The Daughters of Ironbridge

by Mollie Walton

  ‘I am certain,’ she said firmly and looked him straight in the eye.

  ‘I believe you, child.’ He thought for a moment, then added, ‘You can run for me again, if you wish. Come back here each morning, if your mother can spare you. I have plenty of errands for a reliable runner. Can you read a clock? Get here for eight every morning and I’ll have jobs for you to do until lunchtime, shall we say till twelve?’ He fished in his pocket and gave her a penny.

  ‘Oh yes, Mr Brotherton! Thank you, Mr Brotherton!’ beamed Anny, clutching the coin in her hot hand. She’d have to talk to Mother first, of course, but the time she’d miss helping her mother would be more than made up by the coins she’d earn. A real job! At the big house, no less!

  As Anny crossed the courtyard, heading for the path to the woods, she caught sight of Master Cyril, standing near to the stable block, half hidden around the corner. As she moved forward, she saw he was not alone. He was holding fast to the arm of a servant girl, his other hand raised, pointing viciously towards her face. She could not hear his words, but it looked as if the girl had committed some terrible crime, the way he was jabbing at her, his face distorted as he spat words at her. No need to twist her arm like that, thought Anny. The boy’s face was ugly in its rage. Anny shuddered. Her new post at the big house felt tarnished already. As long as I avoid him, she thought, it’ll be all right.

  She raced off into the woods to take the path back down to the furnace. A few steps in and her eager ears picked up a sound. She glanced round, but saw nothing. She went on with less haste, her ears pricked. There it was again. She stopped and peered into the woods. She thought with a slight air of panic, It inna that awful boy? Then she saw the bounce of blonde curls as someone turned their head. It was a girl.

  ‘Who’s there?’ called Anny. ‘Come out, you sneaky beggar. I’m not frit of you.’

  A figure stepped out from behind a tree. Anny was shocked to see it was the daughter of the big house, Miss Margaret King. Anny muttered under her breath, ‘What’s she doing here?’ as she curtseyed awkwardly while the girl, also very awkward, attempted to step lightly through the woods towards her. Not an outdoor kind of a girl, Anny noted. What on earth could she want, out here in the woodland?

  ‘Afternoon, miss,’ said Anny, watching the girl, who looked pale and nervous. Anny was anxious to rush off and deliver her message, but didn’t feel she could ignore the young miss. As she came closer, Anny saw that she had a split lip. She wondered how that had come about.

  ‘Hello there,’ said Miss King.

  ‘I am very sorry for addressing you so, just now, Miss King. I heard a noise and didna know – I mean, I did not know it was the young lady of the house. Please accept my being sorry, for I did not mean any offence.’ Anny knew she was rambling, but she was mindful of her new position with Mr Brotherton. She didn’t want this getting back to him and for her to lose her position before she’d even started. I’ll have to start stopping my tongue, she thought.

  ‘Not . . .’ began Miss King, but her voice cracked a little and she stopped. It was as if her voice wasn’t used to talking and it came out wrong. She swallowed and tried again. ‘Not at all. I didn’t mean to startle you. It was my fault for being secretive.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Anny, without thinking.

  ‘I’m not supposed to be out here,’ said Miss King, wide-eyed.

  ‘Out where?’ said Anny.

  ‘In the woods.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘My father says it’s where the . . .’ Miss King stopped and bit her lip again, then winced. That split lip must be bothering her.

  ‘Where the what?’

  ‘Nothing. But it’s forbidden anyway. I decided to . . . to defy my father.’

  Anny had no idea what to say to this, but Miss King seemed pleased with herself, so Anny replied, ‘Good for you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Miss King, and smiled. She winced again, as it must have hurt her lip. What a nervy thing she was. She was very pale and looked a little poorly, but her hair was in lovely ringlets and she had a pretty face, but a sadness about the eyes. An awkward silence followed.

  ‘Did you just come from Southover?’ asked Miss King.

  ‘Yes, miss. From today I work for Mr Brotherton. I’m a kind of messenger for him.’

  ‘I’m . . . I’m a little afraid of Mr Brotherton.’

