by Jean Stubbs
It sounded so wonderful that her Mary wept without restraint, and so was helped to bed in a borrowed nightgown, relieved and beloved. The old spell of Thornton House was still working. It soothed her body, rested her mind, and brought peace to her soul. Under that quiet roof, she slept as soundly as her son in his makeshift cot.
Naomi sat before her looking glass, punishing her curtain of black hair with a silver brush, and her face grew dark and stern. Money could patch the holes in a marital fabric, but not renew it. A child was growing in Mary’s womb, and three small creatures already dragged at her hands and skirts. An ardent lover had turned into an absent husband. Her house of dreams had to be cleaned and repaired, over and over again. The clocks were ticking time and beauty away.
Then Naomi walked her bedroom floor, shaking her head over Mary’s woes which were the woes of women, and Nathan Blüm spoke through his daughter.
‘So this is marriage? For this they wish me to give up my freedom?’
FIVE: A GIFT FROM A STRANGER
July, 1832
Despite a third cholera circular in December, the passing of a Cholera Bill in February which enforced regulations, and an official day of fasting and prayer in March, Wyndendale had almost forgotten the threat of an epidemic. By the summer, a sense of anti-climax prevailed. Cholera existed, certainly. The monthly lists of confirmed cases proved that, but the numbers had grown perceptibly fewer of late. Was it not, after all, the real thing? Might it not be, as some newspapers suggested, a milder English version of the disease?
Whereas, eight months ago, the valley had admired Dr Standish’s promptness in dealing with such a challenge, people now thought he had overreacted. His unused cholera enclosure seemed to be a monument to apprehension. Birds nested, tramps slept, children played in the damp, deserted buildings. The rates had soared beyond even the council’s expectations, and charity was dispensed sourly.
The three major newspapers, reflecting the interests of their readers, were much more concerned with the diseases of the body politic and the harsh medicine of Parliamentary Reform. So far, the Reform Bill had fetched down two governments, been twice rejected by the House of Lords, and caused riots throughout the country. The great Duke of Wellington, formerly a national hero, had lost power and face by opposing it. Finally, King William had been forced to create several new Whig peers to ensure that the Bill would be passed, and at last it became law on June 7th, 1832. The ironmaster, ably supported by his Herald, began to pave the road to the next election with gold, while Ambrose and The Clarion prepared to battle against them with the frail weapons of audacity and a sense of injustice.
A few people noticed that the June figures for cholera had substantially increased, but the authorities had cried wolf once too often for them to be perturbed.
At six o’clock one Saturday evening in mid-July, the Carlisle Flyer rumbled through the archway of the Royal George and into the yard, delivering its passengers for a half hour of food and rest. From the back of the coach, where he had clung unobserved for the latter part of the journey, jumped an Irish navvy by the name of Sweetheart Reilly. At once the guard gave a shout, and the driver raised his whip. But the navvy lifted a hobnailed boot significantly and gestured towards the shovel in his kit, smiling all the while. So they glared for a moment longer, to show him that they were not to be trifled with, then scrambled down peaceably from the box and made their way into the hostelry.
‘Is there a sup of beer to be had in this place, me darling lads?’ Reilly demanded of the ostlers, who were hurrying tired horses away and running out with a fresh team.
‘Not for the likes of you!’ said the head stable-man, who had been watching the incident. ‘Get out afore I have you throwed out!’
The Irishman’s broken nose and quick little eyes bespoke a fighter of courage and repute, but his bearded face was bland, and he spoke with the honeyed tongue which had earned him his nickname.
‘Then, could you be telling a poor stranger that has been tramping the roads for a week or more where to sup?’
The stable-man spoke disdainfully.
‘They’re not over particular at the Red Lion. You’ll find it in Shooter’s Lane, at the back of the market square.’
‘God bless you!’ said Reilly fervently. ‘I suppose a grand gentleman like yourself wouldn’t be having the price of a night’s lodging on him, would he?’
‘Be off with you!’ Spoken with derision.
