Red Fox in the Heather

Copyright page

This is a work of fiction. All the characters, places, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Some places and events depicted in this novel may be based upon actual places and events, but have been incorporated into the novel within a fictional framework.

RED FOX IN THE HEATHER. Copyright © 2015 by Robert N. Story. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. Registered Library of Congress.

ISBN-13: 978-1-514-87768-5

ISBN-10: 1-514-87768-6

The author acknowledges, and is grateful for, the cover design and formatting talent of Greg Banks (theselfpublishingguru.com).

The author also acknowledges and sincerely appreciates the skillful contributions of William R. Drew, Charles E. Runge, and Renée S. Wulf, for their critical review of the original manuscript of this novel.

Trotter & Hart

First U. S. edition: 2015

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to the woman who gave me life, may she rest in Peace.

My Mom taught me an important lesson of nature. She revealed to me that the cool evening breeze was the consequence of nearby trees swaying gently to and fro.

Remembering the years of my arrogant youth, a period in which I was certain that my adolescent brain had absorbed all the important knowledge of the ages, I freely admit that I may have doubted my Mother’s wisdom a time or two. Her description of the relationship between the trees and the breeze would probably have been one of those times.

Yet, on a recent summer evening, as I sat next to an open window, putting the final brushstrokes to the manuscript of this book, I suddenly became aware of the relaxing sound of birch leaves brushing against each other from the tree just outside my window. I stopped writing, rested my eyes, and listened. It was easy to imagine that the rustling leaves were a kind of orchestra, tuning up for a concert. As they played, the volume and intensity of their music would rise in excited crescendo and then suddenly fall again, as if shyly apologizing to me for interrupting the stillness of the evening.

An instant later, my cheek was swept with the wonderful freshness of a gathering, cool breeze, and it made me smile.

Mom was right all along.

FOREWORD

Authors of fiction give birth to make-believe characters. Sometimes, we attach ourselves to those characters in creepy and unpredictable ways. It is not uncommon for us to dream about our characters. I recall one dream in which I felt disappointed with a character for doing in my dream precisely what I had written him to do just hours before.

Rarely, a minor character from a past novel will demand that the author grant him or her a full life. The author usually ignores the appeal, having long ago dismissed the character as simply used chattel; no longer needed to satisfy the author’s selfish literary ambitions. But occasionally, the author will give in, and not only create a new fictional life, but in doing so, a new fictional work.

Such was the case following the release of my third novel, Put a Nickel on the Drum. Much to my chagrin, one of the minor characters from that novel begged me to tell his story. I relented, and thus began the life of Percy Witherspoon. I devoted the next two years to imagining his life and putting it into words. The result of that work appears on the pages that follow.

If you’ve had the pleasure of reading Put a Nickel on the Drum, then you’ll recognize a very dear friend. If you haven’t read Nickel, then you are nevertheless in for a treat, for Witherspoon has a way of burrowing even into the hearts and minds of complete strangers. He’ll embrace you with his charm, strength, and courage, and make you wish that the big man with the dark complexion would show up on your doorstep some lazy Sunday afternoon, hoping to share some applesauce and bread pudding, and perhaps even regale you with tales that will take your breath away.

Robert N. Story

"You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye

Who cheer when soldier lads march by,

Sneak home and pray you’ll never know

The Hell where youth and laughter go."

Siegfried Sassoon

Suicide in the Trenches

(Excerpted)

CHAPTER ONE

HERE COMES THE SON

County Durham, England

JUNE 1898

Elizabeth Witherspoon shrieked with such an earsplitting shrillness that it provoked a flow of pinpricks up the Bishop’s backside. Those who were kneeling on the prayer rail at St. Mary’s at Tyne, unless they were stone deaf, couldn’t ignore the wailing. The commotion seemed to be coming from the direction of Birtley, a quarter league to the north. That was where Jonathon Witherspoon’s wife was doing her best to give birth to a reluctant newcomer.

