so enormously it made the mill work seem that much less unpalatable to him.
The church clock in the village struck five and he sprang up, striding across the room swiftly with that easy grace many tall men have quite unconsciously. He took the stairs two at a time, his hobnail boots hitting the stone steps with a harsh metallic ring that was an oddly mournful echo in the silence of the cottage.
Emma was dressed and standing with Winston and Frank by the side of the bed. They seemed a woebegone little trio in their drab and shabby clothes, which were also patched and darned. But these clothes were scrupulously clean and neat, as they were themselves with their scrubbed faces and carefully combed hair. And each child, as disparate as they were in appearance, had a sort of refinement that stood out so strikingly that those poor, threadbare garments became insignificant. They had a curious dignity as they stood there so solemn-faced and quiet. The children parted and stepped back to make way for Jack as he bounded into the room, bristling with energy, a cheerful smile carefully
