DAISY BANK
IT was quite dark that evening when Marjorie drew near her journey's
end. She had to change at Wolverhampton and to go to another station,
that she might travel by the Great Western line.
"What time do I get to Daisy Bank?" she asked the porter who put her
box into the van.
"In ten minutes, miss; third station."
She was alone in the carriage, and she sat looking out of the window,
and wondering what she would find when she reached her destination. She
noticed a bright light in the sky, and after a minute or two she saw
that it came from the furnaces of several large ironworks that she was
passing. By their bright light she could see the men at work, their
faces lighted up by the red glow. But all this time she was carefully
counting the stations. One passed; two passed. She must get out at the
next.
The train stopped. She could hear the porter shouting, "Dysy Bank,
Dysy Bank," with true Staffordshire pronunciation. She got out of the
carriage, wondering who would be there to meet her. At first she could
see no one; but, as she walked along the platform to get her luggage
out of the van, a girl of about twelve years came up to her.
"Are you Miss Douglas?"
"Yes, I am. Have you come to meet me?"
"Yes. You're to leave your box at the station, and father will send for
it."
"Can't I get a cab?"
The girl laughed. "Cab!" she said. "I should think not! We've no cabs
here."
They left the box in the care of the porter, and the girl led the way
to a steep flight of stone steps leading to the road above. Then she
went along a roughly made cinder-path, and Marjorie followed a little
behind, at times plunging into great pools of water which she could not
see in the dim light, and at other times almost falling on the slippery
mud. Then they turned into a short street, if street it could be
called. It was so irregular that it seemed to Marjorie as if houses of
all kinds had been thrown down there, and left to find their own level
and own position. They passed one or two squalid shops, which appeared
to sell little besides shrivelled oranges and the commonest of cheap
sweets.
As they went under the light of one of these, Marjorie glanced at
her companion. She was a tall, thin girl, with sharp features and
an utterly colourless face. Her hair, which lacked colour almost as
much as her face, being of that light yellow ochre tint which has the
appearance of having been soaked in soda and water to bleach it; it was
untidily done, and hung loosely about her face. She was wearing a brown
tam-o'-shanter and a long grey coat, two buttons of which were missing.
There was a knowing, womanly look about her face, as if she had never
been a child, but had begun life as a grown-up person.
As they walked on together, the street lamps became fewer, with long
stretches of darkness between them, and at length the furnace lights
formed the only illumination, and these every here and there revealed a
scene of utter desolation.
"What a curious place!" Marjorie said to the girl at her side.
"I should just think it is," she answered. "I hate it, and mother does
too!"
"Why do you live here, then?"
"Oh! Father is the manager at the works over there. We have to live
here, I suppose; it's a hateful place!"
"What is your name?"
"Patty. Did you ever hear such an awful name? I detest it. I can't
think how ever they brought themselves to give me a name like that.
It's the name of father's aunt, worse luck, and she asked him to call
me after her."
"How many are there of you?"
"Seven; isn't it a lot? I wish we weren't such a crowd."
"Are you all at home?"
"Yes. We go to school, of course."
"Then there is a school here."
"Oh yes, a big one. I'm very glad you've come, Miss Douglas."
"Thank you; it's nice to have a welcome."
"You see, we're all so upset since mother got so ill; she's almost
always in bed now. She hasn't been up for five weeks at all, and we do
get in a muddle. I do what I can, but I can't do much. I have to go to
school, you see, and our girl is so slow. She's not a bad sort, but she
can't hurry; some people can't. And the boys are so tiresome, and they
won't do what I tell them."
"Where are we going now?" asked Marjorie, as they seemed to be leaving
the road and turning into the darkness.
"Oh, it's a short cut over the mounds. Take hold of my arm; you can't
see, and you'll be walking off into one of the pit-pools. The lakes we
call them," she added, with a laugh. "You come from the Lakes, don't
you?"
"Yes, from such a lovely place."
"Well, you won't like our lakes, I'm afraid. They're only rainwater
that lies in the hollows between the mounds. There are plenty of them
about here."