The din interrupted the Bishop’s remarks precisely at the well-rehearsed moment where he had planned a dramatic excoriation of the congregation of sinners. The noisy disruption caused his lips to purse, more in disappointment than in anger. He slowly turned to glance over his shoulder toward the stained glass rendering of the Lord agonizing on the Cross. The extravagantly glazed window, crafted by artisans during the fifteenth century, had been raised just a whit for a breath of ventilation, but it was open enough for Elizabeth Witherspoon’s wailing to threaten the dramatic delivery of his sermon.

The Bishop raised his hand to his bifocals and squinted through the small slit between his fingers, casting a furtive glance in the direction of Birtley. He didn’t know whether to continue his sermon or not. If he continued, he would have strained his voice in order to be heard over the woman’s annoying bleats. He was hesitant to do that, since he had practiced the delivery of his scolding to the miners in a manner that required a certain balance of loving and understanding, yet firmness of reprimand. Shouting at them would probably ruin the effect, he thought. So he stood at the pulpit, silent and transfixed, eyes facing the congregation but clearly focused on the offending open window in his periphery.

Just up the dirt road from Tyne, Percival Stanley Witherspoon was firmly resolved to remain in the warmth and comfort of his mother’s womb. He was offering serious resistance to those who wished otherwise. His siblings, five sisters ranging in age from three to eleven, had been waiting in their crowded bedroom since dawn to hear the news of his arrival. But now, they were growing impatient and more than a little concerned. Each time their mother would screech, they would cringe, and the youngest would cling more tightly to the skirt of the eldest.

Of those who had gathered that morning to volunteer as attendants to the birth, one had already surrendered to the boy’s disinclination to face his future, and had retreated to the cooker to brew some more green tea. The two who stayed at Elizabeth’s side vowed that, if this keeps up, they would soon be joining the other one in the cooker.

The cheeky bugger doesn’t want out, the largest woman shouted, as if this wasn’t already apparent to the other. Both of them were becoming more annoyed by the minute, perspiration cascading down their faces.

He thinks he’s found a home in there, said one.

Well, then, I’d say he’s got another think comin’, said the other, seeming to show very little empathy for either the baby boy’s plight or that of Elizabeth’s ear-shattering curses.

If I have to, I’ll drag ‘im outa there by his bloody ears, and paddle his little bum until he gives. And as for her, I don’t know why she can’t push him out. She’s already had five buggers! Her squidgy should be loosened up b’now, you’d figger! Ask me, I’d say she might be feelin’ a bit ropey.

She turned to glance at the other woman for agreement, but none was offered. She just looked back at her and shrugged. She had no idea if Elizabeth might be ropey or not, suffering resistive spasms from a severely unsettled stomach. It didn’t seem to her to be the case, but she had no opinion either way.

She turned back to the larger woman.

Ya keep talkin’ about the bugger like ya know it’s gonna be a he. What’s to say it ain’t gonna be a she?

The smaller woman’s accent was suffering mightily from a rather acute case of Cockney. She, along with many of the other wives, had migrated to the northeastern coast years ago to find work in the herring plants. They had proudly toted their Cockney accents and cardboard suitcases all the way from South London. When hard times on the coast left them bereft of jobs, most stayed put and settled in with local seamen or miners. Those helping with the birth this day were among the ladies who had landed Birtley miners as husbands.

‘Cause he looked me in me eye. That’s how I know, said the larger woman, who seemed to be acknowledged by the others as the chief midwife. And he’s a big one, and a stubborn arse besides, so I know he’s a laddie. A proper wee lass would want out. He doesn’t. Royalty, he thinks he is.

The smaller woman raised her voice and seasoned it with a dash of insult.

Codswallop, you bloomin’ numpty. It’s just a baby! It’ll come ou’ when it’s good’n ready, be it lad or lassie!

The dominant figure turned her entire body toward the other and squinted, as if to launch a reciprocating insult. At that very instant, as if the sticky, uncooperative fetus had finally heard enough, he poked his head out from between Elizabeth’s legs and said hello to the world in a voice that would have drawn applause from the London men’s choir.

