When she had gone, he remained for a while looking up at the old house, seen from here at a slight angle, its windows reflecting the sun in a glow that leapt like living tongues of flame. In silent farewell he passed through the gate and began walking across the park, taking one of the short cuts that would lead him downhill, then up again, until he reached the quarry at Scurr.
As he went, he became aware of a tantalizing taste on his lips, and after a moment of puzzlement remembered that Ginny, a few hours before, had been eating half-ripe mulberries picked from the tree in the Tudor garden. Their red juice had been on her lips. Now, sweet-yet-sharp, it was on his, too.
Chapter Four
In the autumn of that year the steam railway came to Chardwell, thus linking the Cullen Valley with the Great Western line, and on a fine day in October Martin and Nan walked to the top of Rutland Hill to watch the three o’clock train go puffing along the valley side, just above the river Cullen. For Nan the outing was a major event, and her excitement knew no bounds. Even when the train had vanished round a distant curve of the track, she continued to stare after it, and she talked about it all the way home.
‘Just to think of all those people travelling through our valley like that, some of them very important, no doubt, with serious business on their minds. Oh, I would love to ride on that train, wouldn’t you, and see all the different towns on the way?’
‘You’d better ask Father for the fare.’
‘Do you think he would give it to us?’
‘No, but there’s no harm in asking,’ Martin said.
But their father’s response, when he was asked, was precisely what they had thought it would be.
‘Ride on the train? Just for fun? You’ve been staring too long at the moon!’ he said.
‘Lots of other people are going. There’s a special excursion ticket offered at eighteen pence, to celebrate the opening of the line.’
‘Well, all I can say about that is, some folk have got more money than sense. But I am not one of them, so you can put it out of your mind.’
But although Rufus dismissed the idea of riding on the train for novelty’s sake, he welcomed the coming of the railway with immense satisfaction, and expected great benefits from it. For one thing, coal could now come into the district more easily and economically, thus reducing the cost of steam-power for the woollen mills in the Cullen Valley. For another thing, the railway link would mean an improvement in trade because of the speed with which manufactured goods could be carried to towns, all over England and to seaports for shipment abroad.
‘Prosperity! That’s what it means! And we shall have a share in it.’
‘Shall we?’ Martin said once, with a touch of sombre cynicism. ‘And how shall we know when we’re prosperous? Shall we live in a proper house and have decent food to eat? Shall I be paid a weekly wage and be treated like a grown man?’
‘Oh, there’ll be changes, right enough! I have always promised you that and you must just have faith in me. You’ve got your life ahead of you and it’s going to be a whole lot different from what my own life has been. You’ll be somebody one of these days and hold your head up with the best. I’ll swear you that. Bible oath. And it won’t be too long, neither, the way things are looking these days. The new looms are coming ‒ there’s no doubt of that ‒ and when they do our stone will be needed to build new mills to hold them all. Oh, yes! You mark my words.’
‘And how shall we supply so much stone, just the two of us, working alone, with only one poor old horse just about on his last legs?’
‘Ah, well, when the time comes, we shall employ extra men. Everything will be different then. We shall need extra equipment for a start. Extra horses, extra carts. It’ll mean laying out money, of course, but that’s something that can’t be helped. Oh, yes, you may stare, my son! But I’ve got it all worked out in my head and I know exactly what we shall do ‒ when the right moment comes.’
Meantime, when they worked in the quarry, they used the same tackle and gear they had always used, most of it improvised, all of it old; like the primitive hoisting gin, also known as the ‘tripod’, though in fact it had four legs: tall stout wooden poles tied together near the top with rope, from which hung the pulley-block with its big iron hook.
‘Seems to me it would make more sense if we spent some money now,’ Martin said, ‘and set ourselves up with proper equipment, beginning with a proper hoist instead of this jam-dangle here.’
‘Why, what’s the matter with it?’
‘Everything,’ Martin said. ‘For one thing the ratch doesn’t always hold. It slipped a few teeth yesterday, and not for the first time, as you know. Now, this morning, the pulley-hook’s opened out again. That’s the third time at least.’
