The mistress of the British School stepped down from her school
gate, and instead of turning to the left as usual, she turned to
the right. Two women who were hastening home to scramble their
husbands’ dinners together—it was five minutes to
four—stopped to look at her. They stood gazing after her for
a moment; then they glanced at each other with a woman’s
To be sure, the retreating figure was ridiculous: small and
thin, with a black straw hat, and a rusty cashmere dress hanging
full all round the skirt. For so small and frail and rusty a
creature to sail with slow, deliberate stride was also absurd.
Hilda Rowbotham was less than thirty, so it was not years that set
the measure of her pace; she had heart disease. Keeping her face,
that was small with sickness, but not uncomely, firmly lifted and
fronting ahead, the young woman sailed on past the market-place,
like a black swan of mournful, disreputable plumage.
She turned into Berryman’s, the baker’s. The shop
displayed bread and cakes, sacks of flour and oatmeal, flitches of
bacon, hams, lard and sausages. The combination of scents was not
unpleasing. Hilda Rowbotham stood for some minutes nervously
tapping and pushing a large knife that lay on the counter, and
looking at the tall, glittering brass scales. At last a morose man
with sandy whiskers came down the step from the house-place.
“What is it?” he asked, not apologizing for his
“Will you give me six-pennyworth of assorted cakes and
pastries— and put in some macaroons, please?” she
asked, in remarkably rapid and nervous speech. Her lips fluttered
like two leaves in a wind, and her words crowded and rushed like a
flock of sheep at a gate.
“We’ve got no macaroons,” said the man
He had evidently caught that word. He stood waiting.
“Then I can’t have any, Mr Berryman. Now I do feel
disappointed. I like those macaroons, you know, and it’s not
often I treat myself. One gets so tired of trying to spoil oneself,
don’t you think? It’s less profitable even than trying
to spoil somebody else.” She laughed a quick little nervous
laugh, putting her hand to her face.
“Then what’ll you have?” asked the man,
without the ghost of an answering smile. He evidently had not
followed, so he looked more glum than ever.
“Oh, anything you’ve got,” replied the
schoolmistress, flushing slightly. The man moved slowly about,
dropping the cakes from various dishes one by one into a paper
“How’s that sister o’ yours getting on?”
he asked, as if he were talking to the flour scoop.
“Whom do you mean?” snapped the schoolmistress.
“The youngest,” answered the stooping, pale-faced
man, with a note of sarcasm.
“Emma! Oh, she’s very well, thank you!” The
schoolmistress was very red, but she spoke with sharp, ironical
defiance. The man grunted. Then he handed her the bag and watched
her out of the shop without bidding her “Good
She had the whole length of the main street to traverse, a
half-mile of slow-stepping torture, with shame flushing over her
neck. But she carried her white bag with an appearance of steadfast
unconcern. When she turned into the field she seemed to droop a
little. The wide valley opened out from her, with the far woods
withdrawing into twilight, and away in the centre the great pit
streaming its white smoke and chuffing as the men were being turned
up. A full, rose-coloured moon, like a flamingo flying low under
the far, dusky east, drew out of the mist. It was beautiful, and it
made her irritable sadness soften, diffuse.
Across the field, and she was at home. It was a new, substantial
cottage, built with unstinted hand, such a house as an old miner
could build himself out of his savings. In the rather small kitchen
a woman of dark, saturnine complexion sat nursing a baby in a long
white gown; a young woman of heavy, brutal cast stood at the table,
cutting bread and butter. She had a downcast, humble mien that sat
unnaturally on her, and was strangely irritating. She did not look
round when her sister entered. Hilda put down the bag of cakes and
left the room, not having spoken to Emma, nor to the baby, not to
Mrs Carlin, who had come in to help for the afternoon.
Almost immediately the father entered from the yard with a
dustpan full of coals. He was a large man, but he was going to
pieces. As he passed through, he gripped the door with his free
hand to steady himself, but turning, he lurched and swayed. He
began putting the coals on the fire, piece by piece. One lump fell
from his hand and smashed on the white hearth. Emma Rowbotham
looked round, and began in a rough, loud voice of anger:
“Look at you!” Then she consciously moderated her
tones. “I’ll sweep it up in a minute— don’t
you bother; you’ll only be going head first into the
Her father bent down nevertheless to clear up the mess he had
made, saying, articulating his words loosely and slavering in his
“The lousy bit of a thing, it slipped between my fingers
like a fish.”