The larger woman took it upon herself to be the first to announce his arrival, and she did it with such volume and gusto that they heard it squeeze through the opening of the stained glass window at St. Mary’s, in Tyne.

Lord! Here he comes! she bellowed.

The attendant who had been sipping tea in the cooker ran back into the room, and now the three of them, along with Elizabeth, focused down at that region of Elizabeth where all the action had been taking place. The boy’s head and one arm were completely out, and he seemed to be using his other arm to pull himself out of the womb. It was if he was telling them that they were no longer needed…that he had taken the matter into his own hands and could finish the rest of his birth on his own.

One of the women reached down and took hold of his arm, and another cradled his head gently between her hands. He was slippery, and she was struggling to hold on to him. When she’d put pressure on his cheeks, his hand would slap her on the wrist.

Stop. He doesn’t want you to do that! scolded one of the attendants.

Don’t blow your beans, said the one trying to pull him out by the head, not looking up. He doesn’t know enough yet to have a say in the matter. He’s comin.’ Leave me be.

Elizabeth was growing impatient, and tightened her muscles one last time, giving a thrust that nearly made her faint. It was just what the baby needed. His entire body squirted out into the room with the rest of them, taking his place in their world as an independent little life.

One of the women expressed surprise.

Would you take a look at that bloke? she said. Her voice ranged well above the bellowing of Percy’s piercing effort to clear his lungs of amniotic fluid.

He must go about a stone! she said.

Aw, that’s impossible, you looney ‘ol poof, argued another, fairly certain that a newborn infant couldn’t top the scales at fourteen pounds. No baby weighs near a stone at his barth.

Then she put one of her hands under his buttocks and her other hand behind his neck, holding him out at arm’s length and jiggling him up and down as if she were checking the weight of a slab of pork.

Well, he’s a stonker, that’s for certain.

And she was right. The boy was huge. Fourteen pounds may have been an exaggeration, but twelve pounds plus would have been a close guess. Coming into the world at that size, it wasn’t at all surprising that Elizabeth had awakened the congregation at St. Mary’s. Even the baritone voice that the baby had used to announce his arrival had driven the starlings from the nearby trees.

For years to follow, the venerable women of Birtley would refer to Percy Witherspoon as the Colossus baby. They’d tell strangers, usually with some embellishment, about the baby boy who had climbed from his mother’s womb of his own volition, pounded his chest, and rattled window glass for miles around with his wailing.

In Birtley, as was probably true nearly everywhere else, lasting legends were born of at least some license to exaggerate.

At St. Mary’s, the Bishop had finally regained a modicum of attentiveness from the congregation. But although Elizabeth Witherspoon’s screaming had greatly diminished, it had been quickly followed by what sounded like the braying of a very large baby. Mercifully, that commotion had been relatively brief.

Now, the visiting Bishop squinted his eyes and scanned the congregation. The men’s faces were streaked with years of accumulated coal dust, and their eyes were drawn toward the floor, not in supplication but simply by fatigue, and the weight of the darkened bags hanging beneath their eyes.

Elizabeth’s husband Jonathon was a coal miner, too, but he wasn’t among the parishioners on that Sunday morning. Nor was he at home comforting his wife as she was giving birth to their sixth child. He was several hundred feet below ground, in the mine. Whenever he drew a shift at the mine on a Sunday, he was obligated by Elizabeth and the guilt of his righteous upbringing to make up for it by attending mass that evening, when he was often too exhausted to rise to his feet following each kneeling prayer.

The women of the Birtley mine workers did their best with what little they had. They lived in constant fear of a mine collapse or a fire, and tried to raise their unmanageably large Catholic families with very little resources. Unlike the conditions in some parts of England where manufacturing was beginning to burgeon, life here was extremely difficult. Not far to the east, along the North Sea, fishermen struggled in much the same way to provide a decent living for their families. Just to the north, the men went into the salt mines each day, and often succumbed to what they referred to as Epsom Fever. But here, the coal mines were the company store, and if you worked at all, you worked in the mines and owed your soul to the mine owners.

