Fruits of our labours

Autumn wasn't a bad time really. O.K. the long summer holiday was over but Christmas wasn't too far away and it was still light enough to play out and there were still adventures to be had.
On the other side of the main road from our little terrace were the large houses belonging to the colliery officials. The largest of these belonged to Mr Padgett, the colliery manager, who Dad called "Frosty Face because he hardly ever smiled. A six-foot wall, which hid his garden from view, surrounded the house but it did not hide the branches of the fruit trees, which hung tantalisingly near to the wall. From our side of the road we could see apples, pears and plums hanging from those branches. The plums had to be the biggest and juiciest I had ever seen, we had tasted apples and even pears but plums were a delicacy still unknown to me, Bill and Eddie, so we could only imagine the taste but they did look inviting. To safeguard this bounty Mr Padgett had cemented broken bottles onto the top of the walls, which only made the fruit, look more exciting, who would go to such extremes just to stop people climbing up for apples or pears? It had to be for those big purple plums!
The plums became our quest, our Holy Grail, but how were we to assault that impregnable wall?
It was Bill, who came up with the idea,
"Why don't we get some sacking or summat to put over the glass then we won't get cut climbing over, there is always loads of it in the pit yard
He was right and on Sundays the yard was always quiet and few workmen were around so that weekend we planned to begin our assault on the plums. Sunday was sunny and quite warm for the time of year, dinner was over and Dad was having his usual Sunday afternoon sleep so being out of the house was almost a requirement. We met by Eddie's gate and made our way up the lane and were soon shielded from view of the houses by the bushes, the same bushes that sheltered the deadly Pycost We found hardly any sacking in the yard,
"This won't stop us from getting cut, I moaned and Bill nodded in agreement. Our adventure was stopped before it had even begun; but we had forgotten the ever-resourceful Eddie.
"Hey, look over here, he shouted in triumph, "just the job.
We joined him and looked at his find. A three-foot section of rubber conveyor belting from down in the mine. It was indeed just the job; about an inch thick and reinforced with steel wires yet quite flexible; no glass would get through this. We quickly rolled it into a fat tube and tied a piece of rope around.
"Well done Ed, much better than sacking, said Bill and I.
"Aye, replied Eddie, "my Dad says you can find a use for everything if you keep it long enough and judging by the tip they called a garden we knew what he meant.
We carried our 'glass protector' carefully down the lane, using a track through the bushes to the main road so that we could cross without being seen from our houses. As we came into the sunlight out of the cover of the bushes Bill burst into laughter.
"Look at us, the Musketeers? More like the Black and White Minstrels
We were covered in coal dust and the black coating from the conveyor belt.
"It is our disguise I chuckled, "or it would be if it was dark
We stopped by the end of Padgett's wall because here we were screen from view by threes and bushes that screened the houses
from the road.
Bill bent down to let me get on his back and reach up to hoist the rubber belt onto the jagged glass. I gingerly hoisted my self up,
"Brilliant, you cannot feel the glass at all and the rubber cannot slip because of the sharp points
I helped Bill up and then we both sat on our safe 'cushion' to haul up Eddie. Then we dropped quietly on the grass below. We could not be seen from the house and the plum trees were right in front of us. Even this far from the house we whispered just in case Mr Padgett had sensitive ears.
I thought Eddie should climb up as he was the smallest, but Bill pointed out he was also the fattest and heaviest and that the branches of the plum tree were quite slender.
"You're the skinniest, he said, "best if you go up and throw the plums down to us. I had to admit he was probably right but II wished he could have said I was the slimmest. It was then we found out that our planning had been a bit hasty and we had nothing to carry our booty in.
"We can use your jersey, if we tie the arms together it will make a carrying handle then tie a not in the waist and we have a great bag. Bill was full of great ideas.
"Why my jersey, I protested, "it might get mucky and my Mam will go mad at me.
Bill looked at me as he would a small child, Why man, look at it, it's already as black as the ace of spades and before I could protest anymore, "besides you're the only one wearing a jersey.
Right again, so it was decided and I began my ascent into the leafy branches of the plum tree. Soon I was dropping plums down to eager hands below that quickly transferred them to my jersey.
"Go higher they're bigger and juicier near the top of the tree came shouts below me, no longer whispers now we were immersed into our task. Sure enough the plums at the top were bigger, I bit into one, and juicier. Lovely one for me and one for the bag, soon my mouth was covered in sticky plum juice as I carefully dropped plums through the canopy of leaves to the catchers below, being careful to chuck the stones well out of sight away from the tree.
"Don't drop these; they are lovely, are you getting them all?
Suddenly I realised that all I could hear was the breeze rustling through the leaves and the birds chirping in the garden. So they were going to hide from me while I was up here and they were out of sight below, no doubt guzzling plums.
"Howay, stop messing about or I'm coming down
I began to climb down carefully so as not to get snagged in the branches. A helping hand reached up to me as I reached the lower branches.
"Thanks lads I said as I looked down.
Bill had either changed or grown up very quickly because he had grey moustache.
"Well lad, enjoying my plums are you? said Mr Padgett quietly.
I looked around there was no sign of Eddie or Bill; Mr Padgett had hold of my jersey bulging with plums in one hand and the collar of my shirt in the other.
"Let see what your Dad has to say shall we? he said leading me through the gate and across the road. It was no good trying to argue my way out of it I had been caught red handed and red mouthed as well. He knew my Dad, he knew everybody's Dad. It was no use coming out with the aliases we had always planned for such an occasion. Manuel Labour, a Spanish onion seller or Corporal Punishment, home on leave did not seem to be as funny now. He went straight to our house, through the gate and up to the back door, not once did he loosen his grip on my shirt collar or my jersey. He knocked at the door and we both waited.