As he spoke he went tilting towards the fire. The dark-browed
woman cried out: he put his hand on the hot stove to save himself:
Emma swung round and dragged him off.
“Didn’t I tell you!” she cried roughly.
“Now, have you burnt yourself?”
She held tight hold of the big man, and pushed him into his
“What’s the matter?” cried a sharp voice from
the other room. The speaker appeared, a hard well-favoured woman of
twenty-eight. “Emma, don’t speak like that to
father.” Then, in a tone not so cold, but just as sharp:
“Now, father, what have you been doing?”
Emma withdrew to her table sullenly.
“It’s nöwt,” said the old man, vainly
protesting. “It’s nöwt, at a’. Get on wi’
what you’re doin’.”
“I’m afraid ‘e’s burnt ‘is
‘and,” said the black-browed woman, speaking of him
with a kind of hard pity, as if he were a cumbersome child. Bertha
took the old man’s hand and looked at it, making a quick
tut-tutting noise of impatience.
“Emma, get that zinc ointment—and some white
rag,” she commanded sharply. The younger sister put down her
loaf with the knife in it, and went. To a sensitive observer, this
obedience was more intolerable than the most hateful discord. The
dark woman bent over the baby and made silent, gentle movements of
motherliness to it. The little one smiled and moved on her lap. It
continued to move and twist.
“I believe this child’s hungry,” she said.
“How long is it since he had anything?”
“Just afore dinner,” said Emma dully.
“Good gracious!” exclaimed Bertha. “You
needn’t starve the child now you’ve got it. Once every
two hours it ought to be fed, as I’ve told you; and now
it’s three. Take him, poor little mite— I’ll cut
the bread.” She bent and looked at the bonny baby. She could
not help herself: she smiled, and pressed its cheek with her
finger, and nodded to it, making little noises. Then she turned and
took the loaf from her sister. The woman rose and gave the child to
its mother. Emma bent over the little sucking mite. She hated it
when she looked at it, and saw it as a symbol, but when she felt
it, her love was like fire in her blood.
“I should think ‘e canna be comin’,”
said the father uneasily, looking up at the clock.
“Nonsense, father—the clock’s fast! It’s
but half-past four! Don’t fidget!” Bertha continued to
cut the bread and butter.
“Open a tin of pears,” she said to the woman, in a
much milder tone. Then she went into the next room. As soon as she
was gone, the old man said again: “I should ha’e
thought he’d ‘a’ been ’ere by now, if he
Emma, engrossed, did not answer. The father had ceased to
consider her, since she had become humbled.
come!” assured the stranger.
A few minutes later Bertha hurried into the kitchen, taking off
her apron. The dog barked furiously. She opened the door, commanded
the dog to silence, and said: “He will be quiet now, Mr
“Thank you,” said a sonorous voice, and there was
the sound of a bicycle being propped against a wall. A clergyman
entered, a big-boned, thin, ugly man of nervous manner. He went
straight to the father.
“Ah—how are you?” he asked musically, peering
down on the great frame of the miner, ruined by locomotor
His voice was full of gentleness, but he seemed as if he could
not see distinctly, could not get things clear.
“Have you hurt you hand?” he said comfortingly,
seeing the white rag.
“It wor nöwt but a pestered bit o’ coal as dropped,
an’ I put my hand on th’ hub. I thought tha worna
The familiar ‘tha’, and the reproach, were
unconscious retaliation on the old man’s part. The minister
smiled, half wistfully, half indulgently. He was full of vague
tenderness. Then he turned to the young mother, who flushed
sullenly because her dishonoured breast was uncovered.
“How are you?” he asked, very softly and gently, as
if she were ill and he were mindful of her.
“I’m all right,” she replied, awkwardly taking
his hand without rising, hiding her face and the anger that rose in
“Yes—yes”—he peered down at the baby,
which sucked with distended mouth upon the firm breast. “Yes,
yes.” He seemed lost in a dim musing.
Coming to, he shook hands unseeingly with the woman.
Presently they all went into the next room, the minister
hesitating to help his crippled old deacon.
“I can go by myself, thank yer,” testily replied the
Soon all were seated. Everybody was separated in feeling and
isolated at table. High tea was spread in the middle kitchen, a
large, ugly room kept for special occasions.
