A Trail of Blood

Part I

John Baxter

Chapter 1

The Early Years

John Baxter came into the world like any other baby, small, wrinkled, screaming, blowing air bubbles through his tiny lips and squinting at this mysterious place through his one open eye. He was born on March 30th, 1947 in the small coal mining village of Brexley in North Yorkshire, England.

He had two sisters who were younger than he was. Jackie was the oldest, born in 1948, and Mary was born in 1949. They were particularly well attached to his mother, much to John’s personal discomfort. He thought that his sisters did not like him. He often caught his mother, Mabel, and the two girls whispering. He always assumed that it was some conspiratorial effort against him.

Jack Baxter, John’s father, whom he called Dad, but did not like to, had worked down the coal mine since he was fifteen years old. He started right away on the coal face where he breathed in the black dust and was still doing so two decades later. Jack was not well liked by the other miners. He had a well-known temper that could be ignited by any chance remark by one of his workmates. Being a large and very strong man, and having this temper, they feared him greatly.

There was a story of how a fellow called Frank Ogden had, somehow, picked up one of Jack’s tools and Jack saw him using it and came up behind him and hit Frank over the head with a hammer shaft, knocking the daylight out of the poor man. They had to take him up to the top and over to Doctor Smith’s office where he got seven stitches and a week off work. From that point forward the other miners stayed well clear of Jack if they possibly could.

Mabel had married Jack back in 1946, right after World War II. She had attended the local Secondary Modern school; it was definitely not modern, but most assuredly secondary. She left school when she was fifteen and started looking for a man to marry. Mabel had two sisters, Joan, and Angela. They were older than she. Their mother, Ellen, raised all three of them to become homemakers.

Mabel met Jack at a local pub, The Hunting Dog. He was playing dominoes, and she saw that he was excellent at the game. She also saw that he was quick to anger, and often lashed out with his big meaty black-nailed hands at one or more of the other players. Every once in a while, Jack would glance her way. Finally, he flashed her a huge white-toothed smile. The rest was history.

The coal mine owned the house that the Baxter’s lived in, and Jack Baxter was supposed to pay a small rent for the house, but mostly forgot to do this. It was just a red brick-built terraced house in a row of twenty identical houses. The roof was gray slate and often rewarded the residents by allowing rain to drip into the house. The upper floor had two bedrooms that accommodated the parents in one room, and John and his two sisters in the other.

At the bottom of the stairs leading up to the bedrooms was a small hallway. There was a row of pegs on the wall that had so many coats hanging on them one had to brush them out of the way to go upstairs. There were two doors in the hallway. One led to the living room, the other, known as the front door, exited to a small garden with overrun vegetation and a large lilac tree. The front door was never used. Only a stranger to the village would knock on someone’s front door. The rest of the time the door was locked with a rolled up towel along the bottom of it in an attempt to block the bad draft from the northwesterly winds that often blew.

The living room had a coal fire that burned with furious red embers and only gave up its constant vigil in the early hours of the morning. It left behind gray ashes that had to be removed every morning, and the fire remade. It was usually the long-suffering Mabel who had to make the fire after Jack had hit every wall coming down the stairs following a heavy night of drinking.

Jack love, I’ll make the fire. You get on in the kitchen and put the kettle on.

Alright but make it quick so ya can make my snap, and don’t make it bread and jam again or there’ll be trouble for thi.

The fireplace was critical to the family. The miners received free coal from the pit seeing as how Jack was a dutiful and hard-working miner on the coal face. The colliery delivered a ton of coal once a month. It was John’s job, by the time he was eight years old, to load the coal into the coal shed from out on the back street where the lorry left this mountain of black sorrow for him.

The coal shed was down in the yard below next to the lavatory. The yard itself was made of thinly-laid concrete but had long since cracked and invited a variety of weeds to populate its face. The dandelion was a common and much-hated weed. John would hack down a dandelion when he could no longer ignore the height that it had reached, but it always grew back with a sneer on its bright yellow face.

The yard was only some fifteen feet long. There were three stone steps at the end with a large wooden gate above them. John had attempted to maintain the gate over the last few years. Despite his efforts, the gate creaked and groaned whenever it was opened. It led to the back street. All the terraced houses in the village had a back street which was commonly known as the Backs.

On one side of the yard, there were two iron posts set in the concrete. Between the two posts hung a length of rope known as the washing line. It was there all year round. Much of the year rain dripped from the line as it was blown from side to side. In the deep of winter, it took upon itself a coat of silver that shone brightly in the sun and seemed to say ‘No worries, I am still here.’

Mabel would wash clothes in the kitchen sink, and then would squash them through the small mechanical wringer to remove most of the water. After this, they would be attached to the washing line with wooden pegs that often split and let the article of clothing fall to the concrete, leaving Mabel to start over.

