The Daughters of Ironbridge

by Mollie Walton

  ‘Could you ask to be his assistant?’

  ‘I have already asked. They said no.’

  ‘It would get you away from all that washing. I worry about your soft hands going hard again.’ Her mother took Anny’s hands and began to inspect them. Anny knew she could get a clout from the guard for it, but the feel of her mother’s beloved hands around her own was so overwhelmingly comforting, she had to force herself not to sob with relief. She knew the shape and texture of her mother’s hands better than almost any other thing she could think of and they meant home, they meant safety and love. ‘No ink stains anymore. I miss those,’ Mother said, sadly. Tears ran silently from Anny and dripped onto her arms. Her mother squeezed her hands and muttered, ‘I meant to be more help. And I’ve been no help at all.’

  ‘No touching,’ called out the guard and Anny snatched her hands away. She did not wish to get on that one’s bad side. She leant a little closer and whispered, ‘Just by coming you have helped. Just to see a friendly face makes such a difference here in this . . . place.’

  Her mother looked up at her, fearful. ‘How bad is it? Are you suffering badly? I mun know, Anny. I need to know.’

  Oh, the things she wished she could tell her. More than anything, she longed to describe the horrible scene only the day before, where she stood in the yard and listened to the sound of death. The yard was usually filled with the mutterings of inmates and the harsh shouts of guards. But that day, all the inhabitants were silenced by the sound of a great crowd of people arriving all morning outside the gates, their hubbub floating over the walls, bringing the flavour of freedom. The crowd was silenced by a stern voice that read out a long list of information, too indistinct to hear the details, with only the pious tone discernible from beyond the high yard walls. Then, two other male voices spoke their turn but again, no words could be heard clearly. After this, there were some shouts from the crowd, replied to with some unkind laughter, some heckling and more laughter. Then, there was a long silence. A snapping sound of rope pulled taut and a cheer went up. So ended the lives of two Irish thieves, she heard later. Two men hanged atop the prison gates, for theft. The sound of the laughing crowd haunted her, that so many should come to witness death and that they should find it worthy of amusement. The world was cruel and full of bad’uns. The good people were as teardrops in an ocean. The ones who cared a jot for you were fewer still and the ones who loved you, numbered on the fingers of one hand. Love. What was it good for now? It could bring only temporary comfort but it could not fetch her out of here, and it could not save her from this hell or from the gallows. But the comfort of it was better than nothing.

  ‘Mother, before you go, and it will be that time soon, I must tell you that I have a sweetheart. I have an understanding with the artist Jake Ashford. I asked Margaret to tell him to please come and visit me. Will you find him and tell him too? Please?’

  ‘A young mon? An understanding?’

  The turnkey called time and everyone stood up sharpish. She never kept them waiting. Her mother’s face was confused and frightened. She wished she’d asked this earlier, so she’d have time to explain the understanding between Jake and herself and how much she desired to see him. But there, it was done now and she was leaving the room, looking back at her mother, whose hands were over her face now, her tears freely flowing. Anny called back to her, ‘Tell him?’ and Mother nodded quickly and lifted a hand, calling her name and saying farewell, till next time.

  In the corridor, the turnkey shoved her hard, so that she fell against the wall and felt the cold stone bite into her soft cheek. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of a look, let alone a complaint. Now that her mother had gone, she would speak to nobody until another visitor came. She missed talking so much; she spoke to herself in her mind often, great long monologues commenting on all the madness surrounding her and telling herself stories of her past, of the people she loved. It was a kind of prayer, it was offered up to the god of her mind to keep her from losing it. She prayed for deliverance, for help to come from Margaret, for her mother to stay well and her father to be safe at the ironworks and, most of all, for Jake to visit her.

  Chapter 20

  John Woodvine listened obsessively to every detail Rachel gave of her visit to their daughter. As she spoke, the rage that built up inside him, fit to blow, every time he thought of Anny in that place, was like nothing he had ever experienced. To be fifteen miles from his beloved girl, to be able to walk there, to be able to see her even, in a room across a table, and speak to her; to be able to do all these things and yet not scoop her up in his arms and take her from that place. These were the things that could drive a man to madness.

