Free Netherwood by Jane Sanderson Page B

fire, was in a cheerful frame of mind too. He’d got in just after half-past one after a satisfactory shift at New Mill and walked into the kitchen to be granted a warm smile from Eve, which bodedwell for his Saturday night prospects in the marital bed. Added to this pleasing train of thought was the match later this afternoon, piping hot water in the tub and a mug of strong tea just within reach on the mantelpiece. What else could a working man ask for? More hot water, that’s what.
    ‘Seth,’ he shouted and, as if he’d been waiting for the call, the boy stuck his head round the door.
    ‘See if your mam can manage another bucketful, son,’ said Arthur.
    Seth staggered in moments later with a fresh pail of hot water which he’d dipped into the great set pot in the kitchen.
    ‘Tip it over mi ’ead,’ said Arthur. ‘In a steady stream, like. We don’t want a flood on yer mam’s rug.’
    To Seth, the water seemed to be still simmering in the zinc bucket, and it scalded his hands where it splashed, but he had never yet fetched water that was too hot for his dad. Arthur tilted his head back to receive it, and let it pour over his face, through his hair, down over his shoulders. He handed Seth the long-handled brush and the boy diligently scrubbed at the parts of his back that were still dirty. Arthur liked to be clean, scrubbing at his nails and jiggling fingers in his ears, winkling out the coal dust from every cranny and crevice. Seth’s grandfather, Ephraim Williams, had never let anyone scrub his back. He left it black, the dust ingrained like oil on a wooden table top, to keep it strong. Seth never knew Ephraim, but Arthur had told him stories, especially about the black back, so that in Seth’s mind he held a clear image of his grandfather: doughty, heroic, deeply superstitious. Ephraim believed coal dust had healing qualities; wash it away, he told Arthur, and you sap your strength. He died in a firedamp explosion and was carried out of the pit with his eyes, nose and mouth packed with the stuff, so Arthur took against the theory and Eve was grateful for it. The wives of black backs had the filthiest linen in the country.
    ‘It’s good weather for t’game, Dad,’ Seth said, more in hope than in confidence since outside the afternoon sky was looking uncooperative, and as grey as an elephant’s hide. The steam from Arthur’s bath had misted the windows and Seth had to rub a small, face-sized patch to see out. ‘No wind to speak of.’
    ‘Nowt wrong wi’ wind, as long as you’re not hittin’ into it,’ said Arthur.
    Seth coloured. His father never allowed him an opinion. It was annoying, when all Seth wanted was a sage nod of agreement. ‘No, but too much wind an’ it’s not a fair contest,’ he said. ‘Mr Medlicott said.’
    Arthur heaved himself upright and stood naked and unself-conscious, one arm outstretched for the dry towel. ‘Well if Percy Medlicott says so, it must be right,’ he said.
    Seth passed his father the towel. He felt pretty sure of his ground this time.
    ‘Mr Medlicott said in a fair contest, every player should ’ave same advantage. If you ’it t’knur and t’wind carries it, it’s not a true length.’
    ‘Aye, well, if Percy Medlicott ’its t’knur, it’s a blasted miracle,’ said Arthur. ‘’E’s t’only fella I know who calls ’imself an expert at a game ’e can’t play.’
    It was true, Seth conceded to himself, that Mr Medlicott was better at the game in theory than in practice, although he wasn’t alone in this. The knur was so small, and the split-second timing so crucial, that many a man swiped at fresh air while the ball plopped to the ground at their feet. Percy Medlicott wasn’t the only player to be made a fool of, although he was more likely than most to take all ten of his permitted strikes and never hit the ball once. But Seth liked him all the same; he was kind, and he was generous with his time, always happy to explain the ins and the