  ‘Really?’ said Anny, shocked that any King could be afraid of anything, with all their money to bolster them against the world. ‘He’s all right.’

  ‘It’s just his voice. It sort of booms. I don’t like loud voices. My father’s is loud and he shouts at me sometimes. Is your father like that?’

  ‘No, not even a little bit. He’s proper jam, me father. I mean, he’s a good person, miss.’

  Miss King looked disappointed. Or was it envious?

  ‘That’s nice. My name is Margaret. What’s your name?’

  ‘Anny, miss.’

  ‘Please call me Margaret.’

  Miss King’s eyes were so big and wide. She looked a little lost.

  ‘I dunna think I can do that, miss. Not with . . . you know. Me working for your father. And our . . . different stations in life.’

  ‘How did you come by the post, Anny? I’ve never heard of a girl messenger before. It’s always been boys. I was always jealous of them. Running here and there, out in the world, something useful to do.’

  Anny felt proud to relate it. ‘It’s because me mother – my mother – taught me to read and write. And the foreman at the blast furnace saw I could, and he sent me with a message and Mr Brotherton liked me, so there you are.’

  ‘You can read and write?’ Miss King looked and sounded quite amazed. Anny bridled against it.

  ‘Why, yes. Not all of us poor folk are daft, you know.’

  But Anny immediately regretted her rash words, because the girl looked crestfallen. Anny felt bad.

  ‘I am sorry,’ said Anny, and took a step towards Miss King. ‘That was hard of me. You didn’t mean anything by it. It is strange, a lass like me learning her letters. I know that. Please forgive me, Miss King.’

  ‘Margaret,’ she replied, and smiled. It was a lovely smile and it made Anny smile too. ‘I think it’s marvellous you’ve learnt to read and write. I love reading . . .’

  The quiet confession touched Anny. Then she remembered her errand, the crucial message for Mr Pritchard. She scolded herself inwardly, but then again, she was not used to being important.

  ‘I am terribly sorry, but I must go. There has been a death at the furnace and I’m taking a message back from Mr Brotherton to Mr Pritchard.’

  ‘A death?’ said Margaret.

  ‘Yes. A young man. With a wife and children.’

  ‘Oh, how terrible!’ cried Margaret and covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes shining with tears. It warmed Anny to see how it affected the young girl. Did the poor matter that much to the rich?

  ‘It is, miss. But I really must go.’

  ‘Can I see you again, Anny?’

  ‘I’m sure you will, about the place.’

  ‘No, I mean, can we arrange to meet, like this? In a quiet place? I’m not very good around other people. But I think I could talk to you. I would like to, I mean. Talk to you, that is.’

  Anny felt quite pleased at the request. Truthfully, she was also curious to see what the young lady of the house might have to say to a village wench like herself.

  ‘Mr Brotherton said I would be finished at twelve.’

  ‘Then can we meet hereabouts, soon after twelve, tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, miss,’ said Anny and turned to go. She had been delayed and was worried Mr Brotherton would get down there before her and then she would have failed in her duty.

  ‘Please call me Margaret,’ she heard the girl shout to her as she ran away.

  ‘Yes, miss,’ she called back and raced through the trees.

  *

  Back at home that a
fternoon, her mother was thrilled at the news of her new post, and did not seem to mind at all that Anny would be absent from the washing work each morning.

  ‘I shall come back home as soon as ever I can afterwards,’ said Anny.

  ‘Dunna fret,’ said her mother. ‘You stay as long as you’re needed. Mr Brotherton might need you past twelve, and that’s fine by me. This is a great chance for you, Anny. Working for the King family! You make yourself available to them at all times, whatever they’re wanting. You wanna make a good impression.’

  Anny almost mentioned her plans to meet Miss King, but somehow it didn’t seem right to tell Mother.

