Ann Granger by The Companion

pulling down the houses. That was, hers, wasn’t it?’
    Ross muttered something. He looked angry. ‘Very likely!’ he said curtly. ‘I am sorry you saw it. I am sorry you were there and I am sorry you are here!’
    ‘What do you mean?’ I found his last words as strange as I had found his whole manner towards me. I know I spoke quite sharply.

    He sighed. ‘You do not remember me,’ he said. ‘There is no reason why you should. But we have met before, quite twenty years ago.’
    ‘Oh no,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘That’s impossible. I have only just arrived in London from Derbyshire, as I explained to you. Josiah Parry,’ I pointed at the portrait above the hearth, ‘was my godfather. His widow, Mrs Parry, offered me the situation of companion after I wrote asking for her help, following the death of my father.’
    ‘So Dr Martin is dead,’ he said. ‘I am sorry to hear it. He was a good man and I owe him everything.’
    ‘You knew my father!’ I gasped.
    ‘And you. You are Lizzie Martin. You came with your father when he was called to a pit accident. A child died …’
    I knew I was gaping at him. ‘Yes, I do remember that! I hid in the pony-trap that morning. I was only eight years old. But how could you possibly know of that?’
    ‘I was there but you won’t remember. I gave you my lucky piece of shale with the image of a fern in it. I dare say you threw it away.’
    There was a sudden flash of memory, an image, revealed as if in a shaft of lightning on a night sky, of a dark-haired boy with coal-grimed face and clothing. ‘I remember you,’ I said slowly. ‘And as for your piece of lucky shale, I have it still. But, how …?’
    I broke off in some embarrassment because what I’d been about to blurt out would sound so rude. But he was ahead of me.
    ‘How did I get from that to here? Well, at the time that child died the government had already passed a law which forbade the employment of anyone under the age of ten in the mines. The little boy who died – his name was Davy Price and I mind him well – he’d been under ten years of age. Your father made a great fuss about it with the authorities. As a result, the company dismissed all of us who were under that age. Joe Lee and I were
nine years of age at the time. We were neither of us sorry not to have to go back down the pit, but it was a great loss to our families not to have our wages. Your father knew it.’
    The inspector’s gaze drifted to the rows of packed book spines on a shelf opposite. ‘Most pitmen can do no more than make their mark. You probably realise that.’
    ‘I suppose so,’ I said a little awkwardly. ‘But it’s not their fault if there are no schools for them.’
    His gaze shot back to engage mine with disconcerting directness. ‘But why should the children of pitmen need schooling? That’s what most people would say. It would only serve to fill them with ideas above their station.’
    ‘That would seem to me a most foolish argument,’ I retorted,
    ‘and one my father wouldn’t have supported for an instant! I know that he tried very hard to persuade several wealthy men of the town to band together and set up a charity school, as there are others in other towns. He was always sorry that he failed.’
    I was surprised because I thought I heard Ross chuckle although there was no corresponding smile on his face. ‘I’m not surprised he had no luck. My own father knew no more than to make his mark despite my mother’s attempts to teach him. Oh yes, my mother knew her letters!’
    I blushed because I realised I had shown my astonishment at this piece of information.
    ‘When she was a girl,’ he went on, ‘the vicar of her parish set up a Sunday school for poor children. My mother learned both to read and write and was made a monitor to teach the younger ones in turn. Later she taught me and, after my father’s death, earned a few pence teaching any other children in the pit village whose parents could