Katie Mulholland Read online

  George Rosier stood glaring down at the fire for a moment; then he turned his back to it, put his hand under his coat tails and flapped them angrily upwards and, marching to the table, scattered papers here and there until he found what he was looking for. He was reading the letter when the door opened and his son, Bernard, entered.

  Bernard Rosier was tall—taller than his mother by five inches. His complexion was dark, as were his eyes; his face and body, like his mother’s, were inclined to heaviness, yet his lips and nostrils were thin. Altogether he looked a handsome man, a gloweringly handsome man.

  ‘Where the hell’ve you been?’

  ‘In my room.’ The reply was cool, and there was no trace of annoyance on Bernard’s face at his father’s tone.

  ‘At this time in the morning? It’s no wonder we’re in the devil of a mess.’

  ‘I was at the works until seven o’clock last night.’

  ‘That’s no reason to sleep abed till eleven in the morning.’

  ‘I wasn’t abed. Nor was I abed at seven o’clock this morning. I’ve been exercising Falstaff, after which I had a rub-down.’

  ‘You and your rubbing down. This is no time for riding or rubbing down. Rubbing down at eleven in the morning.’ He snorted. ‘It’s a time for action. Those buggers are going on strike again.’

  ‘Well, you knew that yesterday.’

  ‘Don’t stand there being so bloody cool—of course I knew that yesterday. At least I expected it. But I thought I’d put a spoke in their wheel and the fear of God into them. I told Brown to set the word around there was a boatload of Irish coming in, but that Fogerty and Ramshaw have started spouting again. If we can’t keep to the schedule Palmer’ll drop us; he’ll just transport our coal when he’s slack. He’s already too big for his boots. God, if only I was on that board.’ He stumped one stubby fist into the palm of his hand, while his son surveyed him calmly for a moment, before saying, ‘You should have bought the shares when you had the opportunity.’

  ‘Don’t say that. I’ve warned you, don’t you say that to me again.’ George Rosier turned a purple countenance upon his son. ‘I’ve told you before. Eight years ago I was in no position to buy shares of any kind. I was just keeping my head above water, literally so, the water in the mine…Anyway’—he flung round and glared into the fire—‘who on earth would have thought a hare-brained scheme of iron ships driven by steam would have proved successful? The steam had failed before, the price it entailed was prohibitive; the whole combination seemed fantastic, except as an experiment.’

  Bernard Rosier wiped the tiny beads of perspiration from his upper lip as he stared at his father’s back. Who would have thought? Now he wanted to say, ‘Don’t say that to me again.’ He was sick of hearing that phrase repeated and repeated over the years. He knew what he would have done if he’d had any say eight years ago; he would have borrowed money and bought shares in the hare-brained scheme; hundreds and hundreds of them, thousands and thousands of them. Even if his common or business sense hadn’t told him he was on to a good thing, his gambling instincts, he felt sure, would have guided him.

  He was a youth of eighteen, eight years ago, when on a June day in 1852 he had stood with his father in Palmer’s yard and watched the launching of the John Bowes; and many besides his father thought it was money being thrown to the wind on nothing more than an expensive experiment, for up to this time sailing vessels were the cheapest form of transport. But they were to be proved wrong. On her first voyage the John Bowes carried six hundred and fifty tons of coal to London, discharged it and was back on the Tyne in five days. What she had done in five days would have taken two sailing colliers close on a month to accomplish. Palmer was set fair.

  Now, eight years and many ships and a great growth of the town later, there was talk of turning Palmer’s into a limited liability company, and before that happened Bernard Rosier knew that his father would be in that company or die in the attempt. And he might just do that, for it would not surprise him should his father collapse during one of his spasms of rage and so end it. But he really wasn’t concerned about what happened to his father. The old man, as he thought of him, irritated him beyond endurance. But he must bide his time until October, and with his marriage would come money and, what was of equal importance, influence. For had not his future father-in-law been a lifelong friend of Charles Palmer’s father, and was he not now mentor to the said Charles Palmer? Oh, give him a year at the outside and the boardroom of Palmer’s would be open to him. And not only the boardroom, but all the other concerns that Charles Mark Palmer had an interest in.

