Netherwood (19 page)

Eve was thinking of diversifying. She was bored, she told Anna, of making the same things week in, week out. It was late evening; the girls were playing out on the street, and baby Maya was asleep upstairs. Seth was at the allotment, as usual. He only came home after school for as long as it took him to wolf down his tea, then he was off. His talk was all of pricking out and potting on, which was all a bit foreign to Eve though she enjoyed his enthusiasm. She had yet to see much evidence of his labours, though much was promised, but she was happy and grateful that her serious little son had a project. It stopped him brooding, kept him busy. And, if she was honest, it kept him away from Anna, to whom he could still be less than civil. Time, Eve was sure, would cure this, as it cured most things. And Anna was very clever at ignoring his rudeness; she planned to win him round by being consistently, though not excessively, pleasant. It was the best way with Seth, thought Eve; let him think it’s his idea to like Anna, not hers.

The two women were busy in the kitchen raising pie crusts for a new batch of pig pies, as Eve now liked to call them. The lard and water, having come up to the boil, was added to as much flour as it took to make a good, pliable pastry. Eve never used scales, preferring to judge by hand and eye, and Anna – whose experience of cooking was less but who was quick to learn – watched her closely.

‘’ere,’ Eve said. She passed the mound of smooth pastry across the floured surface of the table, and handed Anna a rolling pin. ‘Now, beat the living daylights out of it for a minute,’ she said.

Anna did as she was bid with great gusto, flattening the pile into a rough round then scooping it back together again and repeating the operation, just as she had seen Eve do on many an occasion. Then she wrapped the whole into a linen cloth and placed it by the range.

Eve, chopping pork into small dice, said: ‘I mean, pig pies are all very well, but there’s other things would sell just as well.’

‘Such as?’ said Anna. She took another knife and joined Eve at the table. There was 10lbs of pork still sitting in a vast stockpot. She fished out a glistening heap and began to slice it.

‘Keep t’fat and t’lean separate,’ said Eve, glancing up at Anna briefly before looking down again at the task in hand. ‘Such as …’ She paused, thinking. ‘Pickles and chutneys, maybe. All that produce that Seth and Amos keep promising from Arthur’s allotment is going to need preserving. Pickled cabbage. Green-bean chutney. And other things like, say, scotch eggs. They’d sell nicely.’ Anna looked lost. Sometimes Eve spoke too quickly for her to follow and sometimes there were new words to grapple with, such as scotch, placed before egg. ‘Never mind,’ said Eve. ‘All I’m sayin’ is, we need to keep folk interested.’

‘Deruny, maybe,’ said Anna. She paused, for the briefest moment, to enjoy Eve’s puzzled expression, before elaborating. ‘Potato pancakes. Mmmmmm. Potato, onion, eggs, flour and good helping of sour cream.’

Eve wrinkled her nose in distaste. ‘Sour won’t sell,’ she said.

Anna ignored her. ‘Blinis. Stroganoff, though we need more dishes for this. Salted herring.’ Her expression had taken on a dreamy quality. ‘With iced vodka,’ she said.

Eve snorted. ‘Let’s think on it,’ she said, ‘while we raise these pie crusts.’

She took the warmed parcel of pastry and unwrapped it, revealing just enough to break off two lumps of dough before re-wrapping the remainder. Then the two women set about shaping and smoothing the pastry into high-sided pie cases.

‘Like top ’ats,’ said Eve. ‘But no brim.’

‘At home,’ Anna said, ‘when I was little, my favourite thing to eat was golubtzi.’

Eve looked at her askance.

‘Stuffed leaves of cabbage. Slowly cooked in tomato sauce.’ Eve looked interested, so Anna continued. ‘You make cabbage leaves soft in boiling water, then use them to wrap minced meat, or perhaps rice if you prefer. Or both. Then you pack them tight in dish and bake them in tomatoes and herbs.’

‘What did you call them?’ Eve said.

‘Golubtzi.’

‘Sounds like an ailment. Could we call ’em summat else? They’re a suspicious lot in Netherwood.’ Eve was smiling as she spoke, because Anna had her hands on her hips and was feigning indignation.

‘Such as?’

‘Pig parcels?’ said Eve, laughing now. Anna took a swipe at her with a floury hand, but she was laughing too. ‘Pig pies and pig parcels,’ Eve said. ‘Has a nice ring to it.’

They made eight raised pies from that evening’s mixture, packing the pork closely into the prepared cases, two-thirds lean to one-third fat. Eve fitted the lids, pinching them at the edges to seal them, while Anna cut out leaf shapes from the left-over pastry, and fashioned roses for the centre which could be removed after baking to allow the stock to be poured in. She was deft with the knife, and her leaves were fancier than
Eve’s, five-pointed with delicate veins. She gave them a slender pastry stem too, and trailed them like ivy around the top of the pie. It was a charming effect, and Eve was always happy when someone bought a pie whole instead of asking for a slice because it seemed a shame to cut into Anna’s little works of art. They weren’t appreciated by everyone, though. The first time they went on sale, Maud Platt from two doors down had refused to believe they were plain old pork; fancy decoration meant foreign filling, she suspected, and could she have one that Eve had baked? No, Eve had said, they’d made them together and they were perfect. But she’d had to cut Maud a free slice to try before she’d buy more.

Now they were all brushed with eggwash and placed in the bottom of the range. Eve yawned widely, pushing her hands into the small of her back to ease the ache. The pies would be baking for at least three hours, and there was bread dough still to make. The stewmeat was ready for the meat-and-potato pies, but the pastry lids would have to wait until tomorrow morning. Another 4am start then.

‘Tea?’ said Anna, who had the passion of a native Yorkshire woman for a strong brew.