But the obligation that seemed most universal among the coal miners’ wives was to triumph in their demands for church attendance. To them, being in good graces with the Lord was paramount. It was their only assurance that, in the event of a mine disaster, the souls of their loves ones would be saved. They had been raised to revere that responsibility above all others.

The Bishop made direct eye contact with each parishioner in their turn, intimidating them with his floppy jowls and ill-fitted wig. He was eager to stoke the furnace of guilt brought about by centuries of sinfulness. He was also fully aware that if not for sin, the Church would find it extremely difficult to exercise its power and its control over the masses. How long can that last, he wondered, considering that the youth are now beginning to question the Church’s teachings, and even its motives. What then?

He singled out a young boy seated in the second row of pews, and imagined that the boy was one of those who’d grown skeptical of the Church’s message. He had been unwilling to admit that at times he had felt his own theology slipping a little. His own devotion, not to God, but to the Church, had been showing signs of weakness. As a young Priest in Kent, he had often taken issue with the Church’s doctrine of tightening its grasp with its iron fist. He trembled each time such a hint of blasphemy passed between his ears, for it made a mockery of the condemnation that he had felt obligated to thrust upon the Catholics in his area of control.

He suddenly turned his eyes to the figures of the stained glass Saints, magnificently postured in prayer within the small church’s framed windows. A sunbeam shined through the face of one of the figures, casting a narrow strip of light on the page of the Bible directly in front of him. It was so brightly illuminated that the paper seemed in danger of igniting. He adjusted his glassed and read to himself.

Romans 8:1 So now there is no condemnation for those who belong to Christ Jesus.

We all belong to Jesus Christ, he thought. I do, and they do.

The Bishop pushed his notes aside. He had made a decision that would cause him in later years to look back upon this day as a turning point in his relationship with the Church. He decided that these hard-working men and women who belong to God didn’t need a fiery litany of inevitable damnation. What they needed were words of hope.

So he began to speak to them about God’s love. He spoke in a quiet, reassuring voice, in both Geordie and the Queen’s English. He even interjected some Cockney here and there for those who’d migrated from Mersey, and he found himself amused at how well he did it. The parishioners looked back and forth at one another, surprised. Soon their strained looks of fear and disgrace slowly gave way to smiles.

The Bishop was beginning to enjoy himself, more than at any other time he could remember. He encouraged them to turn their attention to the Lord and pray for good health and better times. His words gave no mention of fornication without procreation, consumption of meat on Fridays, the sins of birth control, or the need for endless confession. He became so animated in his remarks that at one point it almost looked like he was dancing.

He ended his visitation with a solemn blessing; that the Lord would protect the lives of the men in the mines, and would watch over the families and give them eternal life.

Father Thomas was sitting to the right side the pulpit with his mouth twisted up into a smile. He had been plagued with fear and concern since the morning the messenger had arrived to say that the Bishop of Northampton would be visiting his small Parish. He was well aware of the Bishop’s reputation for the fire and brimstone castigation of parishioners wherever he traveled. But now, with a surprising message of hope and love sincerely flowing from the Bishop’s own heart to the hearts of his flock, Father Thomas felt extreme relief. He bowed his head slightly and whispered a prayer of thanks under his breath. As he looked out over the congregation, he thought he saw a glow surrounding the faces of his parishioners, perhaps a halo of sunlight that had filtered through an opening in the roof of the church. Or maybe it was something else.

Then, as always happened about this same time during the close of the Sunday morning service, his thoughts turned to the men who were still in the mines. He’d be speaking to them tonight, encouraging them to pray for hope and reassurance and a happy, prosperous life when in fact there seemed to be so little hope and prosperity to go around. He wondered if he was up to the task. Much like the Bishop, he was beginning to have his own doubts about his place in the Church. Like the Bishop, there was never any doubt about his relationship with God. But he was seeing signs of conflict between himself and the Church, for many of the same reasons. It burdened him, and he hoped that God would give him guidance as he confided in Him about his struggles.

