The Daughters of Ironbridge

by Mollie Walton

  If he’d been a cleverer man, he might have used words better. He might have outwitted that fat idiot and made him admit it was his son that did it. Well, he almost did. But it was not enough. King would never give up his own or at the very least, would never allow his son to be called into question. And even if King did admit it to him, it would only be a working man’s word against the ironmaster. Everybody knew how that one would work out: in the master’s favour, of course. The way of the world. John felt it was a fool’s errand, and he’d only made things worse. Now his pay was docked and they’d struggle with the loss of money. He was lucky he hadn’t been demoted from his new position in the cast-house or even dismissed.

  He walked on, hurriedly, worried that Pritchard might dock his pay further if he turned up very late. He began to jog through the trees, getting faster, the speed taking away his breath and his memories, the ground rushing at him as he leapt forward down the incline. He tripped over a tree root and fell forward heavily, his huge frame crashing into ferns and jolting every bone as he skidded to a halt. He turned onto his back and groaned, staring up into the meeting of the treetops that sheltered him overhead. He did not move, could not move. He despised King, but he hated himself more. He had failed Anny.

  Then, he heard voices. A high one, a low one. He lay very still and listened. They were close by, the sound of the undergrowth signalling they were walking away from the path, as he had been. They were talking as they walked, in serious tones, question and answer, sounding earnest and concerned. If he stood up now, they’d probably see him and be shocked by a man looming out at them. If they stumbled across him, they’d be more shocked still. He’d have a hard time explaining why he was hidden away in the woods, and the last thing he needed was to draw further notice. The voices were close enough to hear now. They had stopped.

  ‘Here?’ said the female. She sounded young. ‘Is it here you wish us to stop? The wood is thick here, that is certain. Thick and full of secrets.’

  ‘To think, you were the quiet one,’ said the male. ‘Now you’re full of poetry.’

  ‘It is love that has done it. It gives me the words to sing.’

  ‘Enough of that now. I will have to stop that mouth of yours.’

  Next came silence, then as John strained his ears to listen beyond the birdsong and the breeze that ruffled the thousands of leaves about him, he heard the girl moaning, high and reedy. They must be kissing. He listened on, miserable, frozen. They were quiet for a long while. Then she spoke again.

  ‘Will you give me your promise?’

  ‘I will, I will. Oh, my sweet, sweet girl. I want to be with you. But I fear your father will never approve the match. What are we to do? Oh, Margaret.’

  John sat bolt upright. He looked around, in the direction of the voices. They were a little downhill and were up against a tree, not turned in his direction. It was Margaret King all right. Who was the man? They were kissing again and John could not see his face. Then the man came up for air. It was him. The scribbler. It was Anny’s sweetheart, Jake Ashford.

  ‘I don’t care, I don’t care!’ cried Margaret, as she ran her fingers ardently through Ashford’s hair. ‘I will be with you come hell or high water! Kiss me again!’

  John could not look away. He moved slowly. He did not have the vitality left in him to murder these two, as his hands might have wished any other time. He barely had the vigour to stand. He got to his feet stealthily and managed to reach the broad trunk of a nearby oak and stand behind it for a moment, hidden from their view. They were talking again, then kissing. In their passion, they did not seem to notice a giant of a man sidling through the trees away from them.

  The sounds of industry were soon upon him. How many more shocks can a person stand? How much disappointment? He felt like a man in the stocks, humiliated and pummelled with the mockery of life and circumstance. Nothing he did came right. And those Kings. Those Kings were all alike. That girl who had simpered and smiled and looked the part of pity and kindness and was now whoring herself in the woods with Anny’s sweetheart. Those Kings. They were poison, every last one of them.

  When he arrived at the furnace, he glanced at Pritchard, who must have seen the look of thunder on his face and did not say a word, not a word about his lateness or his dishevelled appearance. John realised there were bits of bracken stuck to his clothes and his face was aching where he must have struck his head in the fall. He went straight to the cast-house, where the metal had just been declared fit to run and so the men were rushing to action. He worked in a rage, throwing things down and whacking things about. One of his workmates shouted at him, ‘What the bloody ’ell’s up with you, mon?’