  ‘There was one more thing she told me, John,’ said Rachel. ‘She said she has a young mon. She wants him to visit her. Did you know? I didna know she had someone sweet on her.’

  ‘What young mon?’ said John. He had heard nothing about this. He’d been relieved, actually, that Anny had never seemed interested in that sort of thing. She’d always given the boys round their house short shrift. She was devoted to her work and her family and long may that continue, he used to tell himself. Now this, a sweetheart? It made him feel a bit queasy but at the same time, a seed of expectancy was planted in him and he wondered for a moment if something helpful might come of it.

  ‘She said he was an artist called Jake Ashford. You know him?’

  That scribbler? Could him and Anny . . . really? ‘Yes, I’ve seen him. He comes to the furnace sometimes and sketches what’s occurring around and about. He keeps himself to himself, mostly. Some of the men ribbed him a bit when he first came, but they soon got bored of it and left him to his own devices after that.’

  ‘Is he a good man?’ said Rachel, looking at him hopefully.

  ‘He’s no great shakes, is my impression. I dunna know. But I’m gunna find out. He’s certainly better off than us. Good clothes. Not wealthy, like the Kings. But good clothes, you know. Smart.’ John thought more about him and an uneasy memory of his general impression that the lad was a bit of a fop, maybe even one who liked boys rather than girls, was the sort of whisperings that went round. And what kind of living could be made from scribbling?

  ‘Well,’ said Rachel, ‘if he has a well-to-do family and if he’s promised to our Anny, perhaps his family could help her. Perhaps they could go to the Kings and speak for her.’

  ‘Are they promised?’

  ‘She didna say. She only said something about an understanding.’

  ‘Well, why didna you ask her? Why didna you get more out of her, for God’s sake?’ John’s voice grew much louder. He was on edge all the time these days and found it increasingly hard to control his temper. But the hurt look in his wife’s eyes toned him down and he dropped his head, ashamed of raising his voice to her.

  ‘She only mentioned it in the last moments, before they took her away,’ said Rachel, and put her hand on his arm. She understood. She never held it against him. Oh, this woman. What a fine wife she was. What a lucky man he’d been, in this at least.

  ‘I will certainly look him out. If he inna at work today, I’ll ask around and find out where he’s lodging. I’ll find him, dunna worry, dear.’

  He reached over and put his arms around his wife, drew her to him and kissed her tenderly. After all these years, the feel of her was home and all things good. She had always been too good for him, a good wench like she was with her book learning. But she chose him. The warm roundness of her woman’s body was everything he ever wanted. It was obvious to think it, that a man loved his wife, but then so many men he knew didn’t seem to feel it, not anymore. They complained bitterly about theirs, and some of them sought comfort elsewhere. Not him. Not ever. But these days, the sadness that he and Rachel both bore like a cross on their backs tainted all comfort he felt with her. He felt he had let her down, by allowing this terrible thing to happen to their child. He would fight till the end of his days to get her out of there. He kissed Rachel again
, this time a peck on the cheek and a big squeeze, before he pulled back and looked at her.

  ‘I’m thinking of leaving a bit early for my shift. I’m thinking of going up to the big house and asking to talk to Mr King.’

  ‘Oh, my dear, are you sure? If his own daughter . . .’

  ‘I know, I know what we said. I know he hit her, and why would he listen to me if he didna listen to her? But I’m thinking we mighta got all this around the wrong way. Think on it. She’s his daughter and he might have a hundred reasons we’re ignorant of to give his daughter a slap. Maybe she’s been playing away from home, maybe she’s a real handful, who knows? Nobody knows what goes on inside a family, behind closed doors, except them people themselves. Maybe he wouldna listen to her because he still thinks of her as a nipper. Dunna take her serious, like. I know I’m the same sometimes with Anny, despite all her learning. Maybe if I presented the case to him very civil, very serious, very polite like, he might listen. It’s worth a try, inna it? I know it is. And I’m gunna do it.’

