Read Online A House Divided: An Easterleigh Hall Novel by Margaret Graham - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Margaret Graham
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He laughed so loud he coughed, and knocked Tim forwards.
The singing had stopped, and the others were listening. Hans banged the table with his fist. Coughed once more, then lowered his voice, wagging his finger at Tim. ‘You, my boy, must listen to experts. We say, don’t we, my comrades, put up your posters about your fascist meeting, taunt the Reds in your pubs in the days before. They will come to attack when you meet, so angry have you made them. You will be the defenders, then, to your community. Soon you will be seen as a force for law and order. You will become admired.’
It all seemed sensible but suddenly the room began to spin. He gripped the table and felt the bile rising in his throat. Oh, God. He stared at the silver salt cellar. They were all singing again. Oh, God. Walter and Hans belched brandy and sour cigar breath over him.
Hans and Walter looked surprised as he eased himself from beneath their arms. He nodded to Heine, who was watching him carefully. Tim didn’t dare open his mouth. He nodded goodnight, and staggered to his own room. Somehow he removed his clothes and hung them, before crawling beneath the bed covers and praying that the room would stop spinning soon. Never again would a drop of alcohol pass his lips.
Chapter Six
Easterleigh Hall, June 1936
Bridie and James caught the bus to Hawton on Sunday at ten in the morning. They had wangled it as their day off after they heard about the trouble at the British Union of Fascists meeting the day before, and decided they needed to make a reconnaissance trip. Bridie had a basket on her lap containing sandwiches, which Mrs Moore had pressed on her, saying, ‘You might need these, if you’re hiking around and about.’
As the bus jolted into and out of a pothole, she saw that James was chewing his thumbnail. She tapped his hand away. ‘You’re too old for that.’
James frowned. ‘You’re as bad as Mrs Moore with your nagging, child that you are.’
In front of them an old man turned around, chuckling. ‘Right canny lass, our Bridie is an’ all, man.’ He touched his cap to Bridie. ‘Young Tom Welsh’s picked up no end. He’s walking good as new on that leg the Neave Wing made him, using just the one stick, he is. Up with you for an hour on Prancer later, isn’t he?’
Bridie swallowed. She’d forgotten. She groped through her memory and finally said, ‘Four o clock, isn’t it, Mr Burton?’
‘That’s the one.’ He turned to the front as the bus pulled into a stop and picked up Mr and Mrs Young, bound for chapel at Hawton. James pressed his arm against hers and whispered into her ear. ‘We’ll make sure we’re back. It’s only for a look, and to plan.’
‘We must be or da’ll kill me.’ What she really thought was that she’d want to drop through the ground if she missed it, so her da wouldn’t have to kill her. She leaned back, moving with the bus, the basket heavy on her lap. Tim had been back at work in Newcastle for two weeks and hadn’t been to Easton to see anyone, not even Aunt Gracie or Uncle Jack. But had he been at the violent Hawton BUF meeting last night?
The bus trundled on, and she could imagine it almost panting as it revved itself up and over a bridge. It was one mile to Hawton now; its slag heaps smouldered in the distance, and the draught through the open windows was heavy with sulphur.
Had Uncle Mart, who managed Hawton Pit, heard the fighting? Had he seen Tim? Would he tell his marra, Uncle Jack, if he had? Would she?
James was chewing his thumbnail again. ‘What do we do if we see him?’ he whispered. ‘Not sure we should have come, Bridie.’
‘We need to know,’ she whispered back.
‘Then what?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, but it’s what we decided, you daft bugger.’
She wasn’t whispering now, and Mr Burton turned his head slightly and said, ‘You’ll be having your mouth washed out with soap, young Bridie, if Evie gets to hear that talk in public.’
James leaned forward.
The singing had stopped, and the others were listening. Hans banged the table with his fist. Coughed once more, then lowered his voice, wagging his finger at Tim. ‘You, my boy, must listen to experts. We say, don’t we, my comrades, put up your posters about your fascist meeting, taunt the Reds in your pubs in the days before. They will come to attack when you meet, so angry have you made them. You will be the defenders, then, to your community. Soon you will be seen as a force for law and order. You will become admired.’
It all seemed sensible but suddenly the room began to spin. He gripped the table and felt the bile rising in his throat. Oh, God. He stared at the silver salt cellar. They were all singing again. Oh, God. Walter and Hans belched brandy and sour cigar breath over him.
Hans and Walter looked surprised as he eased himself from beneath their arms. He nodded to Heine, who was watching him carefully. Tim didn’t dare open his mouth. He nodded goodnight, and staggered to his own room. Somehow he removed his clothes and hung them, before crawling beneath the bed covers and praying that the room would stop spinning soon. Never again would a drop of alcohol pass his lips.
Chapter Six
Easterleigh Hall, June 1936
Bridie and James caught the bus to Hawton on Sunday at ten in the morning. They had wangled it as their day off after they heard about the trouble at the British Union of Fascists meeting the day before, and decided they needed to make a reconnaissance trip. Bridie had a basket on her lap containing sandwiches, which Mrs Moore had pressed on her, saying, ‘You might need these, if you’re hiking around and about.’
As the bus jolted into and out of a pothole, she saw that James was chewing his thumbnail. She tapped his hand away. ‘You’re too old for that.’
James frowned. ‘You’re as bad as Mrs Moore with your nagging, child that you are.’
In front of them an old man turned around, chuckling. ‘Right canny lass, our Bridie is an’ all, man.’ He touched his cap to Bridie. ‘Young Tom Welsh’s picked up no end. He’s walking good as new on that leg the Neave Wing made him, using just the one stick, he is. Up with you for an hour on Prancer later, isn’t he?’
Bridie swallowed. She’d forgotten. She groped through her memory and finally said, ‘Four o clock, isn’t it, Mr Burton?’
‘That’s the one.’ He turned to the front as the bus pulled into a stop and picked up Mr and Mrs Young, bound for chapel at Hawton. James pressed his arm against hers and whispered into her ear. ‘We’ll make sure we’re back. It’s only for a look, and to plan.’
‘We must be or da’ll kill me.’ What she really thought was that she’d want to drop through the ground if she missed it, so her da wouldn’t have to kill her. She leaned back, moving with the bus, the basket heavy on her lap. Tim had been back at work in Newcastle for two weeks and hadn’t been to Easton to see anyone, not even Aunt Gracie or Uncle Jack. But had he been at the violent Hawton BUF meeting last night?
The bus trundled on, and she could imagine it almost panting as it revved itself up and over a bridge. It was one mile to Hawton now; its slag heaps smouldered in the distance, and the draught through the open windows was heavy with sulphur.
Had Uncle Mart, who managed Hawton Pit, heard the fighting? Had he seen Tim? Would he tell his marra, Uncle Jack, if he had? Would she?
James was chewing his thumbnail again. ‘What do we do if we see him?’ he whispered. ‘Not sure we should have come, Bridie.’
‘We need to know,’ she whispered back.
‘Then what?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, but it’s what we decided, you daft bugger.’
She wasn’t whispering now, and Mr Burton turned his head slightly and said, ‘You’ll be having your mouth washed out with soap, young Bridie, if Evie gets to hear that talk in public.’
James leaned forward.
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