Hilda appeared last, and the clumsy, raw-boned clergyman rose to
meet her. He was afraid of this family, the well-to-do old collier,
and the brutal, self-willed children. But Hilda was queen among
them. She was the clever one, and had been to college. She felt
responsible for the keeping up of a high standard of conduct in all
the members of the family. There was a difference between the
Rowbothams and the common collier folk. Woodbine Cottage was a
superior house to most—and was built in pride by the old man.
She, Hilda, was a college-trained schoolmistress; she meant to keep
up the prestige of her house in spite of blows.
She had put on a dress of green voile for this special occasion.
But she was very thin; her neck protruded painfully. The clergyman,
however, greeted her almost with reverence, and, with some
assumption of dignity, she sat down before the tray. At the far end
of the table sat the broken, massive frame of her father. Next to
him was the youngest daughter, nursing the restless baby. The
minister sat between Hilda and Bertha, hulking his bony frame
There was a great spread on the table, of tinned fruits and
tinned salmon, ham and cakes. Miss Rowbotham kept a keen eye on
everything: she felt the importance of the occasion. The young
mother who had given rise to all this solemnity ate in sulky
discomfort, snatching sullen little smiles at her child, smiles
which came, in spite of her, when she felt its little limbs
stirring vigorously on her lap. Bertha, sharp and abrupt, was
chiefly concerned with the baby. She scorned her sister, and
treated her like dirt. But the infant was a streak of light to her.
Miss Rowbotham concerned herself with the function and the
conversation. Her hands fluttered; she talked in little volleys
exceedingly nervous. Towards the end of the meal, there came a
pause. The old man wiped his mouth with his red handkerchief, then,
his blue eyes going fixed and staring, he began to speak, in a
loose, slobbering fashion, charging his words at the clergyman.
“Well, mester—we’n axed you to come her ter
christen this childt, an’ you’n come, an’
I’m sure we’re very thankful. I can’t see
lettin’ the poor blessed childt miss baptizing, an’
they aren’t for goin’ to church
wi’t—” He seemed to lapse into a muse.
“So,” he resumed, “we’v axed you to come
here to do the job. I’m not sayin’ as it’s not
‘ard on us, it is. I’m breakin’ up, an’
mother’s gone. I don’t like leavin’ a girl
o’ mine in a situation like ‘ers is, but what the
Lord’s done, He’s done, an’ it’s no matter
murmuring. . . . There’s one thing to be thankful for,
an’ we are thankful for it: they never need know the want of
Miss Rowbotham, the lady of the family, sat very stiff and
pained during this discourse. She was sensitive to so many things
that she was bewildered. She felt her young sister’s shame,
then a kind of swift protecting love for the baby, a feeling that
included the mother; she was at a loss before her father’s
religious sentiment, and she felt and resented bitterly the mark
upon the family, against which the common folk could lift their
fingers. Still she winced from the sound of her father’s
words. It was a painful ordeal.
“It is hard for you,” began the clergyman in his
soft, lingering, unworldly voice. “It is hard for you today,
but the Lord gives comfort in His time. A man child is born unto
us, therefore let us rejoice and be glad. If sin has entered in
among us, let us purify out hearts before the Lord. . .
He went on with his discourse. The young mother lifted the
whimpering infant, till its face was hid in her loose hair. She was
hurt, and a little glowering anger shone in her face. But
nevertheless her fingers clasped the body of the child beautifully.
She was stupefied with anger against this emotion let loose on her
Miss Bertha rose and went to the little kitchen, returning with
water in a china bowl. She placed it there among the
“Well, we’re all ready,” said the old man, and
the clergyman began to read the service. Miss Bertha was godmother,
the two men godfathers. The old man sat with bent head. The scene
became impressive. At last Miss Bertha took the child and put it in
the arms of the clergyman. He, big and ugly, shone with a kind of
unreal love. He had never mixed with life, and women were all
unliving, Biblical things to him. When he asked for the name, the
old man lifted his head fiercely. “Joseph William, after
me,” he said, almost out of breath.
“Joseph William, I baptize thee. . . .” resounded
the strange, full, chanting voice of the clergyman. The baby was
“Let us pray!” It came with relief to them all. They
knelt before their chairs, all but the young mother, who bent and
hid herself over her baby. The clergyman began his hesitating,
Just then heavy footsteps were heard coming up the path, ceasing
at the window. The young mother, glancing up, saw her brother,
black in his pit dirt, grinning in through the panes. His red mouth
curved in a sneer; his fair hair shone above his blackened skin. He
caught the eye of his sister and grinned. Then his black face
disappeared. He had gone on into the kitchen. The girl with the
child sat still and anger filled her heart. She herself hated now
the praying clergyman and the whole emotional business; she hated
her brother bitterly. In anger and bondage she sat and
Suddenly her father began to pray. His familiar, loud, rambling
voice made her shut herself up and become even insentient. Folks
said his mind was weakening. She believed it to be true, and kept
herself always disconnected from him.
