The Black Mountains by Janet Tanner Page B

before the others could shout him down, a sudden commotion disturbed the Sunday-morning calm.
    From almost immediately below their window came the sound of agitated cries and a door banging. Charlie Durrant appeared, clad only in a pair of long woolen underpants, whose baggy seat drooped three-quarters of the way down his thin thighs, and shirt with the tails flapping just above the seat of the underpants. Behind him, her night-gown billowing from beneath a hastily pulled-on coat, came Martha, waving her arms wildly to urge her husband on. Curling rags were still wound in her thin hair, and her plump feet were pushed into a pair of fashionable high-cut shoes.
    Across the yard they ran, one behind the other, and down the path between the wash-houses. They reached the pig and began chasing it back to its sty, looking like two animated scarecrows, and the boys’ merriment overflowed. Holding on to one another and to the window-sill, they roared and roared, the tears rolling down their cheeks.
    â€œI bet there’ll be pork for dinner next Sunday!” Fred chortled.
    And Jim added drily, “Pork, but no parsnips, by the look on it!”
    That set them off again and they were still laughing when their oddly dressed neighbours came back up the path, both red in the face, Martha’s high-heeled shoes caked with mud, and Charlie’s white underpants dirt-streaked on the back where he had wiped his hands. And when Martha glanced up and saw the four delighted faces looking down at her from the bedroom window, her anger only amused the boys the more.
    â€œI thought she was going to have a stroke,” Ted said afterwards. “That’s just how she looked!—sort of red and popping, and her mouth going, but no words coming out.”
    But Martha did not have a stroke. After shaking her fist at the boys, she dragged Charlie into the kitchen and out of sight, and with a sense of anticlimax they realized the free show was over.
    They were still chuckling about it, however, when Charlotte called them to breakfast, half an hour later, and they told the story yet again as they watched her turn fried potatoes and rashers of streaky bacon in the pan. But their amusement was not to last much longer.
    Just as Charlotte had finished dishing up, they heard someone knocking on the back door.
    â€œWhat a time to choose!” Charlotte said, annoyed. “Jack, go and see who it is, there’s a good boy. And the rest of you get on with your breakfast while it’s hot.”
    They began to eat, casting curious glances in the direction of the scullery, but when Jack appeared in the doorway followed by Charlie Durrant, knives and forks dropped and six pairs of eyes were fixed on the hesitant and distinctly unhappy figure, whose woollen underpants were now covered by a pair of trousers.
    Charlie Durrant drove the winding engine at Grieve Bottom Pit, and enjoyed the freedom of being more or less his own master. It was a pleasure he certainly did not enjoy at home. Martha hounded him mercilessly, and none of the Halls had any doubt that it was Martha who had sent him on this errand.
    â€œWell, Charlie,” Charlotte said, putting down her fork. “ What can we do for you?”
    For a moment Charlie did not reply. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and stood mopping nervously at a dewdrop that had caught in his stringy moustache.
    â€œYou had a bit of trouble earlier on, didn’t you?” James prompted him.
    â€œThat’s right.” With an effort Charlie gathered his courage to begin. “ Our pig got out and a fair mess she’s made of the garden, too. There’s not a parsnip not damaged, and the swedes look as if they’ve had their lot, an’ all.”
    Charlotte clucked sympathetically, and encouraged, Charlie went on: “Martha’s had to go back to bed, she’s so upset. I reckon it’ll bring on one of her heads.”
    The boys, who knew Martha’s