He turned and hobbled back to the cottage and was peering in through a rear window when Nan returned with the keys.
‘Mr Thompson offered to come with me but I thought it would be better just to look round by ourselves.’
Yes, it was better indeed, for it meant they could marvel at everything without any self-consciousness. And Nan, who had rarely entered a ‘proper house’ in the whole of her life, found plenty to marvel at because these cottages at Old Church End were of a very superior size and quality, and number six in particular, having been occupied until now by a well-to-do ironmonger, boasted certain refinements that made it quite exceptional. In the front parlour, for instance, not only was there an iron grate with Delftware tiles surrounding it, but also an oakwood chimney-piece carved with a pattern of vine leaves and grapes. And in the kitchen-cum-living-room, behold, an iron cooking-range such as Martin had spoken of, its surfaces black-leaded to perfection, its oven door vainglorious with polished brass handle and hinges, and the maker’s name on a brass lozenge: J. G. Stoot, Bushbury, Staffs. Beyond the kitchen was a scullery with a copper-lined boiler in it and a stoneware sink.
Nan could not get over it. She went from one room to another; up to the bedrooms and down again; out to the scullery, the coal-house, the privy. But it was the two living-rooms that drew her back again and again; the kitchen because she imagined it with a good coal fire in the stove, and furniture such as she had seen in the kitchen at Hey-Ho Farm; the parlour because, with its white plaster ceiling and blue-sprigged paper on the walls, its polished oak window-seats with little cupboards underneath, and its panelled oak door with Delftware knob and finger-plates, was simply the most beautiful room anybody could have devised. And everywhere was so clean and dry! The roof, the walls, the stone-flagged floors: all were just as dry as could be; and this, after Scurr, was a miracle. Admittedly, Martin had found a patch of damp on the kitchen wall, underneath one of the windows, but what was one small patch of damp, scarcely the size of a human hand, when everywhere else was dry as a bone?
‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ Martin agreed. ‘It’s a very well-built cottage indeed, there’s no doubt about that.’
‘It’s more than a cottage ‒ it’s a palace,’ Nan said.
‘You like it, then?’
‘Oh, Martin, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ he said, smiling at her. ‘I think it will suit us very well.’
‘I can’t believe it even now. Just to think of you and me living in such a place as this!’ And then the brightness in her face was overcast by a shadow of guilt. She looked at him with tear-filled eyes. ‘Oh, dear! It seems all wrong for us to be here, laughing and talking like this, when Father’s only just been laid to rest in the churchyard over the way.’
‘I don’t see why it should be wrong. Father’s dead and we’re alive. The living have got things to do and may as well get on with it.’ He turned and hobbled towards the door. ‘Come and see the garden,’ he said.
There were other cottages for sale in Chardwell, and a few fine houses, too, and during the next three weeks, taking Mr Godwin’s advice, Martin and Nan went to see them all. But nothing they saw pleased them so well as number six, Church Row, and they looked forward with some impatience to the day of the sale.
Slowly, Martin’s leg was improving. The worst of the swelling had gone down and he suffered less pain. At the end of a fortnight, he was putting the injured foot to the ground and walking on it a little each day, without the aid of his crutches. And after another week or so he was able to discard them altogether. Soon he was back at work again, on the chapel at Rowell Cross, with two hired men to help him, recruited by means of an advertisement placed in The Chardwell Gazette. He had bought a new cart, stoutly built, with extra-strong axles and wheels; also new tackle for hoisting stone; and with this he and his helpers raised the lintel into place over the chapel doorway.
These two men whom he had engaged were not only skilled banker-masons but quarrymen too. Formerly they had been employed at Stennets, a famous quarry on Beeches Hill, some sixteen miles away; but this quarry was now worked out and as a result they had lost their jobs. The older of the two, Tommy Nick, had been foreman-in-charge at Stennets. He was a man in his early forties, rather small in stature but tough, wiry, and surprisingly strong. The other, Bob Sellman, was in his twenties; a great lumbering ox of a man, devoted to his older mate. Martin got on well with them both; they were clever, hard-working, reliable; and work on the chapel was going ahead at a very satisfactory pace. If they were interested, Martin said, he could offer them permanent work, and he told them about his plans for Scurr. Yes, they said, they were interested, and they gave him the names of three other men, all old work-mates of theirs, who might well be interested, too.
