Anny glanced over at Mary, who was whipping up cake batter with a wooden spoon, wafts of sweetness filling the little house. Anny whispered, ‘They are very kind and I am so grateful. But I should come home with you, to my own home.’
Mother looked down and shook her head. ‘It is not what you think, Anny. It is a bad place, in a bad part of town. I lost our home after Father died, as I couldna pay the rent. They say King will pay compensation to the families but it’s not come yet and it was too late for me. I had to find any place I could afford on my earnings and it inna good. I’m working all hours, washing at home and I do a bit of picking at the pit too. I canna look after you, lass. You are much better off here, until you are strong.’
Anny saw the shame in her mother’s eyes. The old rage swelled in her at the mention of King. But she had not the strength or appetite for railing against her foe. She only wanted to comfort her mother. ‘If that’s what you think is best, then that’s what we shall do. I shall be strong again, you’ll see. And then there’ll be two wages coming in and we’ll get you out of there and into a good home again. Don’t you fret, Mother. We shall do it together, you and I.’
Her mother left. She wouldn’t stay for cake, as she had to get back to work. Anny was despondent after. She turned on her side and stared at the wall for a long time. Peter brought her a slice of seed cake, warm from baking. He sat with her and they ate their cake in silence. She felt comfortable sitting there, not talking. It was curious how awkward that felt with some people. But Mary and Peter were comfortable people and they didn’t seem to expect anything from her.
‘Could you tell me about the mine?’ she asked him.
‘If it would entertain you,’ he said with a small smile. ‘Though heaven knows why it should.’
‘It would.’ She wanted to hear about something completely different, something that was not about iron, or prison, or family, or love. Something safe to listen to.
‘The pay is all right. There are worser jobs. I like the work very well. There are old lads and young chappers and plenty of chunnering on about life.’
‘Tell me what it’s like, underground. So I can picture it.’
‘It’s a rum old world down there,’ he began. She watched him stare into space as he conjured it in his mind. ‘When we descend the shaft, we’re lowered down on chains and each hold a candle, a bunch of us like a catch of fish. The chain has broken in many a pit and sometimes a man can fall down the shaft and be killed. We strip off to work and put our clothes back on before we come up. The shadows flicker across the black walls and can haunt you a little at first. You think of all the weight of the world above you and what if it comes crashing down upon your head? But you have to have faith that it wonna or you’d lose your mind down there. Once you get used to it, there is a peace to be had in the dark, a kind of understanding between you and the deep earth.’
He’s a born storyteller, Anny thought. It must come from the books he read by the fire or maybe it was just him, a natural talent. ‘You’re wasted down there,’ she said.
He looked up and stared at her, his cheeks colouring. ‘Oh, I dunna think so. I’m strong and I work hard for them.’
‘I mean, you speak so well. You ought to be . . .’ She trailed off and thought of all the things that Peter Malone could do in the world, with his gift for speaking, his turn of phrase, his reading. Another reader, like her. His mother must have had hopes for him, to teach him that. But Anny realised she was doing it again, aspiring. And she knew what came of that.
‘Ought to be what?’ he said and leant forward, his eyes intense with interest.
‘Exactly what you are,’ said Anny, and smiled at him. He beamed at her. She liked him very much already. How had she not noticed what a nice lad he was, when he was living on her very doorstep all those years? He was everything that Jake Ashford was not – honest, hard-working and humble. And a poet too, in his way.
‘Anny, I’d like to say that your father . . . well, he was a good mon, a rare mon, decent through and through. Everybody thought it, everybody said it. It was a terrible day when he left the earth, when all of them did. But he was the best of them, the best of men.’
Anny looked at Peter, moved and grateful. She had been so alone in her grieving, so alone. She let her tears come and he waited for her to cry it out. He didn’t try to stop her and he didn’t try to comfort her. His quiet, patient presence there was comfort enough and somehow he knew that.
They talked into the evening, Mary scolding her son for not letting Anny rest. And in the days that followed, when he came back from the mine, Anny would insist on wrapping her shawl about her and going outside to throw scraps for the pig, to give him the privacy to have his tin bath by the fire. She thought of him there, scrubbing the black dust from his skin, only to suffer it all again the following day. She was getting stronger by the day and it wouldn’t be long before she could join her mother. Yet Mary and Peter seemed in no hurry to shift her and told her to stay as long as she needed. It was company for Mary during the day and Peter said earnestly that she should stay as long as she ever wanted. Anny believed them. They were truly good people and they were fond of her, very fond. And she felt the same for them, increasingly so. But Mother needed her, and one day she would need to leave this comfortable house and go back out into the world, face whatever it might throw at her and begin again.
She carried inside her the shame of gaol, despite her innocence of the crime. It had tainted her through and through; like contagion seeping into a lake, it spread through her and reached every part of her. From a practical viewpoint, it had ruined her chance of a clerical job and a better life.
She thought of the day Peggy came to her house, dressed up in her cousin’s clothes. She realised she had done the same all those years working at the office. None of it had been real, though she had heartily believed in it at the time. The forces of society did not want the poor girl to rise above her origins – it smashed that nonsense down with an iron fist. She thought of her father, his years of toil. And for what? To line King’s pockets? No, it was more than that. It was for her and her mother. That’s what it was for. And it was worth it, to provide a home and put food on the table. It was noble, it was good and it was enough.
