The Black Diamond

by Francis Brett Young

It was bad enough for Alice that her husband should laugh at her. Certainly, she determined, she wasn’t going to stand anything of that kind from Abner; and though Abner himself had not yet shown her any signs of disrespect she took great pains to give him no opportunity of doing so by repressing him whenever she had the chance. Just as John Fellows had once approved in Abner the aggressive tendencies that went to the making of a ‘bloodworm,’ he now approved in Alice, so little and so desperately game, the temper that made things so uncomfortable for Abner. As long as she kept her temper for the boy and didn’t try any of her tricks on him it didn’t matter. And since it pleased John Fellows, who loved nothing better than a dog-fight, to see his little Alice bare her teeth, the girl played up to him, knowing that her husband would keep Abner from hitting back as long as the game pleased him.

Abner suffered her sullenly. He soon found out that it wasn’t worth while disputing with her, and indeed, sometimes her violence, wasting itself against his unconcern, recoiled on her, so that he had the satisfaction of seeing her in tears. This vexed her, partly for shame and partly because she saw that crying, which she had always regarded as her last and most telling weapon, had no effect on him. They were both of them little more than children.

In the end it came to this: Abner, realising that Hackett’s Cottages could never again be a real home to him, decided, with the philosophy which is learned early among people who have to fight for themselves, that he must cut his losses and strike out for himself as soon as he could manage to do so. He knew that for the present he could not afford to find another lodging, but already he was doing a man’s work at the colliery and soon he would be earning a man’s wages. When she realised this Alice was sorry that she had helped to drive him away, for she had dreamed pleasantly of all the money that she would soon be able to handle, and had decided to buy a piano for the parlour and a marble-topped washhand-stand, with a pink toilet set, for the front bedroom. It would be a pity, she reflected, to get rid of a full wage-earner in exchange for a little personal dignity.

So, suddenly relenting, she became towards Abner the incarnation of sweetness. Abner, however, wasn’t having any. Even though he didn’t see through her, he felt that her attitude was rather too good to be true. For the present he went on his way, paying regularly his weekly ‘lodge’ and the subscription to an industrial death-policy that had been taken out in the year of his birth to provide for his burial. But with the fulfilment of these obligations, his dealings with Hackett’s Cottages ceased. He became a lodger pure and simple, only appearing at night, when the others had gone to bed, tired, and ready to tumble into the nest of blankets which Alice had not disturbed since he left them in the morning.

She wasn’t going to put herself out for him, she said. In those days she didn’t feel inclined to put herself out for anybody. Unfortunately she couldn’t have it both ways; for by frightening Abner away with her temper she had lost the use of his strength in the heavier work of the house. She knew that she couldn’t ask her husband to help her. He hadn’t married her for that. Her weary, and palpably interested attempts to coax Abner back to her were a failure. Without showing a vestige of bitterness he went stolidly on his way, and so she resigned herself, with a sort of tired pride, to the heaviness of her lot.

In a way this desertion of Hackett’s Cottages was a good thing for Abner, for it drove him out into the open air and rid his lungs of the coal-dust that he breathed in the galleries of the pit. Joe Hodgetts, now more than ever his friend and admirer, shared these joys. Together they roamed over all the sweet country-side that ponders above the smoke of Mawne. They did not know that it was beautiful. They only knew that there were banks of hazel under which one might play pitch and toss or nap without the fear of a policeman; that there were cool streams with bottoms of red sand in which it was good to bathe; that there were rabbits that came out timidly in the evening to be shot with catapults, and wood-pigeons that rustled the trees on the edge of Uffdown Wood and then emerged with clapping wings.

Both boys had the instincts of poachers, and in the spring another partner joined them: an equivocal terrier with a sandy coat, a long, thin tail and a guttersnipe’s intelligence which Abner got for the asking from a miner at Mawne who didn’t think the beast worth the cost of a licence. He couldn’t house the animal in Hackett’s Cottages, for Alice couldn’t abear dogs . . . the dirty beasts! Abner’s old friend, Mrs Moseley, came to his help. The dog, now christened Tiger, found a home in her washhouse, living among his hoarded bones on a strip of sacking in the ash-hole beneath the copper. Here he would lie in the evening waiting for his master, his thin snout pressed to the ground between extended paws, motionless, pretending to be asleep. When he heard Abner’s step approaching he would lie still, with gleaming open eyes, and wait for his name to be called. Then he would leap out and lick the pit-dust from Abner’s face with his tongue. Even Mrs Moseley, who fed him, was nothing to Tiger if Abner were there.

Together they would go out into the golden evening hunting rabbits which Abner would sometimes bring home to Mrs Moseley, who had a way of cooking them with onions soused in milk. They were a great treat to her, for being a widow and no longer employed in John Fellows’s house, she rarely tasted meat. Sharing the proceeds of their hunting Abner and Mrs Moseley would sit late over their tea next day, and Tiger, under the table, would crack the rabbit’s head and lick out the brains with his pointed tongue. Later in the week Mrs Moseley would sell the rabbit-skin to a rag-and-bones man for twopence. She was really very fond of Abner, and even if he hadn’t brought food to the house she would have been glad of his visits, ‘for company’ as she called it.

Because he kept the dog there, and because he was happy in Mrs Moseley’s society, Abner made her cottage his real home. It stood last in one of a series of parallel streets that climbed desperately out of the dust of the Stourton Road towards a low crest facing Uffdown and the other hills of its chain. The lower story looked out on a wall of the local blue brick; but the windows of the bedroom, a stuffy chamber in which the widow spent the greater part of her day, and which the district nurse penetrated every morning in a whiff of iodoform for the purpose of dressing Mrs Moseley’s bad leg, commanded, beyond a foreground of cinder-waste, blue distances from which the hill air could have blown in cleanly. The doctor had told Mrs Moseley that her leg would never heal unless she gave it rest, and since all her relatives were now married and too prosperous to give the old woman a thought, she was left to herself, hobbling from the bedroom to the kitchen whenever it was necessary to bank up the fire. On the hob stood a teapot, brewing a decoction of tannin which had long since ruined her digestion but was the thing for which she cared most in life. She called it her ‘cup of tea.’

Abner rarely noticed what an effort she made to receive him cheerfully when he came for his dog. He didn’t see how slow and painful her movements were becoming. She never seemed to him any different from the Mrs Moseley whom he had always known and taken for granted, until, one day, she was put to bed and forbidden to move at all. She had spent the whole morning crying to herself, for it seemed to her that the day was not distant when she would have to be moved to Stourton workhouse, to be carried downstairs and placed in the black van before a crowd of gaping neighbours, dirty women with babies in their arms. She had always been shy of the people who lived near her. A country woman, she felt out of place with these industrial folk. She wished very much that she might die.