‘What happened to all your gear when Stennets closed down?’ Martin asked. ‘Was it sold?’
‘Yes, it was bought by Radley Brown, over at Appleton. But if you’re wanting to set up smart, you should go to Wattle and Son, who’ve got a foundry down Badston way. That’s the place to go if you want the latest in all sorts of gear, and that’s the place where you’ll get the best.’
‘Very well, Wattle’s it is. And you two can go with me, to give me the benefit of your advice.’
But first things first and on the evening of March the tenth Martin and Nan attended the sale of the Church Row cottage. Mr Godwin joined them there and it was he, in his role as guardian, who bid for the cottage on Martin’s behalf, and, when it was knocked down to him for a hundred and ninety five pounds, it was he who signed the auctioneer’s chit and paid the deposit of ten per cent. Martin and Nan were jubilant, and Mr Godwin, kind man that he was, invited them to celebrate by dining with him at The Post House Inn, an experience so novel to them that it made a fitting culmination to an already momentous day. He toasted them in a glass of wine, wishing them years of comfort in their new home, and every success to Martin’s plans for expansion at Scurr.
The promise Mr Godwin had made, that Martin should find him a reasonable man, was fulfilled in every possible way, for his guardianship, though conscientious, was never intrusive. Finding that his ward had a level head on his young shoulders, he treated him in a straightforward way, completely without condescension. He watched over him diligently and offered good, sound advice, but, duty being done in that respect, he gave the young man a free hand, letting him do things for himself. He was courteous and considerate and in a short space of time Martin and Nan both knew that in him they had a good friend. Once, when Martin expressed surprise at being allowed so much freedom, Mr Godwin smiled and said:
‘I know more about you than you think. Not only from your father but from my good friends at Newton Railes. Katharine Tarrant thought highly of you ‒ of your intelligence and your integrity ‒ and that is a high commendation indeed. There! Now I’ve embarrassed you! But that tribute, coming as it does from such a source, will not be unwelcome to you, I’m sure.’
Nan could scarcely contain herself during the three weeks that elapsed before the purchase of the cottage was completed. But at least she could go there whenever she pleased, to keep it clean and tidy; to pull up the weeds in the garden; and ‒ a great joy for her ‒ to get acquainted with the neighbours. And at least she and Martin could go in to town and bespeak the furniture they wanted; not to mention the carpet, the curtains, and the household linen; the chinaware, the cutlery, and all the new pots and pans.
‘Gracious, what a lot of things we need, now we’re going to live in a fine cottage! And oh, what a lot of money you’re spending! Whatever will Mr Godwin say when he receives all these bills?’
‘We’ve spent hardly more than three hundred pounds so far, including the cost of the cottage itself. That is only a trifle out of the total sum. And what we’ve bought only seems a lot because we’ve had so little till now.’
‘But what about all your plans for developing the quarry?’ she said. ‘How much will you be spending on that?’
‘I don’t
know precisely as yet. I am still looking into it. But it certainly won’t cost so much that there will be any risk involved. We won’t ever be poor again, if that is what you are frightened of. In fact, if my plans work out as they should, we shall be very comfortably off. And in time to come ‒ who knows? ‒ it’s possible we may even be rich.’
Nan looked at him for a while; a smiling look, happy and fond; but with something else in it, as though she were trying to search him out.
‘Have you some particular reason for wanting to make yourself rich?’ she asked. ‘Something to do with a certain person?’
‘It’s nothing to do with Ginny Tarrant if that is what you are hinting at.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I am positive.’
‘I thought perhaps you had it in mind to ‒ to put yourself on a level with her.’