“We ask Thee, Lord,” the old man cried, “to
look after this childt. Fatherless he is. But what does the earthly
father matter before Thee? The childt is Thine, he is Thy childt.
Lord, what father has a man but Thee? Lord, when a man says he is a
father, he is wrong from the first word. For Thou art the Father,
Lord. Lord, take away from us the conceit that our children are
ours. Lord, Thou art Father of this childt as is fatherless here. O
God, Thou bring him up. For I have stood between Thee and my
children; I’ve had my way with them, Lord; I’ve stood
between Thee and my children; I’ve cut ’em off from
Thee because they were mine. And they’ve grown twisted,
because of me. Who is their father, Lord, but Thee? But I put
myself in the way, they’ve been plants under a stone, because
of me. Lord, if it hadn’t been for me, they might ha’
been trees in the sunshine. Let me own it, Lord, I’ve done
’em mischief. It could ha’ been better if they’d
never known no father. No man is a father, Lord: only Thou art.
They can never grow beyond Thee, but I hampered them. Lift
’em up again, and undo what I’ve done to my children.
And let this young childt be like a willow tree beside the waters,
with no father but Thee, O God. Aye an’ I wish it had been so
with my children, that they’d had no father but Thee. For
I’ve been like a stone upon them, and they rise up and curse
me in their wickedness. But let me go, an’ lift Thou them up,
Lord . . .”
The minister, unaware of the feelings of a father, knelt in
trouble, hearing without understanding the special language of
fatherhood. Miss Rowbotham alone felt and understood a little. Her
heart began to flutter; she was in pain. The two younger daughters
kneeled unhearing, stiffened and impervious. Bertha was thinking of
the baby; and the younger mother thought of the father of her
child, whom she hated. There was a clatter in the scullery. There
the youngest son made as much noise as he could, pouring out the
water for his wash, muttering in deep anger:
“Blortin’, slaverin’ old fool!”
And while the praying of his father continued, his heart was
burning with rage. On the table was a paper bag. He picked it up
and read, “John Berryman—Bread, Pastries, etc.”
Then he grinned with a grimace. The father of the baby was
baker’s man at Berryman’s. The prayer went on in the
middle kitchen. Laurie Rowbotham gathered together the mouth of the
bag, inflated it, and burst it with his fist. There was a loud
report. He grinned to himself. But he writhed at the same time with
shame and fear of his father.
The father broke off from his prayer; the party shuffled to
their feet. The young mother went into the scullery.
“What art doin’, fool?” she said.
The collier youth tipped the baby under the chin, singing:
“Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker’s man,
Bake me a cake as fast as you can. . . .”
The mother snatched the child away. “Shut thy
mouth,” she said, the colour coming into her cheek.
“Prick it and stick it and mark it with P,
And put it i’ th’ oven for baby an’ me. . .
He grinned, showing a grimy, and jeering and unpleasant red
mouth and white teeth.
“I s’ll gi’e thee a dab ower th’
mouth,” said the mother of the baby grimly. He began to sing
again, and she struck out at him.
“Now what’s to do?” said the father,
The youth began to sing again. His sister stood sullen and
“Why, does that upset you?” asked the eldest Miss
Rowbotham, sharply, of Emma the mother. “Good gracious, it
hasn’t improved your temper.”
Miss Bertha came in, and took the bonny baby.
The father sat big and unheeding in his chair, his eyes vacant,
his physique wrecked. He let them do as they would, he fell to
pieces. And yet some power, involuntary, like a curse, remained in
him. The very ruin of him was like a lodestone that held them in
its control. The wreck of him still dominated the house, in his
dissolution even he compelled their being. They had never lived;
his life, his will had always been upon them and contained them.
They were only half-individuals.
The day after the christening he staggered in at the doorway
declaring, in a loud voice, with joy in life still: “The
daisies light up the earth, they clap their hands in multitudes, in
praise of the morning.” And his daughters shrank, sullen.