The Miner’s Girl by Maggie Hope Page A

that had belonged to Grandda, the one that was buried in the pit.
    ‘I’ll go then,’ he said.
    ‘Put your boots on, Ben.’
    ‘Aw man, they hurt me feet,’ he protested, but pulled on the boots anyway.
    Peggy Trent was buried in a pauper’s grave in the far corner of the churchyard at Old Winton village. There was a wooden marker that soon rotted away. Merry, Ben and Mr and Mrs Hawthorne were the only mourners. Afterwards the man came from the Board of Guardians and said arrangements would be made for them to go to the workhouse.
    ‘Me brother and me, we’re not going,’ said Merry. The man looked at them as they stood shoulder to shoulder. ‘I’ve got a job, any road. I’m going to be a nurse.’
    ‘An’ I’m going down the pit,’ said Ben as Merry gave him a sharp glance.
    ‘No you’re not,’ she hissed. ‘Granma would turn in her grave.’
    The man from the Guardians shrugged. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘you’re both of an age to work for a living, it’s true. Lads younger than you work down the mines, Benjamin. You’re twelve, going on thirteen, aren’t you? And I understand you work in our infirmary anyway, Miss Trent. I cannot force you to enter the workhouse. How old are you?’
    ‘Fourteen. I’m fourteen and me brother’s nearly thirteen. We’re old enough to manage now. I’ll look after him, any road.’
    The man shook his head and got to his feet. He looked around the kitchen. It was reasonably comfortable, in the way of the miners’ houses, a table, wooden chairs, a rocking chair and ancient sofa and a press. All shabby but clean. It was the deserted village around it that was strange. Outside the two rows of houses, all empty but for this one, were eerie somehow. But the boy and girl didn’t seem to mind. Of course they had been brought up here, he understood.
    ‘We don’t pay out relief,’ he warned. ‘If you stay out you get no help from the Guardians.’
    ‘We don’t need it,’ said Merry, drawing herself up. ‘We have the gardens and like I said, I have a job.’
    ‘The boy is old enough to work,’ said the man.
    ‘He has a name, Benjamin, and he is still at school. He’s clever,’ Merry asserted.
    The man snorted. ‘Lads in his position cannot afford to be clever,’ he said. ‘He has his daily bread to earn.’
    ‘We’ll manage,’ Merry said tightly.
    ‘Aye, we will an’ all,’ said Ben.
    After the man had gone away, the two looked at each other.
    ‘I can get work,’ said Ben.
    ‘No you can’t,’ Merry replied. ‘Anyway, you can go to school and still look after the gardens, can’t you? Maybe you’ll get some more work with Mr Parkin. You can snag turnips and that. When you’re not at school that is. Granma wanted you to finish school, Ben, you know that. Now I have to go back to work.’
    As Merry walked the three miles into town her thoughts were at last coming out of the turmoil they had been in since Peggy died. She had to plan to get through the winter. She calculated that they would have about twelve 8-stone bags of potatoes when they had completed the harvest and they would be able to keep themdry and free from frost in the upstairs room of the house next door.
    If Ben worked for Mr Parkin on Saturdays in return for turnips and eggs, they would manage, for she could buy off-cuts of meat at the market on Saturdays from her own wages. The best time was after dark when the butchers wanted to get rid of what they had left and go home. And when the fishwives came in from Shields they could often get fish for next to nothing – caller herring or black-skinned cod that no one else wanted because the fish was older and more coarse. Granma had taught her how to bake the cod in the oven, though, slowly so as to make it tender.
    Granma. She hadn’t thought of her granma for ten minutes and now the memory of the old woman had popped into her mind. It took her by surprise and the lump in her throat threatened to explode. She blinked her eyes rapidly and