‘I thought you said you’d mended it.’
‘So I did, after a fashion, which means I hammered it back into shape so that it looks like a hook again. But it’s weak now. It ought to go to the smith by rights so that he can re-temper it. That hoist isn’t really safe as it is. It’s like everything else here and should have been thrown out years ago. It’s like that old cart of ours, falling to pieces under us. Yes, and poor old Biffin, too. He’s been past his prime for years.’
‘All in good time, boy. All in good time. I will make changes here, sure enough. When the right moment comes.’
‘Ah, when!’ Martin said. ‘I hope I live to see it, that’s all.’
That winter they were working at Rowell, a lonely crossroads out beyond Meer, building a small Methodist chapel intended to serve the dozen or so hamlets that were scattered among the hills there. Being high up, the site was exposed, and often they worked in a raw north-east wind that brought down showers of cold, stinging rain. In the new year the weather was worse, and Rufus, often soaked to the skin, took a severe cold on the chest. Martin and Nan tried to persuade him to stay at home, but he would not hear of it.
‘Our working day is all too short at this time of year and I’ve promised Mr Wilkinson that we’ll have his Ebenezer ready in time for Easter.’
Soon, however, he was seriously ill. Martin, who shared a bed with him, was awakened in the night by his fearful cough, and found him hot but shivering. He was scarcely able to breathe and complained of a terrible pain in his side. ‘I think I’ve taken pneumonia,’ he said, and when Martin, in the small hours, fetched the doctor out to him, this diagnosis proved correct.
Dr Whiteside, a young and energetic man, new in the district, was appalled at conditions inside the cottage and, after examining the patient, made no bones about saying so. Grimly he eyed the trickling moisture that formed black slime on the inner wall and grimly, with a face of disgust, he looked at the matting on the floor, which squelched wetly under his feet.
‘I have been in some poor habitations in my time but I’ve never seen anything like this.’ He was addressing Martin and Nan. ‘Why do you live in such a place? Your father’s a skilled banker-mason and sole lessee of this quarry. Surely he is not so poor that you need live in such dreadful conditions?’
Brother and sister exchanged a glance. They led the doctor outside and there Martin answered his question.
‘My father doesn’t like spending money.’
‘Then to some extent he has brought this illness on himself.’
‘Will he be all right?’ Nan asked.
‘Oh, he will pull through it, I think. But whether he’ll ever be well again depends on a number of things. First, he needs to be kept warm, and how you will manage that in this dripping wet hole of a place I cannot imagine. He will also need careful nursing and when he begins to pick up, he will have to avoid all exertion, otherwise he will damage his heart.’ The doctor took a notepad from his pocket and made a few notes on it. ‘Come down to the surgery at half past eight and I’ll have a prescription ready for him. Some linctus to ease his cough and some digitalin for his heart. I will come and see him again tomorrow. Meantime, give him plenty of liquids to drink, and something very light to eat. Arro
wroot, if you have it. If not, barley gruel and milk.’
There was a pause while he looked at them: a look that expressed deep concern.
‘Now, regarding your own health. ‒ Living in this place, in such close contact with your father, you are both in danger of infection. That, unfortunately, cannot be helped. But I urge you to take the greatest care in all matters of hygiene and to keep this room as fresh as you can. Also ‒ and this is vital ‒ to ensure that you are adequately fed. At present, I’d say from the look of you, that is far from being the case.’ The doctor’s gaze, keen and shrewd, came to rest on Martin’s face. ‘Your father must be persuaded that you need the right kind of food. Hot nourishing stews with plenty of meat and vegetables in them. Plenty of cheese and butter and eggs. Fresh fruit, if you can get it, and porter to drink. And for God’s sake, both of you, avoid getting wet and cold.’
A moment later, when Nan had gone indoors, he spoke a few words to Martin alone.
‘The onus of nursing your father will fall most heavily on your sister. But you are the head of the family, while your father is ill, and the onus of looking after her will be yours.’
‘Yes. I know it. And so I shall.’