  At this point in his thinking the door opened and his brother, Rodger, entered. Rodger was a young man of twenty, of medium height, with fair brown hair and eyes to match. His expression was gentle, yet alive. If his sister had been born with his features she would have grown up to be pretty, and if he had taken on hers he would have been dubbed a keen, attractive-looking man. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I didn’t know you were using the library.’

  ‘Come in, come in. Don’t stand there waverin’.’

  His father made a wide-sweeping gesture with his hand which held the letter. Then as his younger son came slowly forward he thrust the letter towards Bernard, saying, ‘Look at that, an inspection…an inspector coming.’

  Bernard Rosier read the letter, then handed it back to his father, saying, ‘We only wanted this. You can’t get into number two working unless you swim, and if they stop work, as they’ve threatened, it’ll be the middle gallery next.’

  ‘It won’t, it won’t!’ George Rosier tugged the ends of his coat to meet in front of his chest. ‘I’ll see them in hell first; I’ll see them gnawing their arms off, as they nearly did two years back, before they get the better of me. I’ll do as we all did then; I’ll bring in the labour. And this time, if I bring it in, it’ll stay…every man jack will stay, and my loyal workers can rot watching them feed and sleeping in their houses…Thankless lot of scum.’ He flung the letter from him, aiming at the desk. It missed and fluttered down to the floor. Rodger picked it up and laid it gently on the top of the pile of papers; then, turning and looking at his father and brother, he said in a quiet, almost apologetic tone, ‘Wouldn’t it be easier in the long run if you all got your heads together and tried to rectify the damage done by the Percy Main flooding?’

  ‘Don’t talk bloody nonsense, Rodger. Why should I pay out hard cash, even if I had it to spare, on helping to keep the water down in other buggers’ mines when they never show their nebs outside of London, at least not in this direction. No, they sit tight and enjoy life. I’m about the only bloody fool in this county squatting on my mine shaft, up to my chin in debt, worry, and danger. Yes, an’ I say danger, for that mob down there are half maniacs. If I had my way I would chain them up. The Bishop of Durham knew what he was doing when he manacled them to the mangers. Look.’ He turned and pointed to Bernard. ‘Go down and tell Bunting that he’s got to get rid of Ramshaw and Fogerty. I don’t care how he does it—I’ll leave that to him. He’s got to earn his money somehow. It’s about time he did…’ He stopped abruptly, pressed his hand on the top of his stomach, bent forward, then gave a mighty belch of wind. ‘I’m…I’m going to Newcastle to see Bullard; I want a draught for this.’ He patted his stomach again. ‘Nearly driving me mad. Now do as I say.’ He thrust his finger towards Bernard; then, turning abruptly from his sons, he marched out of the room.

  The brothers looked at each other. Then Bernard, again wiping the moisture from his upper lip, walked to the window and said, ‘How would you like it every day?’

  ‘I wouldn’t.’

  ‘You’re lucky.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I am. In fact, I know I am.’ Rodger’s eyes roamed up and down the long rows of books, and again he repeated, ‘Yes, I’m lucky,’ but to himself this time.

  Rodger had just come down on vacation from Oxford. How he had ever got to Oxford was still a surprise to him. When he thought of his father and br
other, and he often did, their whole life spent in extracting money from the mine, he wondered how he had escaped. He wondered why they had allowed him to escape from the commercialism, from the degradation of thrusting men and boys into the bowels of the earth, literally to drag out the coal by hand, then to deprive them, by trickery—and this was openly done through the master weighman, such as Mark Bunting—of a portion of their small earnings which at best were not sufficient to support a way of life that it was generally supposed God had willed they should have.

  Apparently God had willed that his parents could live no other way but in this house, with its farm and thirty acres of grounds, its twenty servants, not counting the lodgekeeper and farmhands. Yet, with all this, he knew that his parents were not entirely satisfied with their way of life. It wasn’t luxurious enough, at least for his mother, nor held enough prestige for his father.