  ‘Bloody well leave me be,’ he shouted in return and looked up with a slaying expression that made his mate slink away. John stopped for a moment to catch his breath, going over to the door of the cast-house to calm down. Looking outside, he saw at the edge of the river, leaning on a trunk and watching the scene, the figure of a young man. He was holding a pencil and sketching energetically across a page clipped to a board. John’s eyesight was not good, he had to squint to make out the face, but there was no mistaking the action. It was Ashford. The little bastard had left off kissing the King girl and come down here to practise his wretched hobby, while Anny festered in prison desperately awaiting his visit that would never come. And it would be him who had to tell his girl of Jake and Margaret. How much more could she take?

  ‘There will be blood today,’ said John, and threw down his gloves and made a beeline for Ashford. He cared for nothing anymore, only that someone would pay. Someone had to pay for all this.

  There came shouting from nearby. Men around him pointed up at the top of the furnace. Clouds of dust were issuing from the top. Pritchard was running past him, waving his arms and shouting, ‘More burden! More burden!’

  As an ex-furnace filler, John knew what was happening. He had seen it before. Blockages in the furnace built up and had to be cleared by a swift increase in the amount of materials tipped into the opening at the top. He turned and ran up the incline to help shift the loads. Another great cloud of dust spewed forth from the furnace’s blazing mouth, filled with fiery embers. Men at the very top fell backwards and twisted away, trying to escape from it, stumbling and tripping over each other in their haste. All in a moment, there was a great roaring sound from deep within the furnace, like the din of a thousand cattle stampeding down a hill. Seconds later, the top of the furnace exploded in a riot of fire, stone, brick, lime, coke, liquefied iron and luminescent dust. There were no more sounds, no more sights to see. He had no time to think of his daughter, of his wife or of his life upon this cruel earth.

  Chapter 21

  Margaret was in her room when the blast came. Her shelves rattled and a troop of prancing porcelain ponies wobbled violently and fell, smashing into shards on the floor. Margaret had been lying on her bed, replaying every moment with Jake. She thought the world was coming to an end. She had read once of an earthquake in a novel and wondered for a second if these ever occurred in Shropshire. When the sound and the vibrations passed, she came to and ran out of the room. Her father was downstairs shouting at Brunt, as if all this were his doing.

  ‘From the direction of the works,’ Brunt was saying.

  ‘Good God,’ said her father and issued instructions about collecting his coat and hat.

  Benjamina came out onto the landing, sleepy-eyed and squinting at the harsh light of day interrupting her afternoon nap. Queenie was calling from her room: ‘Jenkins! Jenkins!’ Margaret heard the lady’s maid’s footsteps running from the adjoining room, then her voice soothing her grandmother. It was as if time had slowed almost to a halt, and yet Margaret’s perceptions were screwed up to the highest notch. She ignored her stepmother’s sleepy questioning and went down the stairs quickly. She could hear running on the gravel outside. She went out of the sitting room garden door to see Cook telling the maids not to go, but Lucy – Margaret’s favourite maid – was ru
nning ahead of the others and not stopping for Cook or anyone. For a moment, she wondered why they were all running down there. What could maids and a stable boy do? But then she scolded herself as she realised that, of course, all of these local girls and lads had family that were ironworkers – uncles and cousins, brothers and fathers. Fathers. Anny. John Woodvine!

  ‘Lucy!’ she called out and ran to the woodland path that everyone was heading down. ‘Lucy, stop!’ She saw the girl turn, about to run on, so she called again. ‘Lucy, please, it’s Miss Margaret. Please!’

  Lucy spotted her from the edge of the wood and hesitated. Margaret could see she wanted to run on with the others. She went towards Lucy and called to her. ‘I’m sorry, Lucy. Do you have family down there?’

  ‘Course, miss. My uncles. Four of ’em.’

  Margaret caught up with her. ‘I’m sorry. You must go. But please, will you find out if John Woodvine is well? Anny’s father?’