‘I am not in love with Ginny Tarrant. I told you that once before.’
‘You said you wouldn’t let yourself be.’
‘Did I? Well. It’s the same thing.’
‘If it’s got nothing to do with the Tarrants … why do you want to be rich?’
‘Because,’ Martin said, with a touch of impatience, ‘it will make a nice change from being poor.’
‘Martin,’ Nan said.
‘Yes. What?’
‘It’s a good six weeks since Father was buried. Don’t you think it’s about time you took your tools down to the churchyard and put his name on the headstone, along with Mother’s?’
‘I’ve been very busy. You know that. And I doubt if he himself would worry. Mother had been dead almost a year before he put that stone on her grave.’
‘That was because he was waiting for the ground to settle.’
‘Then I’d better leave it a year too ‒ so that the ground can settle again.’
One day when Martin got home from Rowell, Nan handed him a letter. A servant had brought it from Newton Railes. It was from Katharine Tarrant, offering her condolences on the death of his father.
‘I am sorry not to have written to you before but my father and I have been away, visiting friends in Shropshire and Wales, and only heard of the accident at the quarry when we returned yesterday. My father joins with me in sending thoughts of sympathy to you and your sister in your loss and in hoping that your injured leg is by now thoroughly mended.
‘Ginny remained behind in Llangollen and Hugh is travelling in Scotland with a friend, but they should be home in two or three weeks, and I hope soon you will keep your promise of coming back to see us all here.
‘Sincerely, your friend, Katharine Tarrant.’
Martin gave the letter to Nan and she read it aloud. ‘How very kind of her to write. Will you go and visit them?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll have to see.’
‘You’ll answer the letter?’
‘Yes, of course.’
His work on the chapel at Rowell Cross was finished shortly before Easter. By then the purchase of the cottage had been completed and he and Nan were installed there. On an evening in early April, they ate their first meal at the new mahogany dining table; sat on the new mahogany chairs, upholstered in green and gold brocade; and used the green and white chinaware; and while they ate they kept looking round at all the many luxuries, grand beyond words, with which they had furnished their living-room. The weather was sunny and warm; one of the casements was open wide; and the air coming in from the back garden was sweet with the scent of plum blossom.
‘Can you really believe this is us?’
‘No. It must be somebody else.’
‘How very different the tea tastes when you drink it out of a china cup …’
‘It’s even better,’ Martin said, ‘when you stir it with a silver spoon.’
‘It’s funny to think of there being neighbours living right next door to us.’
‘They seem to be friendly folk.’
‘Yes, they are. Mrs Beech has been so helpful … So has Mrs Colne, next door but one … And they said they hoped we’d be happy here.’
‘Do you think we shall?’
‘What a thing to ask!’
‘You certainly won’t lack for company. You may even find there’s too much of it.’
‘Oh, no!’ Nan exclaimed. ‘You’ll never hear me complaining of that!’
They had brought nothing with them from Scurr except their recently purchased clothes and Martin’s few precious books. Nothing else was worth bringing, he said, and one day, alone in the quarry, he dragged the few bits of rickety makeshift furniture out of the lean-to cottage, piled them against the old broken cart, and lit a fire under the pile. He then took his heaviest sledge-hammer and knocked down the cottage itself. It only needed a few good blows, delivered against the front wall, for walls and roof to collapse together, raising a cloud of dust and grit. He stood back and watched them crumple; waited until the sagging roof had finished caving inwards, bringing down the two end walls; and then went round, methodically, till the work of destruction was complete.
In twenty minutes it was done; all that remained was a ruckle of stones with a few bits of timber among them: the plank door and the window-shutters; the rafters and laths, sticking up like smashed ribs. These he pulled out and threw on the fire before setting about the task of clearing away the heap of stones. It was ugly and pitiful and he was resolved to be rid of it, so he went to and fro with a wheelbarrow, taking the stones to that place where the flat quarry floor gave way to the downward slope of the hillside. Here all the quarry rubbish was thrown and among it the stones and tiles of the cottage would soon lose their identity, lying scattered about the slope among the rubble, the chippings, the brash, and the loose, shifting soil dislodged by rabbits.
