Sally James
Ann Ridgeon Cup - Best STORY with a Lancashire Theme in Standard English
PICKING COAL WITH DAD
Maggie got ready for her walk with her father like she always did on a Sunday morning when he didn’t go down the pit. She liked the smell of him on those days as if her mother’s soap had stuck to his newly ironed shirt and lodged in the seams. He didn’t smell of sweat and dust like he did on work days, this was his Sunday smell and when he bent down to kiss her she would notice how smooth his chin was once the bristles had been shaved away.
He smelled of tobacco too, the rough cut heavy kind that lingered in his hair and made yellow marks on his fingers. He always lit up first thing in the morning, whilst he waited for the kettle to boil for his pint pot of tea. Maggie wondered how he could drink it so strong. She liked tea too but weak and diluted with creamy milk and sweetened with brown cane sugar left over from the Christmas cake baking.
Maggie loved these Sunday mornings when she had her dad all to herself and her mother and baby sister were sleeping in the big iron bed that rattled each time she turned over in her sleep. Sometimes the rattling was so bad she wondered why this was so but nevertheless fell asleep to the musical jangling of her parent’s bed.
Her father would sing in-between slurps of tea and long draws from a cigarette he had rolled himself with his coal ingrained fingers. He needed the nicotine to clear his lungs out he said one morning when Maggie grimaced as the coal fire spluttered when he spat into it.
He had been off work a week or two now so she had him all to herself for a few hours each day before he went scavenging for work or waiting outside the pit for news to come through that the strike was over.
But they never missed their Sunday walk even in those grey days when cupboards were bare and houses cold. Despite all the odds women still went to church in their Sunday best, the feathers in their hats ruffling in the wind and their long skirts swirling in the puddles they tried to avoid. Her mother would have gone to church too if she could find someone to mind the baby but Maggie and her father would be out walking. Maggie with her tin pram jiggling on the cobbles and her best doll wrapped up in an old sheet, her father by her side with his whippet Jack wearing the worn leather collar with a long piece of string attached.
This happiness was sheer bliss even on cold misty mornings when the low clouds hung like dirty sheets on an old washing line. “Look at those sinners going to church” he would laugh and Maggie would laugh with him even though she would be decked in her finery a few hours later when she went to Sunday school.
This particular Sunday morning would be different from the rest. Her father had woken her earlier than usual the bristles on his unshaven face pricking her cheek when he kissed her.
“Come on luv, wak up” he had cheered. Maggie didn’t want to get out of bed this morning, her head felt cold and when she finally emerged felt the cold lino on her bare feet. Her clothes were downstairs folded on a chair waiting for her to dress by the warmth of the fire but it wasn’t crackling up the chimney like it usually did and the windows had iced up and the net curtains stuck to them.
“Jack Frost’s bin” her dad said with a shiver and she noticed how there was no pint pot of tea and the kettle wasn’t hissing like it usually did. The only steam was that of her own breath as she hurriedly dressed.
Jack the whippet yelped in excitement when he saw the collar with the string in his master’s hands and pranced up and down on the stone flags his paws rat a tatting. “Ere tek thi little pram, wi’ll need it,” her dad said with a grin and Maggie even at her tender age knew instinctively that he was up to no good.
The three of them set out earlier than usual, there was an angry mist sloping down from the slag heaps and Maggie was surprised when instead of walking past the church towards the meadow they headed towards the pit. There was hardly anyone about, and there were icy patches in the rainbow puddles. The mud had frozen and imprints of clogs looked sinister in the grey morning. Her father’s whistling stopped short as they neared the slag heap. She noticed a few men scuttling in the slack, and then run off at high speed.
“Come on lass” he whispered and together they neared the dark mass. Like the others he scuttled and foraged among the slippery slack only to emerge with a large lump of glistening coal. Three times he did this placing his treasure under the covers in Maggie’s doll’s pram. She grumbled at first that her doll would get dirty then saw the strained look on her father’s face.
They walked back down the lane, Maggie puffing with the weight in her pram and the little dog sniffing around in case a rabbit had made its way from across the fields. Her father muttered something about acting normal as they walked past two hefty looking men one in a policeman’s uniform. They smiled at the father and daughter walking out together as a pale sun emerged from behind the slag heap.
“How ert thi Alf “the man in the policeman’s uniform said.
“Ar reet Tom teckin eawr Maggie eawrt fer walk afoor er gust Sunday schoo.”
“Looks like it’s warmin up a bit” the other man said.
But Maggie thought she saw a look like suspicion in his eyes so made up as if she was cold and tired and wanted to go home.