  ‘I surely will, miss,’ said Lucy and did not wait to be dismissed, tearing down the hill, fleetly winding her way through the trees till Margaret lost sight of her.

  She turned to see her father and Brotherton coming from the office and running down the path. She had never seen her father run. Mrs Brotherton was standing at the door to the office, wringing her hands. Margaret rushed over to her.

  ‘What do you think it is, Mrs Brotherton?’ She saw that the woman was already crying.

  ‘Oh, my dear. You should not be here. You must go back to your room. Your father will be angry if he sees you are not safe.’

  ‘Please, do tell me what has happened exactly.’

  ‘There was an explosion at the blast furnace. Sounds like the whole thing blew. It’ll be a miracle if there aren’t a dozen or more dead. Oh my, it is a terrible day for all of us. Terrible. I must go and fetch the surgeon.’

  ‘I do hope you don’t have family there, do you?’

  ‘Oh, miss, do go back in the house, do,’ said Mrs Brotherton peevishly. ‘This is no place for you.’ With that, she pulled the office door to behind her and locked it with a key she kept on a cord around her waist. She bustled off down the path and Margaret felt herself well and truly discharged. She wandered back to the house and went up the stairs. No sign of Benjamina. She’d probably gone straight back to her nap. She knocked on Queenie’s door. Jenkins answered it, looking harassed.

  ‘Not now, miss,’ she said and shut the door in her face.

  Margaret waited in her room for a while. She sat by the window that gave out on to the driveway, looking out for her father returning. Then, she went downstairs and sat in the library, watching the opening to the woodland path and the edge of the office for any comings and goings. But there were none. She wanted to leave the house, sneak down through the woods and see for herself. She nearly did it once or twice, nearly got up the courage. But she was afraid. She was too afraid, of what she might see, of the horrors that awaited an observer at the aftermath of an explosion. She had once seen a painting in a book that depicted hell and it was full of tiny people in various stages of torment in dark caves, fire blooming all around. That was the image in her mind now. She knew she was not strong enough to bear it. So she prayed instead, that there were not too many dead, that most had escaped miraculously with their lives, perhaps just some injuries. And most of all, that Anny’s father, that good, good man John Woodvine, had not been by the furnace when it blew, that he had been at home, or by the riverside, or anywhere else but there. Was there a chance? Of course there was. And she was sure he’d be all right, she had a good feeling. Surely, two appalling things could not happen to one family?

  But, of course, they could. Life could be cruel. Woodvine could have been miles away or inches. He could be alive or dead. Dead. Jake! Suddenly, she remembered that Jake said he was going to do some sketching. He had his bag with him. He had walked away from her, leaving her panting from his kisses, in the direction of the furnace. He had not said where he was going precisely, but it could have been there. Would he have been close enough to be hurt? Killed even? She ran from the room. She crossed the lawn and headed for the woods. Then she heard someone running up the path and turned to see her father approaching the house, in a state of exertion, puffed out and grubby-faced. She went to him and saw that all of his clothes were smeared with dirt. He was pulling off his cravat.

  ‘Father, please, tell me. How many hurt?’

  ‘Not now, Margaret,’ he said and stormed past her, calling, ‘Get back in the house, for God’s sake!’

  ‘Father, please!’ she cried and followed him. ‘I must know. Is Jake Ashford killed? And John Woodvine?’

  ‘We don’t know names. Nobody knows names. It’s just butchery everywhere. Lord knows what effect it’ll have on profits. The break in production will cost us a fortune. Now, get away with you, girl!’

  He took the stairs two at a time and disappeared into his room. Margaret felt faint. She went back out into the garden. She could not bear to face it, the scene of carnage that must be down there. But she could not wait either. She went to her room and took her purse, collected her cloak and bonnet and walked away down the path to town. She would go to Jake’s lodgings, see if he were there. That was something she could do. As she walked down the hill, she realised that everyone she passed was rushing past her, all heading towards the river or the woods, all in the direction of the blast. The town was emptying and she was in the course of the flood. She fought her way through it, hearing all manner of voices concerned, worried, shocked, shouting and some sobbing.