The coal shed rose from the back yard and finished about six feet or so over the street level. It was built in the same brick and adorned with the same gray slate that covered the roof of the house. The outside brick wall had a small wooden door that John would prop open with a fence post. He could then take shovels of coal and throw them through the door and listen as they pounded down into the coal shed below.

He had to remember, though, that before he started loading the coal, he should open the door of the shed, which protested the intrusion even more than the gate did, and check to make sure the sliding door was closed. There was a piece of wood across the bottom of the coal shed behind the door. It was about two feet high. In the middle of it was an opening where a small square of wood slid up and down inside two grooves.

This slider was always left open for loading coal into the bucket because it was such a nuisance to open and close. It was mostly John who would fill the coal bucket. He would use a little shovel to put the coal in the bucket and then he would take the full bucket inside the house and set it down beside the fireplace. But, when John was loading the coal once a month, if he did not remember to close the slider, the coal would tumble down behind the coal shed door as he threw it in from the street above. Then, when one of his family would open the coal shed door, some of the coal would spill onto the yard.

Usually, the offended family member would curse John, and that would be the end of it. One time, though, Jack went to get the coal. It was very unusual for him to do this because, when he was home, he never moved out of his fireside chair unless to go to the toilet or the pub. John was up in the bedroom looking at his stamp collection and heard a guttural roar from his father. He ran downstairs as quickly as he could.

What’s up?

It’s your Dad. He’s out in the yard. Something upset him, says Mabel.

John was afraid. But he went out to the yard. He saw Jack standing by the coal shed surrounded by coals at his feet. John knew right away what had happened.

Sorry, Dad, I’ll get it. Go back inside.

You little bugger! How many times have I told you to close the damn slider when you are loading?

Jack could not leave it at that. The anger welled up inside him like so many times before. He grabbed the metal bucket and strode easily toward John, who was frozen with fear. Swinging the bucket around Jack landed it up the side of Johns’ head. John was cut badly and dropped to the concrete giving the king of all dandelions a sweet drink of blood.

Mabel had seen it all. She rushed out into the yard, risking a beating herself.

Jack, come on, you’ve hurt him bad. Get on inside and I’ll make a cup of tea.

Jack’s desire to beat his son to death was subsiding, and he needed a pint of Stones. To show Mabel that it was still his game he kicked the bucket across the yard. He strode up the three steps, easily swing open the gate which was, itself, in no mood to mess with Jack. They heard his hob-nailed boots clanging away down the street in the direction of the Bottom Club.

John would never forget that day. Mabel and his older sister, Jackie, managed to get him over to Doctor Smiths where the bad tempered old doctor viciously closed the wound with stitches, all the time hissing, and spitting and complaining about the unacceptable behavior of all the folks in this village.

John remembered this beating all his life, particularly every second Wednesday of each month when he had to load the ton of coal into the coal shed. He would proceed to dig that ancient shovel time after time into the black coals and lift it to toss them through the opening into the coal shed. It took John a good two hours, but he started right after school without any dinner because, if it were not done by the time Jack got home, he would see a leather belt or maybe the bucket again up the side of his head.

The coal was used to feed the fire in the big black fireplace summer and winter alike. The fireplace had a boiler tank in the back of it behind the fire bricks. When the fire got good and hot, the cold water in the tank boiled and rose up through pipes into a hot water tank which was in a cupboard in the corner of the children’s bedroom.

The hot water tank rarely actually contained hot water, it was tepid at best. But John liked it because, when he was trying to fall asleep, he could hear a certain gurgling sound as the hot water made its way into the tank. John liked the noise of this. It comforted him and helped him get to sleep, even when Jack had punched the daylight out of him for some minor offense.

As far as the hot water went, it fed the kitchen sink mostly. The sink was where Jack stripped off when he got home from the mine. Or, to be more accurate, he stripped off when he got back from The Hunting Dog or the Bottom Club after leaving the pit. John could remember how he would peek through the crack in the door jam and watch his father trying to get out of his work clothes that were practically glued to his back.

Jack had particular problems with the old black boots. He never knew whether to sit down to take them off or, which mostly happened, to balance on one drunken leg while he tried to wrestle the other boot off his swollen foot without undoing the laces.

John mostly hung out outside the kitchen door, not because he had not seen this mediocre performance many times before, but because his father would soon get mad and beat his Mabel like it was her fault. So, when it got to the point where Jack was thoroughly mad at his boots and looking for Mabel to punch, John would accidentally enter the kitchen, which was forbidden when Jack was cleaning up, and say: Dad, I got the boots. Lean on me; I got ’em.

John, of course, for his gallant effort to save his mother a black fist in the face, would take the same hit from Jack because Mabel was not there.

