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Authors: Maggie Hope
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he didn’t have to avoid the deserted village. And the owners, despite their wealth, liked to think he was being frugal.
Marcus, the second horse he had had of that name, slowed to a walk and picked his way carefully between the sleepers. Most of the rails had been taken up and those left were rusted and broken. Grass and weeds grew between the sleepers, hiding places where large stones lay or there were unexpected hollows in the track. Miles moved his horse to the narrow path by the side, barely discernible for dead bracken and weeds.
There was still evidence of Old Pit yard, he noticed as he passed it. The shaft, capped with strong wooden beams, the engine house, roofless and gutted and with jagged pieces of iron jutting from the wall where thestaircase had once been. Fancifully it reminded him of Barnard Castle which had suffered a similar fate after the wars of the Roses.
The houses still stood in two straight lines with a road between leading to the pump. Some of them had had the roof slates removed, but most had not. He led Marcus on to the pump, dismounted and drew some water into an old and battered bucket standing there.
The end house was still occupied, he saw. Miles walked over and peered in to the kitchen he remembered so well, though he had tried to put it out of his mind. He had not been along this way for years – thirteen years, in fact. He glanced back at his horse; the animal had finished drinking and was cropping at bits of grass between stones of the road. Miles went around the back of the houses.
The gardens were cultivated, or at least some of them were. Winter cabbage and brussel sprouts stood in rows. Earth had been newly turned in places and there was a boy working in the farthest corner from him. As Miles walked towards him, the boy stood up, breathing heavily and stared at him.
‘What do you want, creeping up on me like that?’ he demanded. He wiped the back of his hand across his brow, leaving a trail of brown earth over pale eyebrows. ‘If you’re the school inspector, I’m not going back and you can’t make me. I’m thirteen and I can leave school if I want to!’
Miles stared at him, unable to believe his eyes. Apart from the ragged clothes and the rough speech of the lad it could have been Tom standing defiantly there. The lad was sturdy, with no sign of the rickets that plagued so many of the miners’ children and he was tall and straight.
‘Who the hell are you?’ Miles demanded.
‘Who are you?’ the lad countered. He stared levelly at Miles with blue eyes exactly the same colour as Tom’s. Only his hair was slightly darker, Miles saw now.
‘I’m the mines agent,’ said Miles. In spite of his stunned amazement he was pleased to note his tone was normal – with the same tinge of impatient arrogance he always used with these people.
The lad lifted his chin. ‘My name is Benjamin Trent,’ he said. ‘I live here with my sister. We’re not hurting nothing, mister. My gran got leave to live here, she told us.’
His gran? Could it be that this was not the product of that snow-bound night? But the evidence was there before his eyes, the boy the spitting image of Tom.
‘Where is your gran now?’
Miles couldn’t believe that the boy had been here all these years without him finding out. That old witch must have hidden him away. But no, he had spoken of the school inspector so he must have gone to school. How could he ever have bedded that old biddy? If it ever came up no one would ever believe him if he denied fatheringthe boy. His thoughts flew round inside his head chaotically and he had to pull himself together.
The wonder was that there hadn’t been rumours flying about him and the lad, for these colliery villages were hotbeds of gossip and usually the gossip reached their betters. Oh, he had to get rid of him and as soon as maybe; his luck wouldn’t last forever and if it ever got out that would be the end of his dreams of Miss Bertha Porritt.
‘Where
Marcus, the second horse he had had of that name, slowed to a walk and picked his way carefully between the sleepers. Most of the rails had been taken up and those left were rusted and broken. Grass and weeds grew between the sleepers, hiding places where large stones lay or there were unexpected hollows in the track. Miles moved his horse to the narrow path by the side, barely discernible for dead bracken and weeds.
There was still evidence of Old Pit yard, he noticed as he passed it. The shaft, capped with strong wooden beams, the engine house, roofless and gutted and with jagged pieces of iron jutting from the wall where thestaircase had once been. Fancifully it reminded him of Barnard Castle which had suffered a similar fate after the wars of the Roses.
The houses still stood in two straight lines with a road between leading to the pump. Some of them had had the roof slates removed, but most had not. He led Marcus on to the pump, dismounted and drew some water into an old and battered bucket standing there.
The end house was still occupied, he saw. Miles walked over and peered in to the kitchen he remembered so well, though he had tried to put it out of his mind. He had not been along this way for years – thirteen years, in fact. He glanced back at his horse; the animal had finished drinking and was cropping at bits of grass between stones of the road. Miles went around the back of the houses.
The gardens were cultivated, or at least some of them were. Winter cabbage and brussel sprouts stood in rows. Earth had been newly turned in places and there was a boy working in the farthest corner from him. As Miles walked towards him, the boy stood up, breathing heavily and stared at him.
‘What do you want, creeping up on me like that?’ he demanded. He wiped the back of his hand across his brow, leaving a trail of brown earth over pale eyebrows. ‘If you’re the school inspector, I’m not going back and you can’t make me. I’m thirteen and I can leave school if I want to!’
Miles stared at him, unable to believe his eyes. Apart from the ragged clothes and the rough speech of the lad it could have been Tom standing defiantly there. The lad was sturdy, with no sign of the rickets that plagued so many of the miners’ children and he was tall and straight.
‘Who the hell are you?’ Miles demanded.
‘Who are you?’ the lad countered. He stared levelly at Miles with blue eyes exactly the same colour as Tom’s. Only his hair was slightly darker, Miles saw now.
‘I’m the mines agent,’ said Miles. In spite of his stunned amazement he was pleased to note his tone was normal – with the same tinge of impatient arrogance he always used with these people.
The lad lifted his chin. ‘My name is Benjamin Trent,’ he said. ‘I live here with my sister. We’re not hurting nothing, mister. My gran got leave to live here, she told us.’
His gran? Could it be that this was not the product of that snow-bound night? But the evidence was there before his eyes, the boy the spitting image of Tom.
‘Where is your gran now?’
Miles couldn’t believe that the boy had been here all these years without him finding out. That old witch must have hidden him away. But no, he had spoken of the school inspector so he must have gone to school. How could he ever have bedded that old biddy? If it ever came up no one would ever believe him if he denied fatheringthe boy. His thoughts flew round inside his head chaotically and he had to pull himself together.
The wonder was that there hadn’t been rumours flying about him and the lad, for these colliery villages were hotbeds of gossip and usually the gossip reached their betters. Oh, he had to get rid of him and as soon as maybe; his luck wouldn’t last forever and if it ever got out that would be the end of his dreams of Miss Bertha Porritt.
‘Where
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