I am always grateful when I think how kind some of those colliers' wives were to us two "mitherless bairns," as they called my wee brother and me. In almost every house you would find a wood frame, on which the women did work called tamboring on muslin, in window-curtain lengths, or a hanging cloth for a bed. The pattern being stamped on, they tambored it over with a needle, very like a crotchet-needle. They also used a cotton made for the purpose. These women used to go to Ardria, a town eight miles away. They could go by train for a very few pence, but, to save that, I have known some of the dear creatures to walk there and back. You will say that they would wear out as much in shoe leather as they saved in money. But shall I tell you in a whisper that they would take off their shoes and stockings and walk bare-footed till they came near the town. They did the same on the way back. When the tamboring was finished anyone could take it back and get the money. Some would send their wee lassie on those messages. While I think of this long-ago time and the wives of the colliers, the memory of them is always dear to me. I found much kindness beneath what would appear a harsh surface.
As a rule both men and women married very young. It was no uncommon thing to see a young girl of 16 or 17 with a cap, or what was known as a "mutch." When married, this strange-looking headdress was donned. It did not matter how beautiful the hair was, you could not see it for this mutch. It was made of muslin, white, of course, and with two and sometimes three rows of goffered frills all around, with long strings to tie under the chin. The old women wore them too, but not with so many frills. They were more plain, with a black band of ribbon around.
Every now and then a strike would occur. It always involved a severe struggle between master and men, for a little more wages or some alteration in the work, but it was always about the pay. These strikes brought the workers to the lowest ebb. They never made complaints, but it was sad to see a battalion of over 500 or 600 men, young and old, marching about. They often suffered from hunger, for sometimes the strike would last for many weeks, so that they were reduced to an awful plight. On three different times a strike broke out while I was in that place. I am sure that no negro for whose liberty America was then in conflict was more miserable even in his bonds than those white slaves in the thrall of some of the uncharitable coal masters, who lived away in a grand place in great style in luxury. More than one of these poor women, with hungry children and a hungry husband, has said to me, "See, Annie, this is our last handful of oatmeal." There was some aid or relief organised from a fund that other miners would send, for if they were on strike their comrades in work would help to sustain them. There seemed to be a league with a kind of "help one another club," a kind of freemasonry. They would know if any were in distress, even so far away as England. So few of them knew how to write, but yet they were so kind to each other, were those colliers.
There was a church in Slamannan, with a churchyard for the burial of all the dead. There were a few little shops here and there and a large store, which was also a public-house. You could buy drapery, china, wool, iron, or whisky. There, too, someone would bring his fiddle to a big room, and they would dance Scotch reels. They would gather from miles away, both the lads and their lassies. There were no law courts in Slamannan, so if anyone broke the law they were taken to Falkirk to be dealt with. There was only one policeman. He wore a tall hat and a queer kind of uniform, and he was well liked, for he did not take many to Falkirk if he could help it. There was a post-office, but such a thing as a telegram was then unknown. There was also a school, and the teacher was called the Dominie. He was not liked, as it was said he was cruel.. The schools were not so interesting in those days. Near those rows of houses known as "Benny Hill" there was a general store, where provisions of all sorts were sold, and whisky, too. Only to think of that maddening beverage—we had to suffer for it, my brother and I.
All round the people were paid once a fortnight. How we dreaded the pay-day. Sometimes we would not see my father for two or three days after he was paid. He would go away with a lot of young fellows on what they said was a "spree." He would come back, but all his money gone. Sometimes with some more he would come into the house and bring a jar full of whisky. Then my brother and I had to run to some kind neighbor and stay there till they had drunk the whisky and got sober again. We dreaded my father when he took whisky, but he was nice to us when not in drink, and we loved him, and hoped he would soon get away from the coal pits. He did not drink when mother was alive, so I know now it was not habitual with him. I used to say then, and I have faithfully kept my word, that if I ever grew up to be a woman I would not have any whisky in my house. This was a strange, wild place. I wondered what brought my father to "Benny Hill." I was there only a little while before I went to Denny, and lost hold of the past. Almost a year had gone since the terrible experience of my mother's death, which had an effect on me as though I had been awakened from a dream. Some say that childhood's grief is short-lived, but what I suffered then will till the hour of death continue in my memory.
Things got gradually worse. My father had a little place fitted up, where he did some carpentering work in the evenings, and people would come for odd jobs. All about there seemed so many who had "fiddles" and played, and many of them would get father to make a bridge for their fiddle. Then they would play cards and send for drink, and to get rid of the smell of whisky and tobacco we would drag the bedclothes over our heads and try to sleep.
At last one night there was a fearful quarrel. We heard the things getting smashed, including all the crockery and furniture. I looked in and saw a man with his face bleeding.. I ran and picked up my little brother, and carried him to the house of a woman who had been a good Samaritan to us before. She made a shakedown for us in front of the fire, and that was my last night in Benny Hill for some years.
I GO TO GLASGOW.
I made up my mind that I would go to Glasgow to find Miss Miller, of Denny, so I watched till I saw my father go away in the morning. Then I went into the little place, which was awful to look at. Everything was thrown about, and my hat had been knocked off from behind the door and trodden on. So I had no hat. I knew where there were two shillings on a shelf. I took the shillings, and as I knew that when my father was all right he would look after my brother, I did not say anything to the kind woman, but went off to the railway-station and got a ticket for Glasgow, which cost one shilling and eightpence. When I landed in Glasgow I had not the slightest idea of how large a city it was. I only had the lady's address in my memory. Her husband was a wine and spirit merchant, Mr. George Stirling. I made enquiries, and found the street, but was mystified by the length of it. After wandering up and down for some time looking for Mr. Stirling's house he saw me, and, happily for me, he knew me as the little maid at the baker's. He said, "Little Susie, where are you going?" I told him I was looking for Miss Isabel. He stared at me, and asked me to come inside, while, sobbing, I told him all my trouble. While he came to the house at Denny he always called me Susie, and I did not mind. He said now, "Well, Susie, you cannot see Mrs. Stirling; she is very ill, and you must not call her Miss Isabel now, but I will see what can be done for you till my wife is better."