CHAPTER TWO

THE FIVE SISTERS

BIRTLEY, ENGLAND

JUNE 1902

Jonathon Witherspoon went directly to the porcelain basin to scrub the coal dust from his hands, arms, and face. This was his routine each night upon his return from the mines. As he bent over the basin, he was once again reminded that his skin was permanently discolored by the bituminous powder that filled the air of his days and nights beneath the surface of Birtley. He could scrape and rub his skin until it was raw and still not have a prayer of removing it. Without overt misgivings or regrets, he accepted it as one would accept a simple inconvenience. It was just part of being a coal miner.

Supper was on the stove, and the aroma of haddock soup filled the kitchen. Jonathon had never been particularly enamored with haddock soup, but he wasted little of his energy longing for an alternative. Haddock was affordable, hauled by the wagonload from Tynemouth and Sunderland. And it was palatable the way Elizabeth served it, with some boiled chats and a mug of ale.

He felt familiar arms encircle his waist and squeeze. It was seven-year-old Sarah. He didn’t take his face from the basin.

Who could that be now? he said, pretending that he was surprised. Feels like someone has a hold of me waist! Who in the blazes could that be? he said, still splashing water on his face.

Sarah smiled and squeezed his waist even harder. Jonathon grunted as if he was getting the wind wrung from his middy. He reached over to pick up the flannel lying next to the basin, and quickly dried his cheeks. Then he looked down at Sarah’s beaming face.

Why, it’s me beautiful daughter, he said. But fer the life ‘a me, I cannot remember her name.

Father. It’s me! Sarah! she laughed, repeating the same game they played every night.

Why, so it ‘tis, said Jonathon, throwing his head back in laughter. The boisterous outpouring triggered an immediate and violent protest from his lungs. Jonathon tried to stifle the cough, but it was no use. His face reddened as he tried to swallow away that to which he had no control. He turned away from Sarah as if not seeing him gasp for air might soften her concern. When the coughing finally subsided enough for him to regain the use of his voice, he forced a smile and turned back to her.

How’s my sweet Sarah this fine evenin’?

I’m just fine, father. Thank you for asking. But I am worried for your croup.

Ah, Sarah, me love, said Jonathon, scuffling her hair. Nothin’ to winge about, lass. Tisn’t the croup. I just swallowed a tichy clood o’ dust today down in the shaft, I did. That’s all it is. Feelin’ much better now I got him out!

She told him she was glad that’s all it was, even though she’d heard the same excuse nearly every night that she could remember. She gave him another hug. Then she took him by the hand and led him to his chair.

Besides having an innate sense of caring, Sarah was the polite one, with good manners always on prideful display. All of the Witherspoon sisters were considerate, but Sarah shined when it came to politeness and proper etiquette. She always said thank you, and please, especially on those occasions when she had an appetite for a second helping. And there was always a you’re quite welcome when it came in response to a favor. She was the youngest, and although Jonathon was always careful not to play favorites with his children, he couldn’t help but give the edge to little Sarah.

Lily was nine. She took after her mother, both in the eyes and in her goodness. If there was a chore to be done, Lily was always the first to volunteer, and if the chore was delegated to her, she accepted without hesitation or complaint. She wasn’t always the most efficient in carrying out a task, or the most capable, but she wasn’t at all deterred by those limitations. She was a warm and loving young girl, but she didn’t flaunt her affection or always make it obvious. You knew it was there, but you had to coax it out of her. Jonathon saw her as simply shy, but Lily was far more complex than that.

Then there was Winifred, the middle sister. If God had wanted to create a mischievous child for all other children to emulate, Winifred would have been His blueprint. When she was younger, her antics were considered cute, and she would elicit laughter, applause and even encouragement from her parents and siblings. But now, at age eleven, her mischief was not always funny, although Winnie couldn’t always distinguish between what was acceptable behavior and what was not.