  It was Rachel’s turn to put her arms around him now and kiss her husband. ‘You’re a good man, John Woodvine. How would I manage without you? Like a frog without a pond.’

  ‘Like a mole without a hole.’

  They both laughed. It was a small laugh but the only one they’d shared in days. He was beginning to feel something like hope kindling inside him. He took up his lunch and his work gloves and stashed them in the ragged bag he stowed across his chest. He left, striding with new purpose along the river then up the path to the big house. He went to the servants’ entrance. He knew he couldn’t march up to the front door. There was a girl there, cleaning the step. He told her his business and she said she’d ask the butler. The butler came – a wizened old’un with a mistrustful eye – and said the master wasn’t available. John told the man who he was and told him something of his tale of woe. He asked only for a minute of the master’s time. The butler went away for quite a bit – John began to wonder if he’d be late for his shift – but then the old bloke came back.

  ‘One minute,’ he said. ‘But you’re too dirty for the house. You’ll be seen outside the estate office. Go and wait there.’

  John went over to Anny’s old workplace and scowled at it. It brought back bitter memories and he wished he’d not had to see it. The rage was rising in him again and he had to swallow it. He must be respectful and respectable for Mr King. His stomach lurched and he cleared his throat several times, a bile rising there that he could not cough out. Then, footsteps were coming along the gravel and there was King, his stomach preceding him and John felt he might stride right up to the bastard and give him a bunch of fives in his face. He clenched his fists and stood up straighter. King was not looking at him and stopped near to the door of the office, as if he were about to go in but instead turned, folded his arms sedately across his chest, his elbows resting on his girth. He said, ‘You have your minute, Woodvine.’ King looked pompously into the air to the left of John’s shoulder. John tried not to let this put him off. He cleared his throat one last time and began.

  ‘Mr King, you may know I am Anny Woodvine’s father.’

  ‘Obviously, obviously. Don’t waste your one minute on pleasantries, man. Time is ticking.’

  John rushed on, rattled now. ‘I mean to say that she is my daughter and I would do anything to help her. I am sorry for calling on you unannounced but I canna stand to see her suffer anymore in that prison, and so here I am. I wish to tell you, sir, that I heartily believe in my daughter’s innocence. She never had no reason before to steal and has never been that kind of a girl or person. She had been saving money for her advancement and was proud of her job here. She had no reason to steal and no need to. She knew we would help her too, as much as we were able. She has never lied to me, never hidden things from us. To think of her as a thief is very much not in her way, not in the way of what she is, in her character, in her . . . well, the good girl and person that she finds herself . . . that we find herself to be. To be of.’

  ‘Good God, man, don’t tie yourself in knots.’

  John took a breath. He wanted to throttle this pig. But he must control his feelings, to help Anny.

  ‘I am not a well-spoken man, I know that, sir.’

  ‘Indeed not.’

  Another breath, deeper this time. ‘But I am honest and true, sir. And I beg of you to reconsider this case and this charge.’

  Now King focused his eyes on John, his head tipped back as he wasn’t a tall man and John was huge. King now deigned to speak directly to him. ‘Woodvine, I agreed to see you today as I could not fathom what would possess you to approach my house with such impudence, and so I came out of mere curiosity. I thought you must have some compelling new evidence to put before me of your daughter’s innocence. Was there a mysterious man in black cape and mask who tiptoed up the driveway and planted the money in your daughter’s bag? Or was it a fairy queen who stole through the window glass by magic and put it there?’

  Jesus Christ, the mon is mocking me, thought John. How he wanted to kill him, actually murder him, right there and then, watch the life pour out of him onto the gravel. ‘No, sir,’ he said, his blood as cold as ice now. ‘I dunna believe it was a mysterious man or the fairies that did it. I believe it was someone else, sir. But not my daughter, sir. Someone else.’

  King narrowed his eyes. ‘And who did you think it might be, Woodvine? Do tell.’