There was a bathtub in the house. It resided, also, in the kitchen. It had a board over the top of it and served as a seat when visitors came, not that they often did because they were so afraid of Jack. A lot of the houses in the street were getting a real bathroom. Jack’s family were not at the top of the list due to Jacks reluctance to pay the paltry rent which, of course, would cut into his beer money.

The bathtub rarely got used because the poor little red fire could not give enough heat to provide hot water to cover even two or three inches of that tub. Mabel, in the early days, tried to put the three kids in that tepid three inches of water which caused mayhem. The kitchen was always so cold that each child would desperately hang on to the little warmth, hoping that the other two would leave the tub first and, hence, provide a small personal space where the winner could sink a little lower into the lukewarm water and take his or her reward.

The towels were threadbare and, if held to the light, you could see right through them. By the time the last child climbed out of the scratched, once white, porcelain tub, and Mabel used the towel that had already dried his or her siblings, and now made the winner of the competition wetter than before, was it worth it?

So that was why the tub had fallen into disuse. Mabel had once or twice treated herself, when she was alone and not so afraid, to a tub bath. But she was always careful to use a small amount of water in case Jack detected that she had taken this liberty. It was hard to clean oneself in two inches of water but it, somehow, gave her spirit.

John grew up with other boys in the village that were also surviving desperate home lives and parents that once had a love for them but had had it beaten out of them. By the time he was ten years old he loved his mother more than anyone and hated his father the same.

Chapter 2

Lucky

Lucky, the dog, came into John’s life when he was eleven. He was walking out in the fields, which he did whenever he could, and heard a small whimper over by a thicket of hawthorn. He loved the small animals that roamed the fields like he did and was anxious to see the creature in distress.

John made his way through the high grass until he arrived at the side of the field where there was an overgrown footpath. He quickly detected the source of the whimper. It was a sack tied with rope, and there was movement within. John carefully untied the rope, not knowing what could be inside. Immediately he saw a small puppy. It was a golden color and maybe a foot long. It was obviously in a weak condition as it tried to lift its head which promptly fell back down. John quickly removed the puppy from the sack. It made him sad to see the puppy try to wag its tail.

Alright boy, we need to get you some food and water.

John knew of a clear stream nearby where he had often caught newts and sticklebacks when he was younger. He carried the puppy with all haste to the stream. The dog was hardly moving and flopped over his arms. He carefully laid the puppy down on the fresh grass, and quickly scooped water in his cupped hands and brought it to the animal’s mouth.

Most of it just trickled over the jaw and face of the puppy which seemed unable to take the water. John repeated this several times until he saw that the puppy was now licking anxiously at each small waterfall. After about ten minutes, it struggled to its feet. It looked at John, and he reached out to the puppy. The animal lowered its head and nervously backed off.

Yeah, someone has treated you badly. Poor little bugger.

It was a good two miles back to the house. John was determined to take the puppy home, but he hesitated because he knew that Jack would react badly and, most likely, with violence. He was not worried about the violence that might be meted out to him; he was used to it. But he was afraid that Jack might harm the puppy.

Nevertheless, minutes later John was making his way out of the fields and onto Black Bridge Road that went back to the village. He had big hands like his father and was strong. It was easy for him to carry the small bundle of fur. It was late afternoon when he arrived at the house. Jack was not home from the pit yet. Mabel was out in the yard with the clothes basket. She was removing clothes from the line and throwing the pegs into the large pocket of her apron. She was never seen without that apron.

Mabel turned as the gate swung open with its usual creak and groan. John came down the three steps and pushed his arms forward to show his mother the puppy.

Mam, look what I found up there in Farmer Wilson’s field.

Is that a puppy our John?

Yeah, Mam, I think it might be a golden Labrador.

Ooh, John, ya not thinking of keeping it are ya?

I have to Mam; it was gonna die.

Oh God son, your Dad will have a fit.

I’ll hide him.

Where can you hide him? There’s nowhere to hide him here.

I don’t care, Mam, if Dad has a go at him I’ll give him some back.

Nah don’t be talking daft lad, your Dad will knock your head off, and you’re only eleven.

Suddenly, they both heard the familiar clang of hob-nailed boots on the cobblestones of the back street. Mabel and John immediately looked into each other’s face, and both of them were scared.

It’s your Dad. He’s coming.

Mabel quickly decided that she was not going to be immediately seen as a collaborator in this crime. It had been a week since Jack last hit her in the face and the bruises were almost gone. The cut lip was still sore, and she did not want another. She quickly snapped the last four pegs off the line and threw the two articles of clothing into the basket and hurried indoors.

Jack’s head appeared over the gate. John had not moved from the same spot, but he had turned toward the gate. Jack saw the puppy right away.

What the bloody hell’s tha got there then?