‘Only as a loan,’ said Reilly persuasively. ‘I’d be paying you back and buying you a drink into the bargain in no time at all. I’ve a fine job waiting for me.’
The stable-man did not even reply.
‘Then could you be telling me where they’re building the grand tunnel?’
‘Ah! You’re one of them blackguards, are you?’ said the man significantly. ‘Yes, I can tell you. You’ve got a long walk ahead of you. It’s nigh on ten miles down the valley, outside a town called Garth. So you’d best be legging it!’
Reilly touched his battered hat, which had once been white. Next to fighting folk, he liked irritating them.
‘Could you be lending me a horse?’ he asked, straight-faced.
The stable-man said, ‘Are you going or do I call Bert?’
‘I’ll not be troubling you further, sor,’ said Reilly, grinning.
He set off at a smart pace, but had only taken a dozen steps when he turned round and came back again, full of apologies.
‘Perhaps you could be telling me where Mr Henry Vivian lives?’
‘No, I couldn’t.’
‘Then God blast you!’ cried Reilly, out of patience with him. Adding reverently, ‘God pardon me!’
‘Bert!’ shouted the stable-man. ‘There’s a funny customer here as needs sorting out!’
The Irishman lingered to see the size of the Royal George’s bouncer, all the while making a great show of filling his clay pipe and lighting it. He judged the man’s strength, temper and experience at a glance. His expression changed from interest to appreciation, but the luxury of an encounter had to be postponed. Meanwhile, Bert stood arms akimbo, waiting for orders.
‘There’ll be no need to disturb the gentleman,’ said Reilly, grinning. ‘I shouldn’t like to spoil his looks. Any further, that is.’ And as Bert clenched both mottled fists and began to advance on him, he cried, ‘A very good evening to you, sor!’ engagingly, ‘and God bless all here!’
He swaggered off, whistling, but once out in the market square his whistle faded. A ten-mile tramp at night, with a dry throat, an empty belly and empty pockets was no joke. Still, there were ways and means. You could stand over a small man at the bar and ask him to buy you a drink. You could steal a hot sausage and a chunk of bread from other people’s plates, sup tankards which had just been put down, appropriate change which had not yet been picked up, or work your way round the room begging. When they all got tired of being bullied or coaxed, you could punch your way out, refreshed.
The good citizens of Millbridge were partaking of light suppers when they heard the stentorian voice of cheer coming down the High Street, in a medley of songs and curses. The navvy had celebrated his evening at other people’s expense. His pockets jingled with small change. His kit lurched drunkenly on his back. Someone had punched his right eye and then punched his dirty white hat over it. His face was swollen and his velveteen coat and moleskin trousers spattered with blood and beer. Still he continued to call down the blessings of God upon all present. If ever a man was happy and gracious in his cups, that man was Sweetheart Reilly.
He paused for a moment to relieve himself in the gutter and then looked round for further entertainment. The town seemed uncommonly dull. He peered into the darkness of a shop front, for they were all shops at this end of the street. Then he noticed a stately terrace of Queen Anne houses, across whose windows the curtains had not as yet been drawn, whose interiors spoke of leisure and grace. He started to run up the steps of each house and bang the brass door knockers, bawling g
reetings to the occupants and demanding entrance.
Wisely, folk ignored his noise and pleas. The navvy could cause chaos, and it would take more than one constable to restrain him, even if any could be found at nine o’clock at night.
So he gave up trying to provoke them and began to make his way out of the town, hoping to beg a lift. Those he asked either rattled past as though they had not heard or fetched him a cut with the whip and told him to be off. Miles of unknown territory lay before him. At regular intervals the sky blushed rose from the cupola fires at the ironworks in Belbrook and Snape.
A whistle sounded somewhere to his left. On her final trip of the day, the valley’s famous steam-engine, Pioneer, was setting out from Millbridge station. He could hear her chuntering behind him in the distance, gathering speed.