  ‘Someone with a grudge against her.’

  ‘Do you have the name of such a person?’

  John looked at King. The master actually looked interested. Maybe he knew it was his son that did it, maybe he knew and didn’t care. Or maybe he genuinely didn’t know and maybe he was genuinely asking.

  ‘I dunna have a name, but . . .’

  ‘Well, then,’ said King, with a dismissive wave of his hand.

  ‘No, sir, please, sir. I mean to say, there are many who are envious of my daughter, sir. That may seem strange to one like . . . to one of your . . .’ The struggle to be eloquent was hard, but he knew this was his chance and he must dredge up every word he could to fight this battle. ‘. . . station in life, sir. But my daughter is clever and pretty and hard-working. She has all the boys after her and all the girls jealous of her and her success. She is never proud, though. I meant to say, she has pride in her post and her work. But she never acts proud or . . . in conceited ways. She is very humble about herself. But there are those in this world that when they see such a person as her . . . as she . . . they dunna like it. They wanna smash it. They might even want to take it and make it . . . make her their own. And if that person canna have it, they might . . . do bad things, sir. In their revengeful thoughts, they might do a bad thing. But any man can understand that. Show me a man who’s never had a revengeful thought. It can be . . . forgiven. If . . . things are put right . . . by a person.’

  Halfway through that speech, John had begun to feel as if King were turning. His narrow gaze had gone and he was listening, really listening to his words. But by the end, John had begun to realise that King knew only too well what his son had done, that he understood only too well what John’s meaning was. Now was the crucial moment. Which way would King turn?

  ‘You seem to lean towards some hidden meaning, Woodvine. Is that so?’

  ‘I only wish to save my daughter. My innocent daughter. I swear that she is innocent, on my very life.’

  ‘Life is cheap,’ muttered King.

  ‘If it were my death that could save her from this, I would gladly give it.’

  ‘Nobody is asking for that, Woodvine. Please resist melodrama.’

  John was lost now. What was the man saying? What else could he say himself? ‘Please, sir. Will you give me your verdict? What say you, sir?’

  ‘What say I? Who do you think you are talking to, man?’

  John clenched his fists and screwed his eyes shut. God, give me strength with this ba
stard! his mind shouted, but he managed to contain it and instead opened his eyes and said, ‘Please, sir, I humbly beg of you, show my daughter mercy and leastways, please, investigate this further. Please, I beg you. I am begging you, sir.’ He had run out of words. He thought about getting down upon his knees on the gravel.

  ‘Woodvine, you have had more than your minute. You have presented no new evidence, no compelling arguments and no facts to back up your position. You have verged on harassment, a most inadvisable position to take with your master. And I am your master, Woodvine, do not forget that. If you continue with these claims against me and against my son—’

  John gasped. King stopped, his mouth open. He actually said it. He actually came out and said it. John leapt on it. ‘I never said a word about your son, sir.’

  ‘Yes, well. No. You did not and neither . . .’ King was blustering now, waving his hands about, his face colouring into the hue of a ripe Victoria plum. ‘Well, God save us, what on earth am I doing conferring with a giant dolt in my back yard about legal matters? I cannot imagine what possessed me. I am too kind, that is it. I am too kind for my own good. Now, listen here. You’ve had your hearing and that’s the end of it. If you continue with this, I’ll have no choice but to dismiss you. I’ve half a mind to in any case. The cheek of it! But I am not a cruel man. So you will escape with your wages docked for a month. You will work at half pay for four weeks and be glad you have kept your job. Now, get off my land and get back to work.’

  King stomped off, the gravel flicking from his heels and tip-tapping his retreat.

  It was over. John stood with his shoulders hunched, all of his fight draining out of him. There was nothing to do but go. He walked straight into the woods and forged on through the bracken, his legs whipped by low branches and spikily caressed by banks of nettles. He did not look where he was going, just knew it was downhill, down to the furnace, along the river here somewhere. He had not the heart to stop walking, for if he did, he thought he would surely scream or tear his hair out or dash his head against a tree trunk.