Rufus lay in the stump bed, propped up against extra pillows, and with extra blankets over him. His face and neck were darkly flushed and his breathing was painfully difficult. He looked at Martin with fever-bright eyes.
‘Seems I’m in a bad way and got to lie up for a while.’ He spoke hoarsely, without any voice. ‘That young doctor said so straight.’
‘Yes, we’ve got to take care of you. And of ourselves as well. The doctor is worried about Nan and me, in case we should take the pneumonia, too. He says we must eat more nourishing food, so I’ll need money to buy it.’
‘How much money?’
‘Well, I’m not sure.’
‘Under the mattress … up by here …’
Martin felt under the mattress and pulled out a small canvas bag. His father reached for it at once but Martin, stepping back from the bed, put the bag into his pocket.
‘I will take charge of this for now.’
‘You! Boy!’ Rufus gasped. ‘Taking advantage ‒’
‘There’s no need for you to be worried, Father. I’ll spend it wisely, I promise you. Now lie still or you’ll make yourself cough.’
Martin went out to the scullery, where Nan was washing clothes in a pail. He took the canvas bag from his pocket and emptied its contents onto the bench, and at sight of the money his heart gave a leap. The gold, silver, and copper coins amounted to nearly twenty pounds. Nan stared in astonishment as he counted it out and placed it in piles.
‘Did Father give you all that money?’
‘Not exactly. I took it from him. And now I’m going down to the town to buy all the things we need, including father’s medicine. I’ll have my breakfast when I get back.’
This time, instead of going on foot, he took the horse and cart, and when he returned Nan saw why, for in it he had a heap of coal, collected from Harker’s wharf. He also had a large sack filled with all manner of provisions, mostly of a kind and quality never seen in that household before. There were three pounds of boiling beef, a hunk of suet, and a bag of flour. There were carrots, parsnips, onions and swedes, and a half-hundred weight of potatoes. There were also some oranges, apples, and pears; eggs, butter, bacon, and cheese; cocoa and arrowroot, coffee and tea; white sugar in the lump and a blue paper bag full of Abernethy biscuits. There was also a bottle of Napolean brandy. At sight of all these luxuries Nan was almost overcome.
‘Oh, Martin! However much did you spend? And whatever will Father say when he knows?’
‘Don’t worry about Father. I’m in charge while he’s ill.’
‘You are very bold all of a sudden.’
‘And not before time.’
‘Did you bring the medicines?’
‘Yes, they’re in that package there. The doctor has written the dosage down.’
Martin went outside and unloaded the coal from the cart. He brought as much as he could indoors, and left the rest in a heap on the ground, covered over with a tarpaulin. He then swept out the cart so that it would be clean enough to take the usual load of stone out to the chapel at Rowell Cross. So far the morning had been dry but as he went indoors again a sleety rain began to fall.
Before sitting down to breakfast he went and spoke to his father, who, having taken some arrowroot, was still sitting up against his pillows. His colour had improved slightly but his breathing was as painful as ever, and the noise of his congested lungs struggling to do their work made Martin wince for him.
‘Well, Father. I am sorry to see you like this.’
‘Are you?’ Rufus said hoarsely. His sideways glance was sceptical. ‘Thought … maybe … you was … pleased.’ A terrible rattling in his throat and: ‘Where’s … my … money?’ he asked.
‘I’m keeping that for the time being, in case I need to buy more things. After all, as the doctor said, I am the head of the family, while you are laid up like this.’
‘Suits you, does it?’
‘Only until you are better again.’
‘Chapel,’ Rufus said in a whisper. ‘You … will … have … to … work … alone. Manage, can you?’
‘Yes, I can manage all right. Try not to worry yourself. Just think about getting well.’
‘You’re a good boy. I rely on you.’
Rufus closed his eyes and slept.
Although the illness was severe and pulled him down grievously, he came through the worst of it without further complications, partly because of his native toughness, partly because of the tender care with which Nan looked after him. Luckily, she and Martin escaped the infection altogether, and although they were often very tired, after nights of broken sleep, they bore it without ill-effects. All this, Martin felt sure, they owed to the doctor’s good advice, which they followed to the letter.