Reilly stumbled towards the track as fast as he could, waving his hat, shouting to the driver and stoker to stop and let him aboard. They neither saw nor heard him, and the train roared by at a good twenty miles an hour or more, throwing a shower of sparks into the air, the coals in her belly glowing red and gold.
He stood craning his neck, watching the little train diminish, listening to the mournful sound of her whistle. Then he sank down and laid his arms along the cold smooth metal of the rails, and bemoaned his friendless and penniless condition. All that he had lost, all that he had never possessed, haunted him. As the spurious warmth of alcohol faded, he began to weep. For men like him had dug that land and laid that track, with their strength and sweat and sometimes with their lives, and it was not for them, never for them.
Then as self-pity gave way to common sense, his boisterous spirits rose again. He remembered that his present situation was nothing out of the ordinary. He had always been short of money except for a few hours on payday. His friends were picked up literally by the wayside and left there when the job was done. His home was the road. So he wiped his face, rammed his greasy hat on his greasy head again and strode on, sobered.
In Lower Flawnes, the poorest part of Flawnes Green, a wretched creature of the night asked Reilly for custom, and he spent a few urgent minutes with her up against the wall of an alley. Then, hearing that she had a room nearby, he took advantage of her kind hospitality and enjoyed her favours at his greater convenience. Moreover, she gave him clear directions to Garth, which cost him all his small change and his blanket in payment. She was older and harder and shrewder than she had looked in the shadows, but Sweetheart was always generous with the ladies.
On his way out of Lower Flawnes he was fortunate enough to hail a simple fellow in a cart, who lived at a farm not half a mile from Hal Vivian and was willing to give the navvy a ride. It was well past midnight by the time they turned off the main road and came to the village. The moon was shining like a silver penny, and through the trees on the other side of the river Reilly could see the ghostly chimneys of the Old Hall.
Unperturbed by its grandeur or the hour, Reilly hammered upon the imposing front door with knocker and fists, bawling, ‘God save you, Mr Vivian, and God bless your lovely lady, and the pretty children that say their prayers at her knee!’
The manor house seemed to have been struck dark and dumb with his impudence, but in a few moments a casement window opened above the navvy’s head, and the person they called the Cornishman leaned out.
‘Who the devil are you?’ he asked.
There was humour in his voice, and kindness. Sweetheart warmed to him at once and spoke in his most mellifluous tones.
‘A poor navvy, your honour. Hoping to find work at your famous tunnel. That, owing to a generous nature and an open hand, finds himself temp-o-rarily short of silver and a night’s lodging.’
‘What idiot told you where I lived?’
The voice was still humorous, but Reilly sensed that his privacy was strictly guarded and he did not welcome intruders.
‘Now, who should need to tell me, your honour?’ he answered. ‘When all the world knows where such a famous gentleman lives!’
A vivacious little lady appeared beside the Cornishman, curious to see the navvy and to find out what the commotion was about.
Reilly had already doffed his crushed and filthy hat. Now he held it reverently to his breast and bowed low to Mary.
‘God help me!’ he heard the Cornishman say. ‘Even at this hour in the morning! No, I don’t know him from Adam! Hey, you there, have you worked for me before? Who’s your contractor? What’s your name?’
‘I haven’t had the honour of working for your honour before, and I don’t belong to no contractor in particular. I tramp from place to place, sor. But I’ve worked on railways before. I was on that devil of a line across Chat Moss — the Manchester to Liverpool railway — and have a paper to prove it. And me name is Seamus Reilly, but on account of me kind heart and loving ways, the lads call me Sweetheart!’
A shout of laughter from the Cornishman and an answering giggle from the lady told Reilly that he would lie snug that night.
‘Are you hungry?’ cried the Cornishman heartily.
‘Thirsty, your honour!’ Grinning.
‘Aye, they’re always thirsty,’ said the Cornishman to himself. ‘Well, we’re all abed, Reilly, but I’ll come down and draw you a pint of ale. You can sleep in the stable tonight. They’ll give you bread and cheese from the kitchen in the morning, and I’ll find you half-a-crown to help you on your way.’