  His father had built the miners’ cottages in the village, and he ran the grocery shop, and most of the wages that he paid his men came back to him through the shop. You could say he owned the village, but that wasn’t enough. His father wanted power and Bernard wanted power. They were social climbers of the first water, and, in a way, that was the reason they had allowed him to go to Oxford. A son, and brother, who could be dubbed a scholar would be an asset in this commerce-ridden district. It would also be something to be scornful about, even though the scorn could be seen merely as a thin cover for the pride of an association with learning. Oh yes, Rodger knew why he had been allowed to go to Oxford. He wasn’t a strong-willed young man like his brother, but he was a discerning one, and he knew on which side his bread was buttered.

  ‘I’ve got a new hunter.’

  ‘What?’ Rodger turned, screwing his eyes up against the light to look at his brother.

  ‘I said I’ve got a new hunter, a chestnut.’

  Rodger shook his head slowly and smiled to himself. They hadn’t any money, they were up to their eyes, didn’t know where to turn, but Bernard had got a new hunter.

  ‘Come and see her?’

  Without saying anything more Bernard walked down the long room, and Rodger followed him. They crossed the hall towards a passage that ran to the far right of the stairs, and at the end of it Bernard, going first, stepped through a doorway, straight into the courtyard and Katie Mulholland.

  As the girl went sprawling on the rough cobblestones and the two buckets of kitchen slops she was carrying spewed about her, Bernard let out a series of oaths, ending with, ‘Blind, blasted fool of a girl!’ He glared down at his bespattered breeches and the still figure lying at his feet, the hem of her print skirt around the back of her knees exposing her thin white-hosed calves. One arm was stretched out, the hand still gripping the handle of a bucket; the other hand, pressed against the stones, was cupping her face.

  Katie Mulholland remained motionless, not daring to lift her head. It was as if God had rent the heavens and was towering over her. And indeed it could have been, for was it not Mr Bernard who was speaking, and, without looking, she knew that she had messed up his breeches. Anything could befall her for this, anything. It had all happened because she had got such a gliff, for who would think Mr Bernard would come through the side door at this time of day? He had come so fast he had knocked her over…Eeh no! She’d better not say he had knocked her over; she had slipped.

  ‘Come along, get up. It’s all right.’ She was pulled upwards, and through her stretched fingers she peered at Mr Rodger. Mr Rodger was smiling. He looked her up and down and said, ‘You are in a mess. Go and get yourself cleaned up. What’s your name again?’

  ‘Katie, sir.’ She remembered to bob.

  ‘Well, go and have a wash under the pump, Katie, and get that stuff off you.’ He wrinkled his nose.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Slowly she drew her hand from her face and glanced to where Bernard was now entering the stables across the yard. Perhaps…perhaps she wouldn’t get it in the neck if she could get it cleaned up before Cook saw her. She bobbed again and said, ‘Thank you, sir,’ gave a dive to the left and then to the right, retrieving the buckets, turned and ran across the courtyard and round the corner to the pump, and there, pumping like mad, she filled the buckets with water, brought them back to the yard and sprayed the contents, with a quite expert fling, over the cobbles. This done, she quickly picked up the soggy crusts, bacon skins and bones and other refuse scattered around her, then ran down the length of the courtyard, through the archway in the wall and emptied the depleted contents of the buckets in a pigswill trough. Within seconds she was back at the pump splashing her face and hands and rubbing down the front of her dress. She had taken off her coarse apron—she could put a clean one on and wash this one later. There—she looked down at herself—that wasn’t so bad. If only Cook hadn’t missed her. The next minute she was in the kitchen pushing the empty buckets under the wooden sink, making sure that one of them was directly under the bung-hole.

  Out of the corner of her eye she looked towards Cook who was standing at the far end of the long white table which ran down the centre of the enormous kitchen. Apparently she hadn’t heard the commotion. She was in a good temper the day. Katie sighed, then, seating herself on a cracket that was placed opposite a sawn-off wooden barrel filled with potatoes, she began her daily task of peeling them.