"Isn't it better to keep to the road such a dark night as this?"
"You can't," said Patty, "it's all deep mud; you'd stick fast if you
tried."
At length they saw a light, which came from the windows of a square
stone house with a small garden in front of it, and Patty took a
latchkey from her pocket and opened the door. Immediately a rush was
heard from an inner room, and six children of various ages ran out to
see the newcomer.
"Shake hands properly, and don't stand staring," said Patty. "Tom and
Walter, Miss Douglas; they come next to me. Then there are Nellie and
Alice. Oh! Alice, what a dirty pinafore you have. Why didn't you get
Bessie to put you a clean one on? And here are the two babies. Come and
kiss Miss Douglas, Bob and Evie. They're very dirty; they almost always
are dirty, but they're such darlings!"
"How old are they?" asked Marjorie, as she stooped to kiss the cleanest
part of the dirty little cheeks.
"Just three; they're twins, you know. Now run away, children; Miss
Douglas must come and see mother."
She spoke as though they were all many years younger than herself, and
as if all the cares of the household rested on her shoulders. Marjorie
followed her upstairs, and she led the way into a bedroom where Mrs.
Holtby was lying in bed.
Marjorie thought it was one of the most untidy rooms she had ever
seen. Dust lay upon everything, and the table, chest of drawers, bed
and floor were covered with all manner of things, crowded together
in hopeless confusion. Mrs. Holtby raised herself on her pillow as
Marjorie came in.
"I'm glad to see you, Miss Douglas. Oh! What beautiful violets."
Marjorie at once took them out of her coat and gave them to her.
"Oh! How delicious; they remind me of home."
"Did you live in the country?"
"Yes, all my life, till I was married, Miss Douglas. I'm afraid you
won't find things very comfortable, but I can't help it."
"No, of course you can't," said Marjorie, kindly.
"Patty has got your room ready, haven't you, Patty?"
"Yes, as well as I could," said the girl; "I'm afraid it isn't very
nice."
"Never mind," said Marjorie, "we'll soon get all straight. May I take
my things off?"
Patty led the way to a small back bedroom, rather scantily furnished,
but, unlike the one she had just left, it was tidy and fairly
clean. She was surprised to see a little bunch of ivy lying on the
dressing-table.
"Who put this here?" she asked.
"I did," said Patty. "It isn't black; I washed it at the tap. I thought
as you came from the country you'd like to see something green."
Marjorie turned round and gave her a kiss.
"Thank you, dear," she said. "I do like it very much."
But, in spite of this kindly thought on Patty's part, it was hard for
Marjorie to resist the feeling of home-sickness which crept over her
when she was left alone. How could she ever live in such surroundings,
so utterly different from everything to which she had been accustomed?
But she determined to be brave and hopeful, and went downstairs to
find tea ready for her in the dining-room. The cloth was dirty and
the food not tempting, but Patty, who poured out the tea, seemed so
ashamed of it all, and so anxious that she should have what she wanted,
that she felt obliged to eat as much as she could, lest she should be
disappointed.
After tea Mr. Holtby came in, a tall silent man, with sandy hair and a
most worried expression on his face.
"Glad to see you, Miss Douglas. I hope Patty has taken care of you.
Patty, I want some stamps. Just put on your hat and get some."
Without a word Patty set out in the darkness, and soon returned with
what he wanted.
"Patty, those boys are quarrelling in the next room; go and see what's
the matter," said her father.
"I expect Patty is tired," said Marjorie; "I'll go."
The boys stopped quarrelling when Marjorie entered, and a packet of
chocolates which she brought from her pocket soon restored harmony
in the back sitting-room, as it was called. She then went up to Mrs.
Holtby, that she might learn what she wanted her to do.
Marjorie found that Mrs. Holtby was superior in many ways to her
husband, a gentle, kindhearted woman, but borne down by ill-health and
the cares of her large family. Her father had been a land-agent, and
she had lived in a lonely place in Shropshire, and had known far better
days. Marjorie felt sorry for her and anxious to help her.