Soon, where the cottage had stood, there was only a patch on the rock-face, a different colour from the rest, and that would not last long, he thought. There was great satisfaction in this, ‒ even a kind of angry elation ‒ and he turned his attention back to the fire, now burning very low. Using a long-handled shovel, he pushed all the unburnt bits of timber deep into the central heat, so that they too should be consumed. These were mostly the remains of the cart: the side-timbers, the shafts, the wheels; and as he pushed them all together, the fire burnt up fiercely again, sending flames and sparks high into the air.
He laid his shovel on the ground and walked about the silent quarry. It was no longer his home, and he thanked God for it; but it was still his place of work; the centre of his ambitions and plans; and as he looked up at the rock-face, towering above him like a cliff, a certain excitement moved in him. This quarry had been his father’s kingdom. Now it was his. But he meant to rule it differently and he felt impatient to begin.
Briskly, he turned and went back to the fire, collected shovel and sledge-hammer, and went to put them into the tool-shed. On his way he caught sight of the hoisting-gin standing some twenty yards off and suddenly, in his mind’s eye, he saw his father on the day of his death, sitting with his back against one of the poles, his whole body bent with pain as his crippled heart beat its last. Then, in a moment, he saw himself, holding his father dead in his arms, and, with a little shock of surprise, saw his own face wet with tears.
Had he really wept that day? Perhaps he had. Because then he had not known the full extent of his father’s savings. Once that had been revealed, anger had taken possession of him, hardening the blood throughout his veins. Anger had kept other feelings at bay. But now, in a wave, those feelings came, ushered in by a sense of guilt. Guilt because of the sacrifice his father had made for his sake. Guilt because his father’s death meant freedom and independence for him and he was rejoicing in these things. Guilt because, while that anger remained, he had felt no sense of loss. Now, suddenly, it was there: an unexpected ache in his heart; and he looked all round the quarry again, almost like a small boy, puzzled at finding himself alone. For the first time since his father’s death, he understood the finality of it, and just for a while he almost regretted pulling the old cott
age down.
Such regret was foolish, of course. He shrugged it away impatiently. But a few minutes later, when he left the quarry, driving the little gadabout, he took with him his bag of masoning-tools. What Nan had said was right: it was time he went to the churchyard, to his parents’ grave, and added his father’s name to the headstone.
Chapter Five
Even before probate was granted on his father’s will, Martin’s plans for developing the quarry were already under way because Mr Godwin, fully approving of his ideas, felt that they should be put into action with the maximum expediency.
‘The changes your father foresaw are certainly on their way. The Cullen Valley is waking up. Our clothiers are beginning to realize that they must keep abreast of the times if they are to compete successfully with their confrères in the north. It’s just a question of who will be the first to bring the new power-looms in, and some of the sporting fraternity are laying bets among themselves. Hurne of Brink End is first favourite, of course, with Yuart of Hainault close behind. They are two of our biggest men and they are expected to lead the way.’
‘I heard that the elder Mr Yuart is against the new looms,’ Martin said, ‘though his son is all in favour of them.’
‘Old Mr Yuart is a sick man. He has suffered a severe stroke and is now confined to a wheelchair, with a manservant to push him about. He’s still against the power-looms, but he can no longer run the mill, and his son has got power of attorney to run it for him.’
‘So the son may well decide to adopt the new looms?’
‘Yes. And will do, almost certainly. For my part, if I were a betting man, I would put my money on him, because Charles Yuart is an ambitious young man who likes to be first with everything. But Hurne or Yuart or anyone else, they can’t build without stone, so let me know what plant you need and I’ll write a letter to cover your orders.’
The Old House at Railes: A heartwarming rags to riches Victorian family saga Page 14
