***chapter 12*** ***Spring/Summer 1953***
Their meeting was a twist of fate.
He was travelling around Yorkshire seeking work and, after securing cheap accommodation in the picturesque pit village of Mereden, headed for that hugely popular and well known drinking establishment, The White Swan Inn. She came looking for an ex-boyfriend who took all she owned, to learn nobody of that name or description had ever worked there and nor, the unsolicited information was added, did they serve unaccompanied females, especially when they were intoxicated.
The Swan's door swung open and, shouting and cursing, a buxom woman in impossibly high heels staggered out as Ste was about to enter.
"Nishe Eysh!" She slurred, having just enough time to look up and observe them before falling into his chest.
Through the tavern's frosted windows, through the stifling heat of its crowded interior, through the stench and fog of its thick tobacco smoke, piano keys could be heard tinkling like raindrops, only to be lost forever in the hubbub of voices, the loud bursts of laughter, the harsh clink of glasses, the snatches of drunken song.
A moment away, and yet far away, outside in their world, roses and honeysuckle scented the quiet late evening air and birds chirped final songs before retiring to the dark solitude of woods and eaves. Their eyes met again when he spoke to ask after her well being, the polite, trivial words of a stranger, long forgotten and of no matter now. But it was that very moment when a silent moon chose to rise slowly from cobwebby clouds, slithering through the trees to tinge everywhere with a silvery, romantic glow, and that very moment when a breeze hurried by, rippling the grey-green grass of Quigley's Corner, and whispering a thousand secrets to two lonely people captured in the soul of a balmy April night.
Twenty-six-year old Katherine Fenwick had led an itinerant existence since leaving the Mother of Mercy Catholic Girls' Home. She flitted through life like a ghost, from place to place, from job to job, from man to man. Yet, oddly, she consummated few of her relationships. The stigma of being an unmarried mother didn't trouble her, nor did the Catholic "sin" of sex before marriage; she'd long since stopped believing in religion. What did trouble her was the idea of being stuck with a bloody kid. And so far luck had been on Kathy's side and somehow she'd managed to avoid falling pregnant.
Thirty-year-old Steven Paul Ross thought he might like to be a father some day. But definitely not just yet. There had been a few close calls and he was always relieved when they turned out to be false alarms. It was perhaps hardly surprising that, despite the "nice girls don't" attitude prevalent in 1950s Britain, nice girls certainly did where Ste was concerned. He was tall, tanned and handsome, with a perfect manly physique, thick, almost black, hair and dreamy brown eyes. Not only did he have movie star looks, but his old style chivalry and charm turned women weak at the knees.
Not that Kathy considered herself a "nice girl". She was no novice in the ways of the world and, to Ste's shocked amusement, with a broad wink and drunken giggles, stuffed a condom from her handbag into his jacket pocket when he gallantly suggested, on learning that Kathy had nowhere to sleep, she could stay with him in the furnished rooms he rented.
Ste, being a gentleman and loath to take advantage of her drunken state, gave up his bed to sleep in the arm-chair and nothing happened. But other things happened quickly afterwards. Next morning a letter rattled through the letter-box informing him that his job application at the Mereden colliery had been successful. He rang his mother Ethel and sister Millie from the red telephone kiosk outside the village post office to impart the good news and came back grinning from ear to ear.
It seemed, by an amazing coincidence, Mr and Mrs Ross and the then twelve-year-old Millie had spent a camping holiday close to Mereden a year or so before Ste was born, just as the village was beginning to prosper, and they'd all been greatly impressed with the new terraced houses that were being constructed. Ethel clearly remembered her late husband saying, if only he could afford it, he'd move the family into one tomorrow. But now they could afford it. Or, at least, they thought they would be able to afford to pay Ste's rent and help out with furniture and carpets. They were quite happy in the home where they'd always lived, they didn't need any luxuries, and what else was there for them to spend their money on, if not Ste? Ethel and Millie were so, so proud of him finding work after the steelworks in his home town closed down, leaving him, like so many others, jobless, and he deserved much, much more than making do with rented rooms.
His doting mother and sister had always indulged him and secretly Ste had been half hoping they would volunteer to fund him yet again. He was by no means lazy, but he was so used to being spoilt that even at thirty years of age he had never learnt the value of money and consequently it ran through his fingers like water. And, while it was good to have a sexy woman in his life, Kathy didn't contribute a penny towards expenses. Which, of course, only added to Ethel and Millie's immediate dislike of Miss Fenwick (the feeling being heartily reciprocated). But none of his girlfriends were ever good enough for the apple of their eye and, though their disapproval was more intense than usual, Ste brushed any concerns aside. In any case, despite their misgivings, they, fortunately or foolishly, still regularly sent him very generous cheques.