Her father nodded and said “See thi ert bowlin green later on, better ger er wom ers cowd neaw”.
The man in the special police man’s uniform nodded and Maggie and her father hurried on their way. They had to pass the church to their little terraced house and saw the ladies and a few men walking silently, a few nodded and smiled but Maggie’s father didn’t stop like he usually did. They just scurried past them and down the back lane to their house.
The house was cold and empty when they got back and the lacy patterns were still etched on to the window panes so he guessed his wife had taken the baby to her mother’s a few doors down the street to keep warm.
“Come on lass lets get this fire agate afoor her comes back wom” her father said raking the cold ashes out of the fire grate and placing the smaller pieces of coal on top of sticks of firewood and newspaper.
“The’s a big cob here as ull keep us warm ar day and there’s a bit er slack int backyard so wi can keep it backed up ar neet” he said his whiskered face broadening into a grin.
It wasn’t long before the fire was roaring up the chimney and melting the frosted panes and the kettle singing in the flames.
“Go un fotch thi mam Maggie don’t tell her why a want it bi a surprise.”
Maggie ran down the street and into her grandmother’s house which was only slightly warmer than their own but at least there were cups of tea on the table and a smell of toast warming the air.
“Come on Mam, mi dad wants thi” Maggie urged and was so impatient that her grandmother scolded her and asked her to leave her mother alone. Maggie’s mam went back home all the same wrapping a woollen shawl around her slim shoulders with the baby snuggled next to her. She expected a cold house when she got in and decided she may go back to her mother’s later or maybe her aunt’s who lived across the road. She got a surprise when she noticed smoke puffing out of the chimney and the windows so clear she could see inside and the reflection of the firelight dancing on the walls. She was even more surprised to find her husband sat in the rocking chair by the fire with a toasting fork in his hand and some crusty bread on the table oozing butter.
“Don’t ask any questions neaw, it’s nowt ter do wi thee” her husband said as he poured tea from a brown teapot that had been kept warm by the fire.
Maggie lived to be almost eighty years of age and has long since been dead. She experienced the depression, the soup kitchens and the Second World War. She went to work on the pit brew sorting coal when she was older and met her future husband walking down the pit lane. They married had children and grandchildren.
She experienced many holidays abroad with her husband in their later years. They went to countries she had only dreamed about. They bought a house with a garden and central heating but Maggie never forgot that cold frosty day when she went picking coal with her dad.
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Maggie got ready for her walk with her father like she always did on a Sunday morning when he didn’t go down the pit. She liked the smell of him on those days as if her mother’s soap had stuck to his newly ironed shirt and lodged in the seams. He didn’t smell of sweat and dust like he did on work days, this was his Sunday smell and when he bent down to kiss her she would notice how smooth his chin was once the bristles had been shaved away.
He smelled of tobacco too, the rough cut heavy kind that lingered in his hair and made yellow marks on his fingers. He always lit up first thing in the morning, whilst he waited for the kettle to boil for his pint pot of tea. Maggie wondered how he could drink it so strong. She liked tea too but weak and diluted with creamy milk and sweetened with brown cane sugar left over from the Christmas cake baking.
Maggie loved these Sunday mornings when she had her dad all to herself and her mother and baby sister were sleeping in the big iron bed that rattled each time she turned over in her sleep. Sometimes the rattling was so bad she wondered why this was so but nevertheless fell asleep to the musical jangling of her parent’s bed.
Her father would sing in-between slurps of tea and long draws from a cigarette he had rolled himself with his coal ingrained fingers. He needed the nicotine to clear his lungs out he said one morning when Maggie grimaced as the coal fire spluttered when he spat into it.
He had been off work a week or two now so she had him all to herself for a few hours each day before he went scavenging for work or waiting outside the pit for news to come through that the strike was over.
But they never missed their Sunday walk even in those grey days when cupboards were bare and houses cold. Despite all the odds women still went to church in their Sunday best, the feathers in their hats ruffling in the wind and their long skirts swirling in the puddles they tried to avoid. Her mother would have gone to church too if she could find someone to mind the baby but Maggie and her father would be out walking. Maggie with her tin pram jiggling on the cobbles and her best doll wrapped up in an old sheet, her father by her side with his whippet Jack wearing the worn leather collar with a long piece of string attached.
This happiness was sheer bliss even on cold misty mornings when the low clouds hung like dirty sheets on an old washing line. “Look at those sinners going to church” he would laugh and Maggie would laugh with him even though she would be decked in her finery a few hours later when she went to Sunday school.
This particular Sunday morning would be different from the rest. Her father had woken her earlier than usual the bristles on his unshaven face pricking her cheek when he kissed her.