Along with her insatiable need to play practical jokes at every opportunity, Winifred had the uncanny ability to predict when chores needed doing, and to disappear completely from view. Here one minute, gone the next. Elizabeth nicknamed her Merlin, for her magical power to make herself invisible when she needed help around the house.

Thirteen-year-old Ada was born to be a Saint. She prayed three times before going to sleep at night, twice in the morning before breakfast, and each time her father came home safely from the mine. The mine homecoming prayer was the lengthiest, often making her late for supper. There was no crisis in Ada’s young life that she couldn’t handle, or at least couldn’t put into the hands of the Lord to handle for her.

Ada was always the first one to enter the church and the last to leave. She begged Father Thomas to let her sweep and clean the pews following the Sunday morning service, and he gave her a tuppence for doing so. Of course, the tuppence always ended up in the collection plate. She once asked him if she could come in on Sunday night to clean, after the late miners’ mass. But Father Thomas told her that it would not be safe because werewolves roamed the dell late at night. Ada’s faith was so unyielding that she believed everything Father Thomas told her. So her eagerness for night work at the church quickly waned, lest werewolves lie in wait.

At fifteen, Emma was the eldest. She was a manager. Emma organized and dished out orders, expecting them to be carried out. They rarely were. None of her sisters took her seriously, but they loved and respected Emma as the big sister and knew that it gave her a great deal of pride in thinking that she was the boss. They viewed her need for superiority as just an oldest sister’s curse, and so were each glad that they hadn’t been the first. There was one thing they all learned to use to their advantage, however. If something went terribly wrong, they could always say that Emma had told them to do it, because she probably had.

Finally, of course, there was the four-year-old boy, the Witherspoon clan’s gender outcast. With five older sisters, one might have thought that poor, out-numbered Percival would have become the object of their experimentation and ridicule; that the girls would take turns dressing him in frilly under things, make him cross his legs when he sat, or chastise him for missing the porcelain pot in the middle of the night. But nothing would have been further from the truth. Percival Stanley Witherspoon ruled the roost. Emma may have liked to think that she called the shots in the Witherspoon household, but deep down, she knew that it was Prince Percy that wielded the scepter.

When Jonathon had been told that his wife had given birth to a boy, he’d quickly scrambled from the mine and ran the length of Birtley to be at her side. He had given the birth a great deal of thought in the previous weeks, and figured the odds were on the side of a boy. After all, his parents had seven boys and two girls, and Elizabeth came from a family of six girls and three boys, so it stood to reason that a boy would be due at some point.

So Jonathon was not at all surprised when news of a baby boy echoed throughout the mineshaft. When he burst into the bedroom and looked into the alert, slate-gray eyes of his new son for the first time, he thanked God for finally blessing their family with a boy. He choked back a bit of guilt for feeling that way, because he didn’t want the Lord to think he wasn’t grateful for his girls. But he was sure that the Church would have shared his joy in knowing that Jonathon would no longer be the only one left in County Durham capable of planting seeds for the family tree.

As Jonathon proudly lifted his son from his mother’s breast and held him out for all to see, his hand imprinted a palm print of coal dust on the back of the baby’s neck. One of the ladies quickly soaped a flannel and gently tried to wipe the smudge from the boy’s delicate new skin. As she stroked his neck with the soft cloth, they all saw the emergence of an area of discoloration where his father’s hand had been. At first it looked like a crease in his skin, or perhaps a shadow.

A birthmark! announced one of the women.

They all nodded in agreement. It was a birthmark, all right. It was a half-inch or so across, and it was in the shape of the letter x. The mark was well defined, as if it had been struck with the force of an experienced typesetter. And now, after having been anointed with coal dust, the mark was even more conspicuous, stubbornly unwilling to be simply wiped away with the flannel. It was as if the x had laid claim to that part of the baby’s neck and refused to blend in with the surrounding skin.

Blimey. That mark will be two fingers across by the time he’s twenty, observed the largest lady. The others nodded.

