Netherwood Read Free Page B

buntin’ out there.’ He tipped his head in the general direction of outside.
    ‘Aye?’ said Eve. She leaned her back against the stove andfolded her arms, settling in for a chat. The warmth seeped through her woollen layers.
    ‘Aye,’ Clem nodded. ‘Fireworks an’ all, they say, and ten bob for all of us.’
    ‘Never!’ said Eve.
    This was everyone’s subject of choice these days: the preparations for Tobias Hoyland’s coming-of-age on Saturday week. The oldest son of the Earl and Countess of Netherwood, and heir to the great Hoyland estate, was a familiar figure to all of them, largely, it has to be said, on account of his fondness for pale ale. He wasn’t the type of local figurehead who could be depended on to give his time opening a village fête or laying the foundation stones for a new library, but the landlords of the three Netherwood public houses wouldn’t hear a word against him, and his excesses certainly provided the town with an infinite supply of mirth at his expense. Now though, there wasn’t a soul who didn’t wish him well since the news had got about that, to mark the greatness of the occasion, Lord Hoyland planned to include every last one of them in the celebrations. In the summer, six months hence, the park and gardens of Netherwood Hall would be thrown open to all tenants and employees, however lowly, for a jamboree of epic proportions, and now here was Clem, at Eve’s kitchen table, telling her that bunting was being strung up, as if the fun was starting already. They’d had some for the king’s coronation last year – red, white and blue flags hanging like lines of jaunty washing between the gas lamps – but it hadn’t felt right then. It had been eighteen months after the queen’s death, but there’d still been a subdued air, as if her famous disapproval of Bertie must be considered even when she was gone. But the coming-of-age of Toby Hoyland – Lord Fulton, to use the heir’s historic title, though no one ever did – was another matter. A proper shindig, funded from the earl’s deep and plentiful coffers. It was something to look forward to.
    ‘Aye, ten bob for us all. Well, every ’ousehold, like.’
    Clem drained his mug and wiped his mouth on his coat sleeve where, by the looks of the oily slick, he’d wiped it many times before. He sighed deeply then stood up to leave.
    ‘Best get on,’ he said. Then: ‘Bad business at Grangely today, ey?’ He was speaking to Eve’s back because she had turned to fill the big brown teapot with boiling water, but she stopped what she was doing and looked at him over her shoulder, puzzled. The Grangely miners were on strike, but there was nothing new in that – they’d walked out weeks ago. She felt sure Arthur would have told her if something new was afoot.
    ‘What bad business?’ she said.
    ‘Aye, a poor do. It’s evictions day. They say there’s nigh-on four hundred bobbies drafted in to chuck ’em out.’
    Eve stared at him, horrified.
    She said, ‘You must ’ave that wrong.’
    Clem shook his head. He reached for his cap and pulled it low over his ears and brow so that he had to tilt his head back to see Eve from under the peaked brim.
    ‘True as I’m standing ’ere,’ he said. ‘They say there’s plenty o’ folk goin’ up to watch.’
    ‘Are they sellin’ tickets?’ Her voice was suddenly harsh.
    ‘Nay, lass …’ said Clem. He hadn’t meant to wipe the smile off her face.
    ‘They should be turned away, if they’re not there to ’elp them as needs ’elping,’ she said. ‘Those folk need kindness, not curiosity.’
    She made no attempt to hide her bitterness – couldn’t, even if she’d wanted to. She’d seen it all her life in the coalfields; strangers gathering at a scene of misery or misfortune, travelling miles, some of them, to watch the afflicted. Bad news always spread so effortlessly. When a firedamp explosion had killed sixty miners up at Middlecar pit last month, there were so