  The next morning she arrived early at Mr Brotherton’s door. He had three errands for her that morning: a trip to the stationers in town to collect some ink; a message for the undertaker about arrangements for Lakelin and a note to be taken to the doctor’s house on Tontine Hill about something, Anny didn’t know what. None of her business, of course. She stood at the door to the office once she’d finished. It was quiet there at the office. The little brick building stood beside the woods and the big house loomed across the way. There was no hustle and bustle of people like in the town, and there was not the roar of industry her father had to work with every day. When Mr Brotherton came outside to give her direction, she took a peek past him into the office itself and saw Mrs Brotherton working with a pen at her desk. She looked up and gave Anny a small but friendly smile, which Anny returned. Mrs Brotherton’s desk was busy yet tidy, furnished with all manner of stationery that Anny could only dream of. Oh, to have pens and bottles of ink and a blotter and fine paper, rather than a stubby pencil and scraps to write upon! To have a desk to work at, instead of her own lap. Anny had always enjoyed writing, adored it. But it always seemed a pointless extravagance, like wearing a lace apron. Now she had a glimpse of something a person could do with writing, a woman even.

  When Mr Brotherton was done with her, she ran down the woodland path, racing to meet her new friend. She felt her legs weaken at the effort. She had not eaten since dawn and was ravenous. As she rounded a bend she spotted Miss King standing on the path and beside her on the ground a small wicker basket, its contents covered with a chequered cloth.

  ‘I am sorry if the hour is late,’ puffed Anny.

  ‘It is not. I arrived early. I thought you would be hungry having worked all morning, and so I have brought us a picnic, if that is acceptable?’

  ‘Oh, miss!’ cried Anny, delighted, then checked herself. ‘You did not have to do that. I can eat at home later.’

  Miss King looked forlorn. ‘But I asked Cook to pack all the things I liked, and I did so want to share them with you.’ She knelt down and removed the cloth to reveal a dazzling selection of goodies. Anny spied a pie, sandwiches of some sort, boiled eggs, strawberries and slices of cake layered with purple jam.

  Anny licked her lips. ‘If you’re sure, then if I may say so, I’d love to, miss!’

  They sat down on the forest floor, Anny cross-legged and Miss King with her legs tucked neatly under her skirts. At first, they talked a bit about their families, then ate together in companionable silence. Anny was intent on the food. It was so good. Her mother cooked hearty dishes from the ingredients they could afford and what they could grow or find. Anny had never had cause to complain about her meals. But this was something else. The sandwiches were filled with roast beef, succulent and chewy. The pie was some sort of game bird – rich and spicy – encased in a savoury jelly and crisp pastry. The cake was light and very sugary, the jam inside thick with juicy pieces of plum.

  She looked up from her obsessive focus on the food to see Miss King watching her, nibbling on a strawberry and smiling. Anny smiled back.

  ‘Thank you, miss. For all this.’

  ‘Please don’t thank me. It is my pleasure. I used to picnic with my governess from time to time. But she left us and I have not eaten out of doors for many months. I’m so glad you were kind enough to share it with me.’

  ‘Dunna you have any friends?’ said Anny and immediately regretted it. ‘I am sorry, I didna mean . . .’

  ‘No, it’s fine. The answer to your question is no. I don’t have a friend in the world. It’s rather pathetic, isn’t it?’

  Anny looked away. ‘Here,’ she said and held out a piece of cake to Miss King. ‘You need to eat more or I’ll polish off the whole lot.’

  Miss King’s face lit up and she took a big mouthful of it, so big that Anny laughed, and she snorted and they giggled helplessly, morsels of cake spraying onto the forest floor. Once Miss King’s mouth was clear, she had wiped her face on the chequered cloth and they had stopped laughing, she said again to Anny, ‘Please will you call me Margaret?’

  ‘I’ll consider it,’ said Anny with a cheeky smile and they laughed again. They began to talk then, Margaret querying Anny about her family and her village. The conversation was mostly one way, as Margaret was full of questions and Anny did not feel able to ask the same kinds of things, not after putting her foot in it about friends. It was also tricky because of Margaret’s position; Anny did not feel it was her place to quiz the girl. And anyway, it was nice to gabble on about herself for once. Nobody else was interested in the everyday particulars of Anny Woodvine’s life.