“Come on luv, wak up” he had cheered. Maggie didn’t want to get out of bed this morning, her head felt cold and when she finally emerged felt the cold lino on her bare feet. Her clothes were downstairs folded on a chair waiting for her to dress by the warmth of the fire but it wasn’t crackling up the chimney like it usually did and the windows had iced up and the net curtains stuck to them.
“Jack Frost’s bin” her dad said with a shiver and she noticed how there was no pint pot of tea and the kettle wasn’t hissing like it usually did. The only steam was that of her own breath as she hurriedly dressed.
Jack the whippet yelped in excitement when he saw the collar with the string in his master’s hands and pranced up and down on the stone flags his paws rat a tatting. “Ere tek thi little pram, wi’ll need it,” her dad said with a grin and Maggie even at her tender age knew instinctively that he was up to no good.
The three of them set out earlier than usual, there was an angry mist sloping down from the slag heaps and Maggie was surprised when instead of walking past the church towards the meadow they headed towards the pit. There was hardly anyone about, and there were icy patches in the rainbow puddles. The mud had frozen and imprints of clogs looked sinister in the grey morning. Her father’s whistling stopped short as they neared the slag heap. She noticed a few men scuttling in the slack, and then run off at high speed.
“Come on lass” he whispered and together they neared the dark mass. Like the others he scuttled and foraged among the slippery slack only to emerge with a large lump of glistening coal. Three times he did this placing his treasure under the covers in Maggie’s doll’s pram. She grumbled at first that her doll would get dirty then saw the strained look on her father’s face.
They walked back down the lane, Maggie puffing with the weight in her pram and the little dog sniffing around in case a rabbit had made its way from across the fields. Her father muttered something about acting normal as they walked past two hefty looking men one in a policeman’s uniform. They smiled at the father and daughter walking out together as a pale sun emerged from behind the slag heap.
“How ert thi Alf “the man in the policeman’s uniform said.
“Ar reet Tom teckin eawr Maggie eawrt fer walk afoor er gust Sunday schoo.”
“Looks like it’s warmin up a bit” the other man said.
But Maggie thought she saw a look like suspicion in his eyes so made up as if she was cold and tired and wanted to go home.
Her father nodded and said “See thi ert bowlin green later on, better ger er wom ers cowd neaw”.
The man in the special police man’s uniform nodded and Maggie and her father hurried on their way. They had to pass the church to their little terraced house and saw the ladies and a few men walking silently, a few nodded and smiled but Maggie’s father didn’t stop like he usually did. They just scurried past them and down the back lane to their house.
The house was cold and empty when they got back and the lacy patterns were still etched on to the window panes so he guessed his wife had taken the baby to her mother’s a few doors down the street to keep warm.
“Come on lass lets get this fire agate afoor her comes back wom” her father said raking the cold ashes out of the fire grate and placing the smaller pieces of coal on top of sticks of firewood and newspaper.
“The’s a big cob here as ull keep us warm ar day and there’s a bit er slack int backyard so wi can keep it backed up ar neet” he said his whiskered face broadening into a grin.
It wasn’t long before the fire was roaring up the chimney and melting the frosted panes and the kettle singing in the flames.
“Go un fotch thi mam Maggie don’t tell her why a want it bi a surprise.”
Maggie ran down the street and into her grandmother’s house which was only slightly warmer than their own but at least there were cups of tea on the table and a smell of toast warming the air.
“Come on Mam, mi dad wants thi” Maggie urged and was so impatient that her grandmother scolded her and asked her to leave her mother alone. Maggie’s mam went back home all the same wrapping a woollen shawl around her slim shoulders with the baby snuggled next to her. She expected a cold house when she got in and decided she may go back to her mother’s later or maybe her aunt’s who lived across the road. She got a surprise when she noticed smoke puffing out of the chimney and the windows so clear she could see inside and the reflection of the firelight dancing on the walls. She was even more surprised to find her husband sat in the rocking chair by the fire with a toasting fork in his hand and some crusty bread on the table oozing butter.
“Don’t ask any questions neaw, it’s nowt ter do wi thee” her husband said as he poured tea from a brown teapot that had been kept warm by the fire.
Maggie lived to be almost eighty years of age and has long since been dead. She experienced the depression, the soup kitchens and the Second World War. She went to work on the pit brew sorting coal when she was older and met her future husband walking down the pit lane. They married had children and grandchildren.
She experienced many holidays abroad with her husband in their later years. They went to countries she had only dreamed about. They bought a house with a garden and central heating but Maggie never forgot that cold frosty day when she went picking coal with her dad.
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