But it was late when she got to bed that night, and she felt almost as
if life in that house would be more than she could bear. And then she
remembered that she had come there willing to do God's will, whatever
that might be, and she determined to make the best of the home to which
she had come, and to do her utmost to brighten it.
The next morning Marjorie was awakened at six o'clock by the "bulls"
in the different works calling the men to begin their labour for the
day. She jumped up, wondering what the noise was and where she could
be. Then she remembered to what a forlorn place she had come the night
before, and she determined to make things a little more comfortable as
soon as possible. She lighted the gas and dressed quickly, and as she
was doing so, she heard Mr. Holtby knocking at the servant's door and
telling her to get up.
Marjorie was downstairs long before the maid, and finding a little
gas-stove in the back kitchen, she lighted it and boiled some water in
a small kettle which was standing on the shelf. Mrs. Holtby was very
much surprised when, as soon as her husband had gone downstairs, there
came a knock at her door, and Marjorie entered with a cup of tea and a
thin slice of bread and butter.
"Oh! How nice," she said. "I am so thirsty; I have had such a restless
night. Whatever made you think of it?"
"I have an invalid sister at home," Marjorie said, "so you see, I know
what invalids like. Now I will help Bessie to get breakfast ready, and
then dress the babies."
The next hour and a half was a very busy time. It was like starting
a regiment, to get all those children off to school. Everything that
they wanted was lost, and the scampering up and downstairs after books,
boots, hats, caps, and coats was a most wearying proceeding.
At last they were off, and the house was quiet; only the two babies
were left behind, and they were busily playing on the floor with a
large box of bricks. Then Marjorie went upstairs to take Mrs. Holtby's
breakfast, and to see what she could do to make her comfortable. She
felt that nothing short of a regular spring cleaning of the bedroom
would make it really clean and as she longed to see it, but she did not
like to propose that the first day. She must get Bessie to help her, if
that was to be done, and Bessie could not be driven too fast. She had
her own ideas, and these were conservative to the last degree.
So on this first morning, Marjorie contented herself with smaller
measures of reform. She brought warm water and sponged the sick woman's
face and hands, and then she went quietly about the room, tidying
it and clearing away the piles of rubbish which it contained. The
children's clothes she carried to their own room, the books and papers
she dusted and took downstairs, and then, after shaking up the pillows
and straightening the bed clothes, she went downstairs to see what
Bessie was doing about dinner.
"What time do they come in, Bessie?"
"One o'clock, and the master a quarter past."
"What is there for dinner?"
"There's a piece of beef; I can cook that."
"That's right, Bessie. What about pudding?"
"Well, we haven't had many puddings lately, not since missus has been
ill."
"Do you think I should make one, Bessie?"
"Yes, if you will. They won't half smile if you do."
This, Marjorie discovered, was the Daisy Bank way of expressing great
satisfaction.
"Very well, Bessie; let me see what you have in the house."
Marjorie was a good cook, and soon made a large suet pudding with
plenty of raisins in it for the children, and a dainty custard pudding
for their mother. Then she laid the table for dinner, for which she
found a clean table-cloth, washed and polished the electro-plated forks
and spoons, made the dull and dirty tumblers shine brightly, by washing
them first in hot and then in cold water, and afterwards rubbing them
with a dry cloth, and managed to have the dinner cooked and all in
readiness by the time that the boys and girls came in from school.
"You have made it nice, Miss Douglas," Patty said as she looked at the
table; "I wish mother could see it."
"Will you help me to get mother's dinner ready, Patty?"
"Yes. What shall I do?"
"Find me a little tray; and, Patty, have you any serviettes?"
"Yes, there are some in a drawer upstairs; I'll get one."
Patty was only too delighted to help, and when Mrs. Holtby's dinner was
ready, carried the tray with great glee up to the sick room.
Mr. Holtby looked round with satisfaction as he took his place at the
head of the table, but he said nothing. He was a most silent man, and
Marjorie found that his words of commendation were at all times few and
far between.