The door opened, my Dad looked at Mr Padgett and then at the coaly black, juice stained face from which two frightened eyes looked up at him, he said nothing.
"This is your lad isn't it? Mr Padgett asked.
Dad did not answer; he looked at the jersey bulging with the ill gotten gains then again at my dirty face which by now had two white rivers running down through the blackness.
"No, said my Dad and he shut the door. Mr Padgett looked down at me and said, "I think you might have a problem now bonny lad and he went back out of the gate and across the main road.
I quietly tuned the door handle, swallowing hard before pushing open the door. The handle turned but the door did not open, it was locked. The door was never locked until Dad went to bed, I tried again it was indeed locked. I went out of my house and ran to Bill's house; he answered my knock and said he was not allowed to come out, shutting the door before I could tell him what had happened. I did not even get an answer from Eddies. I went back to our house and tried the door again but it remained firmly locked. I got a box from the coalhouse and stood on it to look through the window. Mam, Dad and my sister were sitting round the table with its clean Sunday cloth on. There was cold ham and pease pudding, cold potatoes and slices of thickly buttered bread; always butter on Sundays. At the end of the table was a trifle with the little patterned glass dishes neatly by its side. My favourite, I loved Sunday teas but not this Sunday. My sister looked up at the window and said something; Mam looked at me sadly and gave a gentle shake of the head. Dad did not even look he just bit into a thick piece of boiled ham. I felt hungry but at the same time I though about that sad look from my Mam and I felt ashamed and once more tears began to run down my cheeks. I got off my box and sat on it wondering when the door would be opened for me and what would happen when it did.
I went into the toilet and using a piece of paper dipped into the bowl I tried to clean my face, at least I could show myself with a clean face. Mam said cleanliness was next to godliness, and I felt I needed as much godliness as I could get. I think the coal dust I cleaned off was probably replaced by newsprint from the 'Journal' that Dad carefully tore into precise squares and hung from the nail in the toilet. I read a couple of the squares but got fed up because I could never find the next bit of the article. By this time it was getting dark outside and Dad had lit the gas in the house, I went back to my box but just as I stood on it Dad drew the curtains and I was left out in the dark. It was getting cold as well and I suddenly remembered I did not even have my warm jersey, Padgett had taken it, what a cheek and he thought I was a thief for taking a few mouldy plums. I was getting hungry and I did not even have a plum left to eat. I took the tarpaulin of Dad's bike and went back into the toilet; I wrapped myself in the tarpaulin and sat on the seat. It might have been ideal for keeping his bike dry but the tarpaulin was useless as a body warmer, infact it was freezing cold and stiff. After what seemed like hours I crept out to try the door again, it was still firmly locked. I looked towards the window, gaslight and firelight shone through the thick curtains and I could almost feel the warmth from that roaring fire with its dancing flames and red glowing coals. One of the few benefits of being a miner dad said but it was of little benefit to me in that cold dark yard. I went back into the toilet and curled up on the floor in the tarpaulin. The floor was hard, the concrete was freezing cold and my fertile imagination was not helping me. I thought of the rats that ran around the drainage pond up in the pit yard and the stoats we had see under the bushes last summer and it was not long before I began to hear the night sounds, creaking and rustlings. I sat up and ran into the yard. There was no light in the window, they had gone to bed and left me out here. I thought of my Mam and her kind face and caring hugs whenever we felt afraid and I knew she would have not gone to bed with first unlocking the door for me. I smiled to myself and turned the door handle anxious to get into that warm room now only lit from the glow of the fire banked up for the night, the fire that rarely went out. The door stubbornly refused to budge; Dad's word was law. I opened the gate and went up the street to my Granny's house, her cottage was in darkness but as I tried the door latch it opened quietly and I slipped inside. I stood bathed in warmth and light from her cosy fire and taking off my shoes I lay down on the cushions on the long wooden settle by the fire and was quickly asleep.
Gran woke me next morning, helped to scrub me clean and over a quick breakfast of toast and jam she listened to my tale of woe. She did not tell me off; saying that I had paid enough and that I was to run home or I would not be ready in time for school. As I left she said don't worry too much about your Dad just tell him Granny says to remember the chapel doors.
Back at home Dad had already left for work and when I told Mam about where I had spent the night and she seemed a bit happier and less worried than she looked when the door finally opened for me.
At tea I was worried about what Dad would say, what he would do and what about the chapel doors? As we ate, in silence, I kept looking at him but he did not show any sign of what he was going to do. Finally the table was cleared and my sister and my Mam went into the scullery to wash the dishes,
"Learn much at school today son? asked Dad as he picked up his paper, I told him about maths and English and the nature table then he said, not as much as last night then?
I knew exactly what he meant, "no Dad, and I am sorry, it won't happen again
"I don't think it will lad, great school is the University of Life isn't it?
University of Life? I had not even taken my entrance exam for the Grammar School yet; my Dad says the strangest things.
"Dad, Grandma says do you remember the chapel doors? He just smiled, "Aye the University of Life, we all go there
A couple of nights later there was a knock on the door and when Mam opened it there, on the doorstep, was Mr Padgett. Too ashamed to show my face I stayed in the room and listened.
"Here you are love I've brought the lad's jersey back, my wife has washed it, and I thought you might be able to make use of a few windfalls from the garden for and apple pie and there are a few plums in there the boy might enjoy
Mam thanked him and waited politely until he was out of the gate before shutting the door.
"Fancy that, she said, not so frosty faced after all then.