As her health returned and her hair shone red again, she could feel the life coursing through her. She was luminous with it; she knew that as Peter Malone could not take his eyes from her, or she from him. When Mother visited, she looked as tired as ever, but her spirit was buoyed by her daughter’s rejuvenation and she always left smiling. She told Anny, ‘Each new day is a gift.’ Anny thought about this, about her darkest days these past months. She told Peter all about it, when Mary was asleep, in their long winter evenings by the fire, discussing books and thoughts and their lives to this point. Things about prison that she knew she would never tell her mother; but she felt she could tell him anything. They even spoke of the future, of what it might hold for them. They began to talk of a shared future, hinting at it, knowing yet shy looks across the dancing light of the hearth.
Her shame of her prison time was receding with each footstep she took towards her recovery, replaced by a growing pride that she had survived it. She hated the Kings, to be sure, and that would never leave her. But the best revenge was to survive, to live and to love. To stay with her people and work hard with them and for them. Her people were the best in the world, hands down. The upper classes could keep their fancy clothes and their silly lives. Never again would she aspire to be like them. Never again would she try to play their game. There was release to be had when you let go of those tethers, of aspiration, of wanting and of envy. She had been bound by it, and worse: she had known true imprisonment. Now, she had been handed her freedom, the raw material out of which a life could be crafted. What would she make of it? Despite everything that had been lost, her future was in her own hands and that was good enough for Anny Woodvine.
Epilogue
Queenie sat alone in
the library. She placed her hands on the table and brushed her fingers across the cover of a French novel that Margaret had left there months before and nobody had thought to tidy away. She will miss her books, thought Queenie. She wondered how her granddaughter was faring. There had been no word. For such a quiet girl, it was curious how empty the house seemed without her presence. The house felt haunted by too much absence now. Cyril was still away in Germany. Some of the younger servants had left the King employ after the explosion. With no young people around, the house felt empty. It was like Hamelin, after the piper had exacted his revenge.
Queenie shuddered. The curse on the house. It was coming true, she was sure of it. First the blast, and now Margaret gone. But these things were not random occurrences, unlucky events. These things had reasons, they had fault. The men of this house were to blame. Her grandson interfered with that Woodvine girl, which set off a chain reaction of events that led to Margaret running away and ruining her life. Her son scrimped on the furnace expenses and caused an appalling tragedy, that left a seething hostility towards the King name in the town and far beyond. Son and grandson acted entirely through their own stupid selfishness. These men carelessly smashed their way through people’s lives like a beater on a pheasant shoot. They’d destroyed the lives of these two women, and who knew how many more? Her husband had been their model, his own vicious nature leaving victims strewn in its wake. How many more vengeful spirits like Betsy Blaize would turn up at the graveyard seeking recompense? This time, the Woodvines had paid the dearest price, but the Kings would pay too. She feared now a feud would grow from this, a hatred that could last years, generations even. She would not blame them. The men of this house were like a canker that would one day fell the family tree.
But not if she could help it. She sat upright and steeled herself. She’d said she would take back the reins, yet Margaret’s loss had taken the wind from her sails. But, no more. This simply would not do, sitting here feeling sorry for herself, feeling powerless. Yes, it was the King men that had brought things to this pass, but she herself had allowed them to happen, through her own weakness and lack of vigilance. She stood up and resolved to walk that day, to walk every day. She vowed to regain her strength through vigorous daily exercise and to regain her mind through clarity of purpose and thought. She left the library and passed across the hall. If Jenkins had seen her, she would have instructed her to put on her fur-lined cloak, hat and leather gloves. But she did not wish to cosset herself. She wished to feel the cold sharpen up her bones and wake her from this years-long stupor she had allowed herself to fall into like an enchantment, like a drug. Well, now she was awake and no handsome prince’s tender kiss had been needed. She’d kicked herself awake, and now she was going to kick this forsaken family into shape. She ignored the closet with her outdoor garb in it and crossed the garden room, leaving the house through the glass door. She would take a turn about the grounds and work out a plan of action.
The February air was bitter. The hour was later than she had realised and a grey gloaming was falling, the sky darkening. Queenie watched her breath blow puffs like a chilly steam engine and walked onwards, skirting the house and heading for the herb garden, her favourite part of the grounds. The beds were largely bare, the twiggy remnants of summer lushness stark and dead around her. She marched onwards and with each ten steps forward she listed her recent triumphs to warm herself. The day after Margaret had left, she had met with Brotherton and Pritchard. They agreed to write off the furnace part of the ironworks for good. There had been talk of rebuilding, but it was hopeless. The furnace was already inefficient before it blew and the town would not send its men to work at a King furnace again. The forge, however, was doing well and so were the rolling mill and the foundry. Yet there was talk that iron in this area was on its way out. So she would diversify – buy up other businesses, perhaps a brickworks or shares in a mine. That was where the future lay. She made Brotherton and Pritchard into partners and met with them daily to secure the recovery of the King fortunes. Soon, they would pay some reparation to the families of the dead and injured, but only a small amount, enough not to be insulting and not too much to damage the ironworks’ profits. In the spring, once the business was back on its feet, she would send for Cyril and instruct the partners to train him up properly in the business. This would circumvent her useless son completely. There, that was that sorted.