That afternoon Mrs. Holtby insisted on Marjorie's going out for an
hour or two, that she might get some fresh air after her hard work.
She proposed taking the twins with her, but their mother said that the
roads were too wet for their thin shoes, and that they would be quite
happy playing in her room; so she set out alone, not sorry to feel free
for a little time.
So far Marjorie had seen practically nothing of Daisy Bank, for it was
too dark the night before for her to do more than see the dim outline
of what she passed, and from the windows of Colwyn House there was
merely a narrow view, shut in by houses on either side. She had not
expected to see much to charm her during her walk, but she was hardly
prepared for the scene of utter desolation that met her eyes as she
went down the muddy lane leading from the house.
On one side of it were a few tumble-down cottages, damp and
discoloured; on the other was an open waste, strewn with the remains
of old furnace heaps. She looked across this wilderness to the huge
pit mounds, rising in all directions, the very picture of gloom and
dreariness.
Finding that the lane was still impassable from the depth of mud, she
turned upon the waste common, parts of which were covered with thin,
smoke-begrimed grass. Here there stood two old houses, even more
wretched and forlorn than those she had already passed. The bedroom
window of one was partly blocked with wood, and the room was given up
to pigeons, which flew in and out at pleasure. The door of the other
house was open, and she saw a cock and a hen and three fat ducks
walking about as if the whole place belonged to them.
Further on she came upon two ragged women, down on their knees upon an
old mound, raking over the muddy ashes, and picking out the wet and
dirty cinders which were to be found amongst them, and then stowing
them away in an old sack.
"What are you doing?" Marjorie asked.
"Getting cinders for the fire."
"Will they burn?" she asked in astonishment.
"Yes, with a little coal. It's better than no fire at all."
Marjorie walked on, sick at heart, as she thought of the kind of homes
that those women must have. The cold, icy wind was blowing in her face,
and she shivered as she thought of the apology for a fire which would
be kindled with those lifeless cinders.
After this she passed more houses and more mounds; but nowhere in
the whole place did she see a vestige of anything whatever that was
pleasant to look upon. The houses were destitute of paint, the doors
and window-frames were bare and unsightly, the numberless broken panes
were filled in with rag or paper. More than one of the houses was in
ruins—every window broken, and the walls ready to fall in. The mines
below had caused these houses to sink; they had been pronounced unsafe,
and had been left deserted, but no one had taken the trouble to clear
away the ugly, dismal ruins. There they stood, blackened with furnace
smoke, unsightly and melancholy objects.
Only two coal-pits were working, so a man told her, who was smoking a
dirty clay pipe at his door. Some had stopped because of bad trade;
some were worked out; some had filled with water, and were therefore
abandoned. Yet at the mouth of each of these deserted pits, the heavy
wooden frame and great wheel still remained—a gloomy memento of more
prosperous days.
In every direction in which she looked, Marjorie saw unmistakable
marks of squalid, cheerless poverty; the only prosperous-looking
building being the public-house at the corner, which appeared to do a
thriving trade. The whole country was honeycombed with mines, and, in
consequence, many of the houses had sunk below the level of the others
in the same row. Everything in Daisy Bank seemed crooked and out of
shape. Other cottages were scattered amongst the furnace débris, were
built anywhere and everywhere that a place could be found for them, on
different levels and in sundry nooks and corners of the hilly waste.
Then she came to higher mounds still, and crossing these she saw deep,
black pools in their hollows, stretches of dark, stagnant water, which
never reflected anything that was pretty or bright except the moon in
God's pure heaven above. Here and there some one, more thrifty than
his neighbours, had made a little garden in the waste; but what could
grow in such a smoky atmosphere and in such poor and barren soil? A few
struggling plants of the most hardy kinds were all that the best garden
in Daisy Bank could produce.
Marjorie was glad to get back even to the dismal house in which her
lot was cast; it seemed almost cheerful to her after the unkempt
hideousness of its depressing surroundings.