By now, it had become clear that four-year-old Percy had blossomed into a montage of all the qualities and influence of the five female siblings that came before him. He was polite, like Sarah, but not as gushy. He was always willing to help with chores, like Lily, but not nearly as shy. When it came to mischief, he gave Winifred a run for her money. In fact, he even surpassed her in many aspects of creative tomfoolery.

Ada didn’t pass along as much of her religious devotion to young Percy as she probably would have liked, but it wasn’t for want of effort. Percy didn’t put up a fuss about attending church. Nor did he resist participating in the meal prayers or bedtime kneeling. In fact, he often volunteered to say Grace at supper, and most of the time did a respectable job of it. But one might have observed that Percy perceived the chapel as more of an amusement park than a sanctuary, with Winifred constantly challenging him to pass gas at the most inopportune times. It was usually as Father Thomas was reaching for a critical crescendo in his sermon. And flatulate he would, at any time he wished or at any time Winnie would suggest it. Her brother’s skillful farting, and his willingness to demonstrate it, was quickly becoming the most prized tool in Winifred’s arsenal.

There had been a time, perhaps about the time Percy turned two or three, when Jonathon had entertained some concerns about the influence of the girls on Percy’s manhood. After all, he thought, I’m at the mine nearly every day, all day, and the boy is at home, likely playing with the girls’ homemade dolls and clutching at his mother’s apron strings. With no male role model about during the waking hours, Jonathon imagined that he might come home from the mine some evening and find Percy with a bright pink ribbon in his hair and wearing frilly knickers.

He gave some thought to a discussion with Elizabeth about the subject, but he was pretty sure she wouldn’t take him seriously. But the thought of it nagged at him enough that he decided to confide in one of his mates at the mine. That turned out to be an exercise in poor judgment. He knew it by the following morning, when a group of miners walked past him with a little sachet to their step, a hand on their hips, and lips coated with coal dust to resemble heavy makeup. They looked a bit like the mingy barmaids with the big bristols that worked late nights at the company pub.

From then on, Jonathon kept his concerns about Percy’s gender choice to himself. Had he known better, he really had nothing to worry about. The girls had instinctively recognized their majority influence in Percy’s life, and went out of their way to engage him in rough-house games more befitting a developing young lad, such as leapfrog, pie crust coming, and blind man’s bluff. It gradually became apparent to Jonathon that his fears were entirely unfounded, and his apprehension about his son’s sexuality subsided.

Through all the struggles that Elizabeth and Jonathon had faced together, Elizabeth always emerged as the fulcrum of the family’s strength. She was very much like the solid, unbending statue of the Madonna that stood near the altar at St. Mary’s. But sadly, like the statue, she was also showing signs of weathering. Sarah, ever on the alert for adversity or hardship, was the first to notice. Sensing a responsibility to do so, she politely confronted her mother and expressed her concerns. With her chin held high, and with a consoling hand on Sarah’s shoulder, Elizabeth assured her youngest child that she was as fit as a fiddle.

It’s so sweet of you to be concerned about me, my dearest Sarah. But I’m as good as the day you were born, was the way she had put it to the seven-year-old. But then, as if captured by an afterthought, a forced smile flashed across her face and she quickly added, but perhaps I have been a wee bit more knackered than usual. I’ll see to a tonic. I promise.

Young, perceptive Sarah didn’t have to be told that her mother was weary. It was written in the lines and creases that had formed across her thirty-one year old face. That was evidence enough, without even bothering to consider the other changes that Sarah could feel within her heart as well as see with her eyes.

Have I overlooked that which has been gradually progressing and simply ignored it? Or is that which I am witnessing today a sudden awareness of what is likely to follow?

Lying there that night with the cotton cover pulled up to her chin, Sarah stared up at the ceiling. Sleep wouldn’t come, and if it had, she would have turned it away. She stirred from her reverie occasionally, when one of the others in the room would mumble or roll over. The large bed that Emma, Lily, and Ada shared was squeaky, so the slightest movement was greatly amplified. Percy’s bed was a noiseless mattress pushed into one corner of the room, and he was grateful for not having to sleep with any of his sisters. The only night noises that emanated from Percy’s corner of the room were his periodic grunts, followed by the trumpeting of foul air escaping from between his bum cheeks.