‘God bless you, sor!’ cried Reilly, from his heart.
He worshipped the man. At that moment, he could have died for him. So he spent the few remaining hours of darkness snoring happily in the straw of the Old Hall’s stables, and set off again in the cool of the summer morning with a full stomach.
At Thornley Mill, being overcome by a call of nature, he dropped his breeches and excreted in the bushes near the stream.
His half-crown was spent in a tavern at Whinfold, on the edge of Swarth Moor, where he found good company in the mine workers coming off their night shift. They toasted each other royally and quaffed each other’s tankards, and Reilly managed to drink rather more than he had paid for before he staggered out of the door.
At Childwell, he drew himself a bucket of water from the well and had a good spluttering wash before letting it rattle down again into its cool cavern.
Then he crossed the wooden bridge to view the railway line at Upperton Cutting, where so many poor navvies had been broken or buried when they blasted it out with gunpowder, four years back. Pioneer thundered past him on its first journey of the day, as he stood on the side of the deep ravine. He waved his hat and shouted an obscene and friendly greeting, and the driver waved back. Three small girls, playing in the front garden of their house in Medlar, had thrown their ball over the hedge into the road. And Reilly, who was fond of children — though he had consistently deserted his own — tossed it back to them, enjoyed a few minutes of conversation, and gave them an orange apiece from his bundle before a servant chased him off.
He saw the chimneys of Kingswood Hall on the skyline but decided against the long climb, and so tramped over the iron bridge to Coldcote, which he thought was a poor sort of place, neither town nor village. He did not bother to stop there.
Garth, on the other hand, was a typical product of the railway age: all sheds and works and smoke and noise and a hillside mounted with drab houses. He took the wrong turning by the church, climbed up and up into the thin, clear air of the fells, realised he was lost and opened the gate into a cobbled farmyard.
A lanky girl of twelve came to the back door and stared at him. Her vacant look and vacant smile told their own tale.
Ninepence in the shillin’, poor soul! thought Reilly.
‘Could you be telling me where the tunnel is, me darling?’ he asked and looked hopefully beyond her into the hot kitchen, where he could see and hear and smell their Sunday dinner roasting on a spit over the fire.
The comely young woman who was basting this joint caught sight of his wild appearance and immediately shouted, ‘Judith!
Shut that door and come back in!’
The girl slammed the door in his face.
He waited. He knocked again.
In another minute or so it opened and he looked into the mouth of an old brass blunderbuss, held by a weather-beaten farmer. Close behind him came the lanky girl, holding on to the tail of his coat. In the background, the bonny young woman was shouting for Fred.
Hypnotised by the blunderbuss, the navvy repeated his request humbly, holding his arms wide to show that he carried no weapons and came in peace.
Still suspicious, the man gave him instructions. Now he was joined by a younger fellow with a newer gun, who seemed to be his son-in-law. The simple girl laughed and clapped her hands.
Reilly asked, in his sweetest tones, if there was a drop to drink or a bite to eat in this good Christian household on God’s Holy Day?
They would not let him in, but they gave him a mug of home-brewed ale and a bit of fat pork on his crust of bread. Both men stood guard over him as he ate, and the womenfolk watched him as though he were some strange beast which had escaped from a menagerie.
Reilly thanked them kindly, but his feelings were hurt. He wanted to show them that he was a human being like themselves.
The lanky girl stared at him with vacant eyes, smiling her vacant smile. He set down his empty mug, wiped his mouth and ferreted round in his bundle.
‘I thought so!’ said Reilly, delighted. ‘I thought I had one of them oranges left!’
And he gave Judith Howarth the last thing he possessed.
The navvies had built a shanty town round the crude hole which would one day be the Wyndendale Tunnel. They had been paid the night before and were enjoying their brief holiday. Beer flowed. Beef roasted. Wives and mistresses were being used as women should be, children cuffed as they ought to be, and babies put in the brat cage and pulled up close to the ceiling to keep them out of the way.
‘Now God bless all here!’ cried Reilly from a full heart.