Eve nodded. ‘Lovely,’ she said. Her face was flushed from the heat of the range, and tendrils of hair were plastered to her cheeks and down the back of her neck. She blew a little updraught from one corner of her mouth and smiled wryly at Anna, whose face, like hers, was pink and damp.

‘You look like I feel,’ Eve said, but Anna made a little piff noise and waved her hand, as if heat and hard work were nothing to her.

‘Best get t’girls in,’ said Eve.

‘Leave them five minutes more,’ said Anna. ‘Sit down, drink tea, then get girls in.’

‘Sit down, drink tea,’ said Eve, imitating. She smiled. ‘Go on then, you’ve talked me into it.’

And she sat, with a sigh, at the kitchen table, feeling immediate ease as the chair took her weight. Hard graft and small pleasures, she thought, that’s what life was made of. Hard graft and small pleasures. And it could be a lot worse.

T
he Hoyland Arms stood smack in the centre of Victoria Street, big and square, a dependable landmark that everyone knew but no one really noticed. It had been built at the time of Netherwood’s expansion so was well-positioned to pick up maximum passing trade from homeward-bound miners as well as tradesmen, stall holders and shoppers on market day.

Being more recently built than the Hare and Hounds or the Cross Keys, both of which hailed back to Netherwood’s rural past, the Hoyland Arms bore all the hallmarks of Victorian grandeur. But the high ceilings, fancy stained-glass partitions and handsome mahogany bar spoke of an ambition and vision which had perhaps been somewhat misplaced, since it had never in its history had a landlord who cared much for its upkeep or customers who cared much for its appearance.

The present incumbent was a newcomer called Harry Tide-away, a barrel of a man who had moved in with his plain and silent daughter Agnes a year ago. He wasn’t popular, though to be fair, no one knew much about him – twelve months in Netherwood wasn’t long enough for anyone to take an interest. There was no Mrs Tideaway, but his girl helped in the bar,
drifting like a wraith around the tables, collecting empty glasses while trying to remain invisible. The pub was owned by the Hoyland estate, but was leased to individuals who were free to make as much money as they were able once their own rent had been paid. Thus far, Harry was making a better go of things than his predecessor, who had never fully grasped that by helping himself to free beer and brandy, he was stealing from his own till.

Harry had ideas. He was thinking of opening up on Sundays, if the estate allowed it, when the other pubs were closed. He thought he might fetch down the old piano from the living quarters above the bar, and find a fellow who could play it. Bit of a sing-song might pull in the punters. And he was at Eve’s door early every Friday morning, to collect the pies he’d ordered for the bar. It was a custom he’d begun soon after Eve started her business, to supply free pork pie on market days, cutting it small and presenting it round the bar on wooden platters. There were those who said Harry should clean his windows and sweep his floors before bothering with titbits for the customers, and it was true that the floor of the Hoyland Arms hadn’t seen a mop and bucket since he took over the post twelve months ago. But his free pork pie worked on customers much like cheese in a mousetrap, luring in drinkers who might otherwise have taken themselves off to the Cross Keys, a little further from the market place.

Like the pub he presided over, Harry aimed for imposing but achieved something much less. He dressed every day as if it were Sunday, but his bowler hat was dusty, his collars were frayed, there were buttons off his waistcoat and his fob watch had read twenty past eight for as long as he’d been here. Eve didn’t much like him, not because of his dusty bowler or his useless watch, but because he was a compulsive gossip, leaning in towards her over the table of goods to pass on whatever nugget he’d picked up the night before while eavesdropping
at his bar. He had a leering air about him too, greedy eyes that took in more than was decent. She preferred it when he sent droopy Agnes for the pies, but he usually came in person. Eve tried to discourage him by expressing no interest whatsoever in what he said, but Harry’s money was as good as anyone’s and four pies every Friday morning was 1s 4d, guaranteed. It was one of the facts of her new life that she had to tolerate the company of those she might once have crossed the street to avoid.

This morning she wrapped the pies in waxed paper and slid them into bags while Harry told her that Edna Matthews had told Bradley Mason that Clem Waterdine had booted Ambrose Foster off his allotment for no good reason except to make way for Arthur, and now Amos Sykes had it and Ambrose Foster was taking his complaint to the earl’s land agent. ‘Our Seth ’as it, as well as Amos,’ Eve said, lured against her better judgement into responding. ‘And Ambrose Foster never planted so much as a pea shoot in that allotment.’ She regretted it instantly, knowing her remark was being filed in Harry’s head under ‘matters pending’.

‘I’m just sayin’ what Bradley Mason told me,’ said Harry disingenuously, sidestepping responsibility with the skill of the seasoned pedlar of tittle-tattle.

‘One shillin’ an’ fourpence, Mr Tideaway,’ said Eve, hoping to show him he’d taken a turning into a conversational dead end.

He handed over the money and Eve dropped it into the tin, but Harry stayed where he was. He had more to impart than Edna’s version of Ambrose Foster’s grievance. He stood there, clutching his pies and eyeing her up and down, while Eve made pointless adjustments to her table of goods, hoping he’d be gone when she next looked. No such luck.

‘You might want to change into your Sunday best,’ said Harry, inexplicably.

‘You what?’ said Eve. She looked at him now, unsmiling, but Harry wasn’t in need of encouragement.

‘I said, you might want to change into your Sunday best. You might be ’avin a visit from t’gentry today.’ Harry’s expression was all triumphant glee, like a fisherman reeling in a catch.

‘What you on about?’ said Eve.

‘Well, last Friday, Teddy ’oyland came in for a pint, like ’e does now an’ again.’

This much was probably true, Eve thought. The earl’s visits to the Hoyland Arms were infrequent, but not unheard of. He liked to mingle with his men periodically, and he kept a tankard behind the bars at all three of Netherwood’s pubs.