The same old trains still ruffled on past, despite it all. I wondered what the train driver thought, and what the passengers thought, when they looked out the windows as dusk settled and saw our copse, and the crest, and the trail of thin black smoke coming from behind it.
It was set to be a mighty blaze. Daddy had rooted out all the dead wood he could find: dead brambles from the hedgerows, fallen branches from an oak that were obstructing a bridleway. A beech had been struck by lightning in a midsummer storm the year before. Its dead wood had hung limply ever since, festering in the formation in which it had once grown. Daddy pulled the worst of it down and carried it back to ours. In the days before, as I had been making my preparations, he had been breaking up all this wood and vegetation he had collected and going about the process of drying it as best he could. Under bits of it he lit little fires then packed the wet wood on top, as if he were making charcoal.
On the afternoon before the evening Cathy and I helped him move it all to the allotted location. Daddy insisted that we move it for the final time rather than burn it where it stood, in case any little animals had made their homes there. Sure enough, Daddy picked up a big old log and a little hedgehog blinked in amazement against the daylight before rolling itself up into a tight ball and presenting its bristles. Daddy picked up the creature carefully in his massive leathery hands and carried it to safety.
When we lit the construction it was clear there was still a good deal of water amongst the branches, twigs, leaves and logs. Steam came off it in sweeping flurries and it fizzed and popped like a boiling kettle. But the fire took hold and, with attention, soon the flames sent up wreaths of smoke rather than hot steam. The afternoon wind was busy and changeable, swirling one way and then another. This was good for the fire but bad for us. Cathy and I could not work out where to stand and on more than one occasion we ran back from the fire, having been sent into retreat by the billowing black smoke.
By the time the first of our guests arrived, the dancing amber flames reached deep into the dusk. Ewart and Martha Royce came up with a basket of teacakes for toasting and soon afterwards Gary and ten of the other men arrived, to be shortly followed by a dozen more who had also been given the address. A few of the men looked over at Cathy but with Daddy by her side nobody would ever give her any bother. Many had brought girlfriends or wives and a few had brought little babies and kids. Andrew came up from the village and so too did Peter and other people from the villages around whom Daddy had helped out or who had just heard what was going on. Most people brought drinks and some food to cook on the flames, so even though the food I had prepared soon ran low there was more. Nobody went hungry.
As the evening progressed, Ewart Royce gathered men and women close to him, one or two at a time, and spoke at length and directly to each one. He spoke about their livelihoods and their homes. He asked about the work they did and how they were payed. Who owned the house in which they lived. To whom did they pay rent. How much was that rent. Mostly, the men and women answered. When it came to relating the sins of their employers and landlords, most had no compunction. Who could blame them?
A woman in a fleece and jersey tracksuit came forward. Her long, dirty-blonde hair was held in a low ponytail at the nape of her neck. She gripped a lit cigarette between the ring and middle fingers of her left hand and told Ewart about the man who owned her bungalow. ‘At least when I paid rent to council, I felt I could get things fixed. It were a slow process, always, but someone would come eventually and see to cooker, or whatever. I knew who to go to. I knew there were some kind of, what’s word, process, no matter how tricky. I gave my money to council and I kept place nicely and in return I got a decent place to live. Now it’s a private landlord and he doendt give two stuffs. I don’t have a fridge any more. The wires went last year and it handt been cold since. It’s just another cupboard. That’s how I use it, like a cupboard.’ Some others laughed. The woman encouraged it, laughing too with a warm guttural giggle. ‘Call me naive, but it were only really then I realised it were just land. It were as you were saying to me before, Ewart. The landlord wandt there to provide a service, as he saw it, or to offer owt in return for money I paid him. I were paying him money for land. For right to live on land. This might seem obvious to all of you, but it wandt to me, not when council was my landlord. Then I thought money was for upkeep of house. But, let me tell you, house could come down tomorrow and Jim Corvine would still come for that cash. It’s land. Only land. I’m paying to live on a piece of land that we, all of us, used to own together. And I’m working as hard as I ruddy can to get enough money to pay for that land that we, all of us, used to own together. And I can’t see reason for any of it, any more.’
There were murmurings of accord.
Later, I saw Ewart standing twenty metres or so from the fire by a table that carried the salads.
‘You got everything you need, Ewart?’
‘Oh aye. It’s a fine spread. You saw to this, did you?’
I nodded.
Ewart helped himself to a spoonful of coleslaw. He laid it on a floury bap and wrapped up a hunk of just-charred meat.
‘A good turn out, too,’ he noted. ‘You and your sister did well at farm. And Martha’s sister, Julie, did well at Post Office. She got word to those in village that pop in for cash pensions and benefits and like and those that draw cash for rents.’
‘It’s a good crowd,’ I agreed. ‘Do you think much will come of it?’
‘It’s hard to say,’ said Ewart. ‘I don’t know folk round here like I used to. I can’t tell how they feel any more, or how they think. Sometimes I think spirit’s dead and gone, but sometimes I think it’s still there, just resting its eyes. A lot of those here are sons and daughters of men that worked with me up at pit. So many passed away before their time. They drank too much and smoked too much and ate too much of this meat. We all did. But I do see something here of that old world. People are as poor now as they ever were, and as tired. And bringing people together of an evening is easier than keeping them apart. And by that same token, bringing a community back together is easier than setting people and families at odds. It’s just that that’s where all effort’s been this last ten years and more.’
Ewart took a bite of the burger and mayonnaise dribbled down his chin. I passed him a napkin from the table and he wiped his face. I saw that Vivien had been standing with us. She looked at Ewart uncertainly. I was not sure if they knew each other but before I made to introduce them, she spoke.