Dotty cried all the way is a writing prompt taken from the short story No Hodding, in my 2023 collection, Who can believe in witches?
Uncle Jim told Mam the rumours and the price o’ coal dropping, and said t’was easy to see bad times coming. Mine owners’ greediness and them in government not understanding. How could they? Uncle Jim tugged his beard. Never seen the outside of a mine more likely, least of all swing a pick in a foot and half of puddling blackness with a candle for light for twelve hours.
Bad times coming? As bad as me lugging that hod every day?
We watched the stockpiles by the pitheads grow tall like spoil heaps. No one to buy it for a decent price, Uncle Jim said. The men shook their heads and waited to be told it’d be part-time work from now. Like at Harrow Hill and Crown. Most of the men laid off there, and what they supposed to do? Nothing else going, now the tinplates works closed.
At night, I squeezed between my little brothers in the big iron bed and closed my eyes. Part time’d be good. Being laid off, even better.
No more hodding.
I were wise enough to kip my wishes to myself, seeing the worrit in Uncle Jim’s eyes, and the way Mam’s fingers fidgeted, twisting the ties of her apron or pulling at the strands of hair fallen out from her bun.
Mam’s lips, already straight because of Dad, thinned further when she heard about the lay-offs. She didn’t say nothing, but another sister got packed off to service too early.
Mam said to her: ‘You old enough to earn your way now, Dotty, and likely we goin’ need your wage even more’n need it now.’
Dotty cried all the way to the train, clutching her cardboard case with her spare stockings and petticoat to her chest like it was an anchor to home, and no doubt cried all the way to the big house in Cheltenham. She’s twelve. She still drenches her pillow with tears every night she says in her letters, but she does it on a full tummy and in a bed all to herself. Lucky Dotty, is what I think. She’ll get over being sick for home, like t’other girls do, coming back on an occasional Sunday to lord it over us with clean, new-like clothes and brushed hair.
Rose was already gone, after Dad fell off the cage. She went on her own all the way to London, being fifteen, a big girl, and better able to look after herself. She doan write much except the once, to tell us the lady is busy making sure women be allowed t’vote some time, so never at home, and the gentleman is kind, gives her little presents like ribbons and pretty buttons.
Mam breathed a bit fast when she read the letter. She didn’t say nothing though, so I s’posed she was happy Rose had a kind master.
No kind masters for the men in the pits.
Find out more about Who can believe in witches and other historical fiction here.
Follow the writing prompt on Facebook.
Find Cheryl’s flash fiction and short stories, including audio versions of some, here.
Doesn’t sound too promising for these young women/girls, especially Rose. Woner if Dotty will follow suit?