Sarah shared the cast-iron trundle bed with Winifred, and therefore she had to be on constant alert for toads beneath her pillow, or garden snakes hidden under the bed in the pee pot. True to her predilection for good grammar and politeness, she had once confronted Winnie about her antics. I would appreciate your consideration of my need to get a good night’s sleep, Winifred, she’d said. Winifred had covered her mouth so as to stifle a giggle, and the next night placed a salamander in her slipper.

But on this night and until dawn, between the squeaks and flatulence of her siblings, Sarah Witherspoon laid awake and contemplated the inevitability of her mother’s death, sensing what felt like a tumultuous weight pressing down on her young body, trying to grind her bones to powder.

CHAPTER THREE

AND THEN JUST WE TWO, AND THEE

BIRTLEY

JANUARY 1910

The bitter, easterly wind of January swirled across the lee and tightly wrapped a blanket of drifting snow around the Witherspoon’s modest home on the hillside at the east edge of Birtley. At its peak, the wind drove through the openings around the cottage windows, setting off a cacophony of harmonious squeals and hums. When it would peak, it sounded as if the imaginary demons that everyone knew inhabited the dark reaches of the nearby mineshafts were pleading for asylum from the cold.

The Witherspoon family paid the mining company the equivalent of three dollars a month for the use of their home. The agreement stipulated that the payment was to be deducted from Jonathon’s pay, but it was also written that if Jonathon should ever refuse to work or participate in a strike, the house would be locked up tight until he returned to work. Since most of the other miners had lease agreements identical to that signed by the Witherspoons, it was not at all surprising that there had never been a strike at the mine.

Percy rested his head on his sister Sarah’s shoulder. He liked the softness of her flannel pajamas. They sat watching their father from across the room, his elbows pressed against his knees, his head bowed as if contemplating the condition of the pegs in the wood flooring.

Nearly every evening since the funeral, just a fortnight ago, Father Thomas had come calling. Sometimes he would just stand inside the door fingering the brim of his black hat and mouthing a short prayer. On other visits, he’d stay for thirty minutes or more, trying his best to bring some consolation to a grieving Jonathon. Tonight was one of those thirty-minute visits.

Father Thomas apparently found it more effective to speak to their father in hushed tones. Percy and Sarah sat in respectful silence, straining to hear the words. Occasionally an entire sentence would drift across the room, but more often, they just got disorganized bits and pieces. Once, they thought they heard Father Thomas say something about the Good Lord knows Bess, but neither one of them knew anyone by the name of Bess. Then there was something about God’s clan. Percy had never heard of God’s clan, so he figured that the priest had probably said God’s plan. In any case, none of the platitudes and Bible verses seemed to be achieving the priest’s goal of consoling Jonathon. Realizing the failure, Father Thomas would pause to rethink his tactics, knowing that if he paused too long, Jonathon would fill the awkward silence with his weeping.

Sarah and Percy didn’t understand what seemed to them as Father Thomas’ desire to stop their father’s grieving. The loss of their mother was devastating, and so it shouldn’t have come as any surprise to Father Thomas that their father would be pining his heart out for her. Percy or Sarah had never lost a mother before, so it seemed perfectly natural to them for their world to be topsy-turvy. Percy had heard Sarah crying in her bed every night, and listened to her praying for God to return her mother to her, even though she knew that He couldn’t. So he knew Sarah was grieving, too.

Percy hadn’t cried as much. For the first few days, he had felt guilty about that, and hoped it wasn’t because he hadn’t loved his mother as much as Sarah had. It took him awhile to realize that he hadn’t cried as much because he was twelve now, and nearly a man. His father cried a lot, and he had been a man for a long time. But he had also been a husband, Percy concluded. That would make a big difference, he