CATHERINE COOKSON

He urged his horse up the rise, then stopped at the summit as he always did and sat gazing about him. The sky was high today, clear and blue, not resting as it usually did on the far low low hills away to his left, or on the masts of the ships not so far away that lined the river. From this Point he could see the town of South Shields lying in a bustling huddle along the banks of the river right to where it made its way into the North Sea. From Tyne dock to where the village of Jarrow began the land was bare of all but a cottage and a farmstead here and there, but once his eyes hit on jarrow itself he had the feeling of bustle again, even if it were in a lesser way, the little shipyard he knew would be busy, and at the salt plans along the river where the work would be ceaseless. Then came Hebburn. He knew it to be there, but it was obscured from his view by a series of hillocks. Always a shadow of pity rose in him when he looked upon any town, even the great Newcastle, for he could never how men, giving the choice, would want to live among the bustle and hustle and, for the majority of them, stink and muck. But then again the majority of them had little choice. Yet if the chance were given to them would they want to live out in the Open country?... Open country! The words were now scornful in his mind. He looked down towards the earth. There was a mine underneath his horse's feet. How often did the miners enjoy the open country? Once a week? Some of them were so worn out that all the Sunday privilege meant to them was bad. He urged on his horse again, impatience in his 'Get up there!' Now why was it that on this monthly visit to william trotter he should, winter or summer, pause on that knoll and ask himself questions that had nothing questions that had nothing whatsoever to do with him or his life? Here he was prosperous farmer, well set-up; oh yes, he knew his own value. He would have liked another inch or two to his stature but five foot ten and a half wasn't bad, not when you had breadth to go with it; and the hair on his head was as thick as a horse's mane, and the colour of chestnut into the bargain. As for his face, well, the looking-glass had told him there were handsomer men but they were only to be found among the fops. His was a strong manly face; all strong faces had big noses. His mouth in portion was large, and that was it should be. And he had all his teeth; the bottom set as wide as they were high and as white as salt would make them. It wasn't everybody who could reach twenty- four and brag that he hadn't as yet his tooth pulled. Jeff Barnes had three missing in the front, all because he couldn't stand a bit of faceache, and him the size of a house end! No, his face, as his mother used to say, would get him past in a crowd... but only just. He used to laugh at his mother: she had been a joker. At the bottom of the knoll he was still on a rise and he turned the horse on to a narrow bridle path he was now looking over a mass of woody land where in the far distance a row of ornamental chimneys pierced the sky, and on the sight of them he again pulled his horse to a stop; and he he did so he now asked himself: could the rumour be true? Was the sopwith mine finished, or running out? Because if it was that would be the finish of the family and the Manor. But in a way it could be the making of himself, it could bring about the realisation of a dream. Yet if the place and the land and farm went under the hammer could he go to Mr mark and say, ’I have money to buy me farm'? He couldn't for there was very little left of the big lot and the first thing Mr Mark would likely say would be, 'Where did you get such Money from?' and what would he say to uncle in Australia and Mark sopwith would know that. There had been Sopwiths in the Manor for the last three hundred years and there had been Bentwoods on Brook farm for as long, and each knee the history of the other. He urged his horse on again and the thought in his mind now was, i hope to God it is just a rumour. Aye, i do, for all their sakes. He entered a narrow belt of wood and when he emerged a few minutes later. It was as if it had come into a new country, so changed was the scene. Beyond the stretch of moorland lay a huddle of houses known as Rosier's village. They were mean two roomed, mud- floored, miners cottages housing the workers in the mine that lay half a mile beyond, and the land beetween the houses and the mine seemed to be dotted with black coal mounds. Although there were only three of them, they nevertheless dominated the landscape. As his eyes dwelt on the panorama of industry he wondered how it was that one mine owner, Such are rosier, could flourish where a man of more ability and stature such as Sopwith could go to the wall. He supposed the answer could be giving in two parts: first, although, so he understood, Rosier had his troubles with water and explosions and the like, as every mine owner had, he was a shaft mine whereas Sopwiths was a drift mine; and the second part of the answer lay in luck, which, in the coal industry, meant good seams and bad seams, although it was said that luck, bad luck, was just an excuse for poor prospecting. Even when he was well past the village the stench of it still clung to his nostrils.