With a fire burning day and night, they kept the cottage constantly warm, though the extra heat, inevitably, drew moisture out of the walls until it hung on the air like fog. The curtain dividing the room was removed so that the air could circulate and the one small window was kept ajar to let the fresh air in. Dr Whiteside approved of this. He attached great importance to it. And he further advised that a kettle of water be kept boiling at all hours, for the steam would help the sick man to breathe. The doctor came every day and on his fourth and fifth visits found Rufus much improved, with a temperature almost back to normal.
‘I think, in another day or two, you could get up and sit by the fire. You will be better for getting up. But you mustn’t go out of doors, nor must you exert yourself. Your heart is not right yet and you’ll have to take things quietly for another three or four weeks at least.’
‘What’s the matter with my heart?’
‘Your illness has put a strain on it.’
‘But it will get better?’
‘That depends on you, Mr Cox, and whether you heed my advice. But one thing is certain ‒ another winter in this cottage will probably give you pneumonia again and that will most probably finish you off.’
‘You don’t mince your words, do you, young man?’
‘Why, is that what you would prefer?’
‘No. I’d sooner have it straight. That way, I know how I stand. And if you say I’m to coddle myself, well, so be it, that’s what I’ll do.’
‘You’re a sensible man, Mr Cox, and you’re lucky in having a son and daughter who are looking after you so well.’
‘Yes, they’re good children, both of them. I’m a lucky man, just as you say.’
To his children’s surprise, in the weeks that followed, Rufus proved a docile convalescent, accepting help when it was needed, yet doing his best to save them trouble. During the day, alone with Nan, he sat quietly by the fire, reading some old almanacks that Martin had found on a rubbish-dump. Later, when he felt up to it, he would do a few light chores: chopping sticks for the fire, perhaps
, or mending the big leather gloves he sometimes wore at work in the quarry. Sometimes he would talk to Nan while she was doing her own chores, but he never had much to say to her, and the great moment of his day was when Martin came home from work.
‘How’ve you been getting on? Did you remember to take that lime? What about the water for mixing it? Seems to me it must be time you took another barrel out.’
‘I’ve been getting on pretty well. Mr Wilkinson came out this morning. He seemed very pleased with the place. He said you were not to worry about getting finished for Easter. He said you must think about getting well. But I think it will be ready in time. I’m taking the door-lintel out tomorrow and once I’ve got that up it won’t be all that long before the joiners can start on the roof.’
‘Ah, you’ve done well,’ Rufus said. ‘That’s been a great relief to me, knowing you was getting on with the work while I was laid up like this. But it comes hard on you, my son, having to do it all by yourself, out there in that lonely place.’
‘I don’t mind,’ Martin said. ‘It doesn’t worry me in the least.’
In fact he enjoyed working alone on the little chapel at Rowell Cross. He liked the independence of it; the sense of responsibility; and he was working very hard, determined to have the place ready for its first service on Easter Day. His father, he knew, would be well pleased. So would the minister. But most of all, being human and young, he would be well pleased with himself.
At first light the following morning he was out in the quarry, getting ready to load the chapel door-lintel onto the cart. The lintel-stone was large and heavy: ten feet in length; one foot in depth; and two and a half feet wide. It weighed roughly a ton and a quarter, which meant using the hoisting-gin, with the horse, Biffin, harnessed to the chain that would work the pulley and lift the stone.
Martin began by laying the sling-chains out on the ground and levering the stone on to them, carefully, so that it shouldn’t be chipped. He then jiggled the legs of the gin into place over the stone, drew the hook down from the pulley, and, gathering the ends of the sling-chain together, slipped the hook into the rings. At the far end of the tackle-chain, the twin ends were already hooked to the harness on Biffin’s collar and the horse stood patiently, facing away from the gin, awaiting Martin’s word of command.
The Old House at Railes: A heartwarming rags to riches Victorian family saga Page 11