As to Margaret, she thought about ways to find her and bring her back into the fold. She thought of hiring men who could follow her trail and track her down, a constable or suchlike who could do with the extra cash. But the more she plotted this, the more she disliked the idea. Yes, her granddaughter should be here to take up her rightful place in the King family. But what if she were happy? Did happiness matter? She realised that the first emotion she’d felt when told of her granddaughter’s elopement was envy. Actually, she was glad that Margaret has escaped. She wished she’d had the nerve to do the same all those years ago when they married her off so young. Margaret had escaped the King family. Others had, too. The Woodvine girl, despite her terrible losses along the way, had been lucky to escape its grip and was free now. That servant Arnett had escaped, with a good settlement and reference and no more interference from the Kings. Even that innocent child – the baby on the bridge – she imagined had been blessed by escaping from the Kings. Yes, it was a lucky child that escaped the King family.
She stopped walking. She had walked right through the herb garden and, without noticing, had turned back towards the graveyard, so caught up in her plans she had been. She was penetratingly cold now, her teeth chattering, her bones aching. It was nearly dark and the fog of confusion began to descend in her mind. She fought to clear it.
‘No,’ she said aloud. ‘No, I will not allow it. I am Alice King and I am the queen of this castle.’
‘Your castle walls will fall,’ said a voice.
Queenie gasped and looked up. There, beside her husband’s grave, stood again the ghost of Betsy Blaize, the maid her husband had raped from the age of twelve till she fell pregnant with his baseborn child at fifteen and who had died on the iron bridge at the tender age of sixteen. Her eyes burned bluer than ever and her long, luxurious white hair flowed over her shoulders like an avalanche.
‘Blaize!’ she gasped, her hands shaking from fear and the cold. ‘I am sorry. I should have stopped it. I should have done more. Forgive me, Betsy. Oh, I beg you to forgive me.’
The spirit spoke again. ‘Dark times are ahead. The crucible will purify. The house will fall.’
Queenie dropped to her knees and sobbed. She could not feel her fingers now or the skin on her face, so numbed were they with nightfall and haunting.
‘I have done good deeds. I have helped others more lowly than ourselves. I have made reparation. Is this not enough? What can I do? Tell me what I can do to save ourselves.’
Then, she felt a curious sensation in that frigid place: a hot waft of air enveloped her. She looked up and the ghost was leaning down towards her, breathing warmth across her face and hands, which tingled now with life. The ghost was smiling curiously at her, then spoke once more.
‘After the fire, I will come again. A baby will bridge the divide.’
Queenie hid her face in her hands to escape the spirit’s gaze. She felt the cold deep in her bones and wondered how long she had been sitting by the graveside. Time seemed to have lost its meaning, as frozen as the hard ground beneath her. At the crunching sound of footsteps, she slowly turned her head to see Jenkins approaching. The ghost was nowhere to be seen.
Jenkins helped her to her feet and they began the slow trudge back to the house.
‘The baby, the baby on the bridge,’ Queenie was muttering.
‘What are you doing, you mad old bat?’ said Jenkins. ‘It’s black as your grandfather’s hat out here.’
Queenie peered at her maid, right in the eye. ‘Jenkins, where have you been? I could have died for all you care!’
‘Hush
your noise, woman. You’ll outlive us all.’
Then there came a sound, a breathy whisper behind that made Queenie turn and look back. The ghost was still there, watching her with accusing eyes. Then it turned, took one long look at the resting place of Ralph King senior and faded from the night, leaving Queenie shivering in the gathering gloom.
Acknowledgements
The Royal Literary Fund, whose award of a grant and fellowship has saved me and means I can write these books in peace. I will be forever grateful. A particular thanks to Eileen Gunn and Steve Cook of the RLF, for coming to see me and supporting my applications throughout.
Shroppiemon, founder and administrator of the hugely popular Facebook group Memories of Shropshire, dialect master and number one research support of this book during its writing. He has always been on hand for questions concerning dialect and local history, as well as reading in detail the final draft and offering reams of helpful advice. Couldn’t have done it without you, mon.
Stephen Dewhirst, of the Broseley Local History Society, for essential information on ironworks in the 1830s. Also, huge thanks for reading the final draft and offering such useful advice on a range of issues.
Pete Jackson, for all things pertaining to Cinderloo.
Geoff Fletcher, for detailed and fascinating help on a range of Shropshire issues, such as providing photos, information on an 1801 walking tour of the area, family history and dialect.
All the members and administrators of the various Shropshire Facebook groups who kindly let me join, for generously giving great advice on dialect and local history, as well as recommending resources:
• Memories of Shropshire
• Shropshire Tales, History and Memories
• Telford Memories
• Ironbridge and Coalbrookdale pictures
• Ironbridge through the Dale Yesteryear
The Daughters of Ironbridge Page 28