  She reached Jake’s lodgings and banged on the door. No answer. She tried again, and still no answer. Nobody at home. Now, she felt nauseous. She decided she would not go home again and wait. She grimly set her mind to follow the crowd. Jostling along with so many others, her progress was slow. She began to feel queasy, the smell and heat, the clamour of horrified voices. Then she heard her name, her surname. King this and King that. People were talking about her father. She managed to catch a snippet here and there and all of it was bad. There were curse words, followed by her family name. There was such anger and disgust. They blamed her father for this. She felt her cheeks glow hot with shame and pulled her bonnet forwards to shield her face. Yet why would they blame him? Surely it was an accident. But there were whispers of delayed repairs, faulty equipment, inferior materials . . . Should she turn round and go back? She was not far from the furnace site now, and the crowd was so thick here. She kept her head down and her feet shuffling forward.

  The crowd slowed and she could hear cries, women weeping and being comforted. She looked up and was surrounded by heads, shaking and gasping. As she came past the last clump of riverside trees and the furnace loomed into view, the sight froze her.

  The brick structure of the furnace was gone, only the rubble of its foundations remaining, jagged like broken teeth. Broad grey puddles of solidified iron splattered the scene, as if a giant’s paint pot had been kicked over. There were huge lumps of wall punctuating the churned ground down to the riverside, some still glowing with embers. Everything was veiled in dust, patches of white, brown, reddish and black dust cloaked the ruins, the earth and the surrounding vegetation. There were men everywhere, standing in groups, walking amongst the ruins, muttering to each other. There were a couple of blankets on the ground, here and there, lumpy, unmoving forms beneath them, feet stuck out of the end, some with boots on, some bootless, naked feet. Elsewhere, there were bodies with only a coat thrown over to cover the faces. A large cart was arriving along the riverside road from downstream, trundling along the rutty way, drawn by oxen. Some of the men moved towards the bodies and began to lift them into the cart. The crowd’s noise changed, its voices slowing and deepening into moans of sympathy and thence to a kind of shuffling silence, as if nobody wanted to utter a sound in the presence of the moving of the dead. Margaret looked away, unable to bear the sight of the bodies, having been cradled by the firm ground, now hanging limp and loose between the men who c
arried them. She turned her gaze towards the furnace itself, her father’s moneymaker, now just wreckage. She saw a man fish for something in the piles of scattered bricks and lift it up. It was a boot, with half a leg attached to it, blown off at the knee, its stump bloody and glistening through the lime dust. But there was no sign of Jake or of John Woodvine.

  ‘Miss,’ said a voice to her left.

  Margaret flinched as if slapped. Had someone recognised her? She turned her head away, terrified to show her face. A hand touched her arm.

  ‘Miss, you shouldna be here.’

  Margaret had to turn and look. It was her maid, Lucy. To see her face there in that ghastly place was like balm.

  ‘Oh, Lucy,’ she said and felt her face crumpling.

  ‘You shouldna be seeing all this, miss.’

  ‘Please,’ Margaret whispered and glanced about, hoping that Lucy would cotton on that nobody must know who she was.

  Lucy nodded and said, ‘I shall walk back with you.’

  ‘But your family . . .’

  ‘No sign of them yet.’

  She fought to calm herself and fall into step with the sad, slow gait of the returning crowd, aware of Lucy’s presence beside her. After what felt like hours yet was just a matter of minutes, she found herself ascending the steps to the road by the iron bridge. They were met with a logjam of people, some coming, some going, in a melee of confusion, like a gathering of boiling wreckage in the path of a flood.

  She felt Lucy’s hand on her arm, steering her onto the bridge, away from the worst of the throng.

  ‘We can wait here a moment,’ said Lucy. ‘Catch your breath. Then you ought to get yourself home.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Margaret in a small voice. ‘You are so kind.’

  ‘I am that surprised to see you here, miss.’