  Katie had started in the Rosier kitchen when she was eleven. She was now fifteen and the dirtiest, longest and most dreary tasks were still hers. She didn’t especially mind, except when Dotty Black, the kitchen maid, got the scraps to take home. After all, she told herself, she was earning a shilling a week and was, moreover, the favourite of Mrs Davis, the housekeeper.

  The cook’s voice, coming at her now, startled her. ‘Haven’t you got that lot done yet?’

  ‘Nearly, Cook.’

  ‘You done the turnips?’

  ‘Yes, Cook, an’ I cut some with the star cutter and some with the three-cornered one.’

  ‘This’ll drive me mad.’ Cook now placed a frill around a mayonnaise of turbot done in aspic; then, carrying the dish to a long narrow table that was attached to the length of one wall, she said, ‘You’d think they’d pick something easier with all I’ve got facin’ me, and only four days to do it in. You’d think they’d give me extra down here, but no, no, take what little I’ve got to help upstairs. I’m not standin’ it much longer.’

  Katie, besides listening attentively to the cook’s yammering, slanted her eyes to the colourful array of dishes on the long board. They were having cold upstairs the day, for lunch anyway, but there wouldn’t be anything left of that lot, not after it went to the housekeeper’s room and Mr Kennard and Miss Stockwell had a go at it. But from the dinner the night there should be some over. The first course was soup, and then there was whitebait, and next there was boiled capon and tongue, and stuffed vegetable marrow and four other vegetables; they would finish up with a choice of three puddings—one was a fruit salad. She felt sure that Mrs Davis would save her some of the scraps if she could, to take home with her. She remembered suddenly that tomorrow was wage day, and that on Sunday afternoon she could take her month’s wages home.

  Oh, how she wanted to go home; she wanted to see her ma and da, and her granda and their Joe and Lizzie, and to tell them everything, all about the preparation for Mr Bernard’s engagement ball; about the people who had been invited; about the food, the beautiful food; about the chickens, ducks and geese that were hanging up in the cold room; about the pigs that had been killed, and the smoked hams that had been brought in from the wood room; about the gallons of cream being made and the hundreds of eggs that were coming to the kitchen daily; and then there was that great crate of cheeses that had been sent all the way from London. And she wanted to tell them about falling with the slop buckets in the yard and splashing Mr Bernard’s breeches. Eeh, she had been scared out of her wits. But now she could laugh at it, and when she was home and she told them how it had happened she would make them all laugh; she could always make them laugh. Her
granda would laugh loudest of all because he had no respect for the gentry; her granda was awful in that way.

  ‘Come on, come on. Don’t spend all day sittin’ there on your backside.’

  Katie’s head jerked towards the cook as she said, ‘Nearly finished, Cook. Just two more.’

  ‘You’ve taken your time. Now get those pots scoured.’ She pointed to the side of the hearth where were standing, one on top of the other, three piles of copper cooking pots. ‘And I said scoured, mind—and put more sand in than salt. I want them bright.’

  And so for Katie the day went on, a succession of dreary tasks, each one more depressing than the last, until some time after nine she had finished and she took her candle and went to bed.

  In the winter they were allowed two candles a week, in the summer one, and although Katie never used all her candles, for she was almost walking in her sleep by the time she reached the attic, there was no chance of taking the ends home because they had to be given in before she could get a new one. She was sorry about this because the ends would have been a great help, especially in the long winter nights and her da wanting to read and teach some of the men their letters the same way as he had been taught by Mr Burns, the preacher.

  But, anyway, nothing mattered at the moment but the fact that it was wage day the morrow and on Sunday she was going home. She crossed her two index fingers to placate the gods, and a spurt of joy rushed through her, lighting up her face and giving to her body the urge to leap into the air.

  On Saturday morning George Rosier, sitting behind the long desk in the library, looked down at the leather bag that was spewing sovereigns. This monthly occasion always brought on a peculiar pain behind his ribs. The fact that in the course of a year he was doing each member of his staff out of a month’s wages did not ease his pain. He considered it was bad enough when he had to pay his miners, although he admitted that some of them, just some of them, earned it. But, in this particular case, to hand out money to people, particularly females, whom he not only housed but clothed and fed, made his bile rise.