The Railway Girls

by Leah Fleming

  Some of the ladies suggested another brew-up before their trek back up the dale but the men had other ideas and sidled out across the beck to warm their stiff backsides in front of the fire in the Fleece.

  ‘You did well there, Wally, to stand up and tell ’em even if it won’t change owt. If the squire’s sealed it all up there’s little we can do but stomach it. Happen we’ll soon get used to the racket but I didn’t reckon on building works down the street,’ said the baker, wondering if he did an extra tray of bread loaves whether he could sell them on to the workmen for their snap.

  ‘Aye, and digging is thirsty work,’ smiled the landlord to himself, wondering if he ought to order some extra barrels for knock-off time and keep spares in the cellar for discreet carry-outs after dark.

  ‘Birketts and Lunds must be pig-sick,’ whispered Dicky Braithwaite as he watched them sidle over to the bar for a jug of best ale. Sunter sipped his tankard slowly, savouring the warm nutty flavour of the brew. The vicar had come in for his usual warm-up, looking red-faced and uneasy with his neighbours, hoping he had not offended too many in the village with his conciliatory remarks. He wondered if the camp could raise a cricket team and give the village some practice on the green.

  Suddenly the taproom door opened and a group of strangers seemed to fill the room, workmen in donkey jackets and red mufflers with flat caps and throaty accents. The room fell silent as the locals stepped back at their entrance; the size of their brawny backs, bully beef necks and leathery fists shrank any commenting to a few raised eyebrows and winks around the smoky room.

  Wally Stackhouse pretended to ignore them, busying himself with filling up the ale jug from under the bar. He was in no mood to humour navvies after tonight’s revelations.

  The tallest man by a head, standing six foot five in his hobnailed boots, banged on the bar in a jocular fashion and glanced over the assembly casually, lingering on each of the features of the local men, eyeing them one by one as if he was looking for somebody. He smiled a beery smile at his mates; his eyes had a foxy glint in the firelight and his bare head almost touched the ceiling. ‘They dinna want to take our money,’ he said as he glanced over to Sunter Lund and returned to examine the spotty face and the way his hair flopped to his eyebrows. He nudged his mate. ‘That’s the one, I’m thinking. It’s braw bricht nicht, the nicht . . .’ He winked and nodded in Sunter’s direction. The lad, looking puzzled at being singled out by the dark-eyed stranger, turned to his dad.

  ‘He must be one of them furriners, speaking Dutch.’ Sunter swallowed the dregs of his pint and made for the door with a ‘see thee’ to his mates who were rooted to the fireside.

  ‘Not so fast, sonny, not so fast. Would I be right in thinking you’re the best stonewaller in the district?’ asked Fancy MacLachlan. Sunter stopped in his tracks at the compliment.

  ‘Who’s asking?’ He looked to his father for support.

  ‘It’s just that I’m needing an opinion on something and you will ken just what I have in mind. Come away outside and prove me right.’ Fancy bent under the low lintel of the door, putting his arm around the lad’s shoulders as if they were old mates, which caused enough curiosity among the taproom to have everyone else troop into the darkness after them. Even Ralph was intrigued to know why the giant should single out the unremarkable Lund boy for such attention.

  Outside, the Lund and Birkett women were still chewing the cud of the railway meeting with others loitering on the street and they drifted towards the crowd outside the Fleece. The navvy dipped into a corner by the wall and produced a sack which he dumped straight into Sunter’s hands. ‘This is for you. I am right in thinking you were up in yon fields opposite Paradise, the forenoon? Go on, open it up. It won’t bite ye!’

  Sunter shook out the sack and jumped back. ‘What the!’ he exclaimed as the stiff corpse of the little whippet fell onto the ground, its gashed swollen body for all to view. There was a gasp from Mercy Birkett, who buried her head in Mrs Birkett’s lap, but Ellen stepped forward for a closer inspection.

  The red-haired navvy caught a glimpse of pity in her sparkling eyes, a flash of golden tendrils framing this noble face, two plaits entwined across the top of a head on which perched an apology for a hat, tied under her chin with blue ribbon. For a second he stood distracted by the sight of such wholesome beauty and wished himself a hundred miles away from this confrontation.

  ‘Is this yer handiwork, sonny, murdering a wee bairn’s doggie?’

  ‘It were worrying sheep. They’d no right to be on our land.’ He looked again to his father who stood behind him, nodding.

  ‘Aye, he’s right. We shoot owt as steps in a field full of lambs. We’ve a living to make. That’s the rules and yer in the country now, mister, so mind who you accuse,’ said Warwick, pointing his finger angrily.

  ‘It wasna’ doing any harm, man, and he kens that fine. Just a chit of a kid and a wee dog and he killed it afore the bairn. You should be ashamed of yerself.’ Fancy towered over the two men. ‘Any fool can see it’s a wee pup, no a wolf!’

  ‘It was on my land . . . so bugger off!’

  ‘It was our land not yours, Sunter Lund, and you should have told us,’ cried Ellie as she stepped out of the crowd.