  The food all gone and the sun long past midday, Anny knew it was time to go, though she could easily have curled up there and had a nap to digest this marvellous meal. They stood up and brushed themselves off. There was an awkward moment where neither knew quite what to say next.

  ‘Ta-ta for now, Miss King.’

  ‘Margaret?’

  ‘No, I’m Anny.’

  ‘Oh, Anny, you are a one! Will you meet me again tomorrow? And the day after that?’

  Anny was tempted, especially if food like this was in the offing. But there was something about it that did not feel quite right. Her mother would not approve, she knew that, especially not of taking food without repaying the favour. She also knew she wouldn’t be telling her mother about this, about any of it.

  ‘It inna that easy for me, miss. I have to work for my mother at home in the afternoons. I ought to be back there now.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Miss King’s face was so sad, Anny felt a pang. ‘But I could meet you here next week, same day, same time? That should be all right.’

  ‘That would be lovely. I’ll bring another picnic.’

  ‘No, miss, it’ll be my turn then. I’ll bring something, dunna fret.’ As she said the words, she felt her stomach twist into a knot at what she could possibly offer Miss King from her humble table. Well, she would just have to manage it. It was the right thing to do.

  They were both true to their word and met the following week. They were easier with each other this time. It felt less like a curious encounter and more like companionship. It was the beginning of a friendship, one that grew as they met each week throughout the long, baking summer.

  It was also the beginning of Anny lying to her mother, something that left a bad taste in her mouth. She’d told her white lies before, of course she had, like every child. But it was the first time she had set out deliberately to deceive her parents. She did not like it, but it excited her, too. It made her cheeks go hot. She kept telling herself that she was doing nothing wrong. And each time she saw Margaret she convinced herself further that there was nothing to feel bad about. They were just being sensible about it, that was all. After all, they both knew their families – and society itself – would disapprove heartily of the rich girl and the poor girl picnicking together in the woods. But families weren’t right about everything, and society could be stupid. When the two girls met now, they did not feel that they were so very different anymore. They were not employer and employee; they were not even rich and poor. When they were together, chatting and laughing, they were simply Anny and Margaret.

  But as the weeks went on, her work for Mr Brotherton increased and she was kept later each time. He always found so many things for he
r to do and tutted when she had to leave to go home to her mother. She had already had to miss one meeting with Margaret. She felt bad about it, but what could she do? Particularly as it looked as if Mr Brotherton was going to need her more and more at the office and she would not be able to meet Margaret so often. Even today she was running late, and her first words to Margaret had been an apology.

  ‘Really, Anny, please do not apologise,’ Margaret was quick to reply. ‘It is not of your making. You are only doing your job. But it did give me an idea . . .’

  ‘What’s that, then?’

  ‘Since you can read and write so well, I was wondering . . .’ She bit her lip in thought. ‘Maybe you and I . . . perhaps we could . . . write to each other?’

  ‘I’ve heard that people do write letters to friends. But I never had a friend who could write.’

  ‘And,’ continued Margaret, ‘whenever I leave a letter for you, I’ll leave some paper and a pencil for you to write back. Then you don’t have to worry about the . . . well, the cost to yourself. If that’s agreeable.’ Anny did not like charity, not directed at herself or her family, anyway. But she could see that Margaret was being kind, not hoity-toity. Besides, she really could do with a more reliable source of writing materials.

  ‘But how could we deliver them? They can’t come to the house, then everyone’ll know about us.’

  Margaret considered this. ‘Well, perhaps we could leave the letters somewhere safe, somewhere only we knew about. And then nobody would need to know.’

  ‘I know the very place!’ cried Anny. ‘Not far from here, down by the riverside. There’s an old lime tree with a hollow in the trunk. I used to hide flowers in there for the fairies. I’ll show you.’

  It wasn’t far and was back towards the big house. Anny knew these woods like the back of her hand and she pointed out to Margaret a few natural landmarks on the way, so that Margaret could find the right tree again when she was alone. They were peering inside the hollow and laughing about Anny’s flower fairy offerings, when they heard a shout nearby. Both girls turned, but Margaret’s face was full of fear.