The old gate swung open violently and almost went off what was left off the rusty hinges. Jack was down the three steps so fast that his pit bag lashed from side to side. John could hear the clatter of the metal flask and cup as they bounced around in the bag. Jack made it to John’s side in seconds. He grabbed the puppy by the scruff of the neck and held it up high. The puppy yelped, not for the first time in its life.

Bloody hell our John, this is a hunting dog. Where’s tha get it then?

I found it, Dad, up by Farmer Wilson’s place.

If tha pinched it off him, there’ll be hell to pay tha knows.

No, Dad, he was tied up in a sack.

Mabel heard what had been said and came out with less fear and with thoughts to help her son.

What’s tha think of that then Jack? He’s a little beauty isn’t he?

Jack brought the puppy down lower but still by the scruff of the neck.

I’m gonna train him to be a bird dog.

John smiled. Not because he wanted Jack to have anything to do with the dog, but because Mabel was not going to take another beating. Jack was hungry. He had not eaten since three o’clock and needed some good old meat and potatoes. He thrust the puppy back at John.

I’m gonna wash up at t’ sink and then tha better have my dinner on that table, he said to Mabel.

Mabel hurried back inside to do his bidding. John smiled and rubbed the puppies head.

We’ll have to think of a good name for you then. Ya know what, I’m gonna call you Lucky.

So, Lucky he was but unlucky he became.

Lucky hung his head, looked around the living room, and shook with fear. Jack was belching in the kitchen as he gobbled down his dinner. Mabel was fearfully asking Jack how his day was. John scrounged up whatever scraps he could find in the pantry. He returned to the living room. Lucky kept his eyes on John.

John leaned over and put a plate in front of Lucky. It had some spam on it and some bread. John had found a bit of gravy too. Lucky did not hesitate. He was on that plate in a flash. He cleaned it in seconds.

Poor little sod! You must not have eaten in a long time. Well, I’ll get you something much better tomorrow.

John put down a clean bowl of water and Lucky gratefully drank.

Jack came into the living room and grabbed the daily paper. He sunk into his chair at the side of the fire with a bottle of Guinness and coughed loud and long then spit into the fire. With a long sigh, he looked back down at the puppy.

What’s tha gonna call him then?

Lucky.

Jack laughed out loud. John smiled. Mabel let out a huge sigh of relief.

That’s right. He’s bloody lucky to be living here and no mistake.

Jack went back to his Guinness. Within minutes he was snoring. John looked at his mother. She nodded. They had caught Jack in a rare good mood it seems.

Chapter 3

No Electricity

One night the electricity went off. It was a bad time to happen because Mabel was trying to sew buttons back on Jacks work pants. They had needed it for some time. Mabel felt bad that he was going to the pit with his pants fly all loose. Not that Jack cared. In fact, he found it quite convenient.

John, go get ya Dad and tell him the electricity is off.

Where is he Mam?

It’s Wednesday; he’ll be at the Bottom Club.

John took a short cut across the recreation ground that brought him around the dark end of the Bottom Club. He was walking quietly and thinking about the latest beating that his father had given to Lucky. He heard a strange sound and looked over toward the back wall of the club. His eyes picked out two people in the shadows. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw that his father was one of those people. He could easily tell this by the size of the man and the cursing that he heard. It became evident very quickly that his father had a woman up against the wall.

John caught a glimpse of the woman’s face. It was Mrs. Grimley, a widow that lived the next street over. Jack was working on her like no tomorrow. He accompanied the performance with deep grunting noises as his poor old coal dust-lined lungs tried to keep up with the job.

Mrs. Grimley, for her part in this horrible tryst, was making kind of a hooting noise like she was being inflated by a bicycle pump. John made a move to leave but kicked a can, and his father turned to see who the intruder was. He pulled out of old Grimley and put his tool away inside his dirty old miner’s pants, looking at John the whole time he was doing this. And then he threw back his head and laughed out loud. Grimley held her hands over her mouth and lowered her head.

What’s tha doing down here, young ’un?

Mam said to come. The electricity is out.

Jack laughed: It’s alright down here son. Bugger off home you little bastard.

Jack staggered back into the club cursing all the way.

John was devastated. He had always known that his father was an evil man, but this was a new low. As he stood there in the darkness looking at the single light hanging on to the back wall of the Bottom Club, he was frozen in the night. He fought off the urge to throw open the doors of the club and run in and beat his father with his bare fists.

Instead, he walked over to the off license on the corner of Church Road and sat on a little wall away from the lights of the off license window. All he could think about was his mother. She had worked hard all her life raising him and his two sisters and put up with Jacks foul moods.

She had loved and tended to this man through all his moments of drunken hate. She had made his lunch, and put it in his snap can every day. She had made his dinner every evening so that he had something to eat when he came home from the mine or, more likely, the pub. She had tried to understand him even as he had walloped her, in punishment for some minor indiscretion.

She had born him three children. Jack repaid