It was some weeks later and just as she was settling into a pleasant routine of generally doing no more than strolling round the shops to treat herself (there was very little food shopping or cooking to do, as they frequently caught a taxi to town and ate out, and very little cleaning or washing, as Ste did the lion's share of it) that Kathy missed a period. Even then she wasn't overly worried, imagining her body clock was probably a little awry due to all the excitement of moving.
Built at the very top of a steep slope, the sturdy houses of Quigley Road, with magnificent views, indoor bathrooms, thick walls and double glazed windows, looked condescendingly down into the valley at the narrow streets of miners' cottages that, over the course of a century and more, had become damp, dismal slums. Kathy, being well aware the women of the village disliked her ("All fur coat and no knickers" they whispered) loved to do exactly the same as the sturdy house did.
She would stand smugly on the doorstep, smoking a leisurely cigarette and leaning against the door jamb with her arms folded, just as harassed mothers passed by with their heavy shopping and hordes of children. Knowing the miners' families could often only afford second-hand clothes, she further rubbed their noses in it by dressing for the occasion, wearing full make-up and inevitably something else brand new. Who cared if she didn't have any allies other than Ste? She had gone up in the world and she was determined to show off about it. No doubt they were only jealous because she had money, a handsome man and frequently (Kathy being a natural flirt) the attention of their husbands.
Ste, however, was extremely popular and fitted in easily, enjoying the camaraderie and good-natured banter of the colliery. But, even apart from the obvious risks of working in the mine, his job was not all plain sailing.
It broke his heart to see the pit ponies condemned to their sad, twilight existence underground. Electrical lighting had been installed in their whitewashed stables, but the only daylight they saw was what thin, miserly rays occasionally stole down into the mineshaft. They never knew, as other ponies and horses did, the freedom of racing around a paddock with a warming sun on their back or cooling rain glistening on their coat and sweet green grass to graze on. Most of the miners bonded with their charges and treated them as well as they could, spoiling them with treats of apples, carrots and polo mints, talking to them as gently as they might a favoured child. But there was one man in particular who was downright cruel.
Dougie Smullen, a thickset, unpleasant fellow, with fists like iron, bullied the younger lads and was reputed to have beaten his own mother and later his wife into early graves. There was a suspicion too that he had killed at least two men but each time his wife, being too terrified to defy her husband, gave him an alibi. Dougie felt he was untouchable and even the strongest miner backed off from confrontation.
The pony that had the misfortune to be Smullen's, Little Basil, whom Dougie nicknamed Little Bas***d, had spirit, unlike his more placid companions, and this infuriated his callous driver. One shift, livid at Basil's lack of co-operation, he deliberately made the plucky little creature bolt, sending Basil running towards the some arched girders, the sharp ends ripping him all along the ribs. Ste was burning with fury as Smullen only roared with laughter, but it was too dangerous to challenge him down in the pit and he bided his time. It came sooner than he'd hoped.
That evening as he walked into The Swan the first thing he saw was Dougie propping up the bar, joking with publican Tommy Firestone as though he didn't have a care in the world. He tried to keep his temper in check these days, aware of the damage his fists could do, but a red mist of fury descended. Blazing, he strode purposefully up to Smullen, swung him round by the shoulder, and announcing "This is for Basil", punched him square in the jaw.
Nobody dreamed easygoing Ross owned a fierce temper and for a moment or two they were stunned into silence. But the whole village was sick of Smullen's brutality. They were all on Ste's side and keen to see Dougie get his comeuppance although, given Smullen's brute strength, they doubted he would. They waited, as Ste did, for the downed man to get up and return the blow.
But Dougie Smullen baulked at the idea of fighting someone prepared to stand up to him, especially as he wasn't carrying a knife or knuckleduster to ensure victory. Ross may not be as strong, but he kept himself in good shape and played for Mereden's football team. Dougie had been getting more and more breathless of late and he knew he chanced a hammering. And he wasn't prepared to take that chance. Without a word, he picked himself up, dusted himself down and stormed off, the derisory jeers of the spectators still ringing in his ears. Nobody saw Dougie Smullen after that night though they learnt later that he drew out his savings and left for London. But even though his tormentor had gone, there was to be no happy ending for poor Basil as Ste hoped. He died later in the hospital pen of the terrible injuries he sustained.
Often Ste would come home from the pit and break down in tears, seeking comfort from Kathy as he tried to tell her how it scalded his heart to think of those poor ponies confined to the semi-darkness, often half blind and with only a few short years left by the time they were retired. But Kathy had problems of her own and wasn't interested. Her body just didn't felt right recently. When she missed a second time, a visit to the doctor's confirmed her worst fears. The baby was due in February…