  ‘Shut yer face, Ellie, it’s nowt to do with you,’ snapped her cousin.

  ‘That’s no way to talk to a lady!’ Fancy’s leathery fist went whacking into Sunter’s jaw with a crack, sending the young farmer flying backwards onto the laps of two old men cowering on the pub bench, sending hats, dogs, people scattering in all directions and the vicar scuttling forward to see if he could calm the affray.

  ‘Gentlemen, please! This is no way to settle an argument.’ He was pushed sideways into Dicky Braithwaite’s wife who clasped him eagerly and tried to whisper in his ear the time of their next assignation while Blaize Lund knelt over her boy wiping his bloody face with a lace handkerchief, crying, ‘Fetch the constable! My boy’s being murdered! Don’t just stand there gawping at the peepshow! Bray ’em, Warwick! You see . . . not here five minutes and look what’s happening, See what we’re in for with jailbirds and savages on our doorstep. Someone fetch Constable Firth.’

  Ellen Birkett stared up at the handsome face of the navvy, at the deep dark eyes and grinning mouth. ‘What my cousin did was wrong but belting him won’t make things better.’ She tried to sound cross but then softened as she saw him tenderly put the dog back in the sack. ‘You’d better go quickly before they arrest you.’ The navvy men were already pulling their mate by his jacket but he was reluctant to break the spell between them.

  Widow Birkett, sensing danger, dragged her daughter from the scene. ‘Come away, Ellen, this minute! We must get Mercy to bed. ’Tis too late for her as it is!’ Fancy smiled a long lingering smile at the two women then raced across the beck into the darkness, with a banshee roar of satisfaction which echoed all the way down the street. As Ellie stared in his direction an anxious mother tugged her sleeve. ‘I told you afore. Don’t you even look in that direction again, missy. You’re not too old to feel the back of my hand.’

  As Ralph Hardy shook his head at the kerfuffle around him he felt the first thick flakes of snow on his cheek and watched the feathers settling on the grass verges and sandstone rooftops, blanching the village into a scene from a Christmas card.

  He pulled up his collar and turned up the footpath to St Oswy’s cold vicarage, Beth Wildman’s warning whispering in his ear. Trouble was coming with the snow.

  Chapter Seven

  The snow swirled and wrapped itself around the hills in great swathes, beating savagely against the struggling bands of carts, lashing the ponies with icy whipcords causing them to stumble and falter, blowing the drifts into huge pillars which closed off the dale track behind, encircling the wagon train, entombing them in a sinister world of whiteness.

  ‘This is as far as we go, ma’am,’ ordered the irate driver of the horse and cart to his charge who sat bolt upright like a snow-woman. ‘We shou
ld have stopped at the Gearstones Inn, like I said. Now we are doomed if we don’t take shelter in that barn across there.’ He swung the lantern in the direction of the wall where a shippon encrusted in snow stood cocooned in a snowdrift.

  ‘I was not going to spend the night in a public house, Mr Cleghorn. My principles would not allow such a thing,’ came a firm reply from the snow-woman.

  ‘Principles won’t keep us warm in a blizzard or save my poor Nippa from a broken leg, beg pardon. It’s lucky I knows these lanes like the back of me hand or we would be found stiff as boards tomorrow, frozen to the spot,’ argued Isaac Cleghorn.

  Would foolhardy offcumdens never learn to respect these hills? You could be hale and hearty one minute and dead of cold a few hours later if you took the wrong track into a bog or got caught ill-clad in a storm.

  The woman sitting beside him might be one of these educated schoolmarms dressed up like a nun; a brave little filly, no doubt, but he was not risking the life and limb of his pony just so she didn’t have to smell an ale jug. Anyroad where she were going she’d have to bath in beer if she wanted to stay fresh! There were others to think of, following behind in makeshift wagons, frozen, frightened and lost in the snow.

  The convoy of sorry travellers slithered into each other with relief and made for their shovels to dig out the entrance to the side door, stamping their feet, gathering belongings, unharnessing the beasts to give them cover for the night. The door, once opened, led into a line of cow stalls where cattle mooed in alarm at the unexpected invasion and the travellers squelched up to the ankles into steamy dung and straw.

  The walls were encrusted with dried cow muck which one Irishman quickly started to pick off into thick lumps to put on a makeshift fire as coal. They found the main hall of the barn empty of winter fodder, just a few bits of straw and hay left. The roof was sound enough and the walls thick, the warmth of the cattle and a small fire would keep them safe for the night. A blizzard in late April. How could such a thing be?

  Mr Cleghorn thought it his duty to put them straight on a few matters. ‘You’ll have to expect owt in these parts: frost, hail, thunder, lightning. Whatever the Good Lord in His Wisdom throws at you. This isn’t the Garden of Eden even if it is called Paradise camp. That’s just the contractor’s little joke to get you up here, I reckon.’

  Miss Herbert, newly appointed teacher to Scarsbeck school, funded by the Pastoral Aid’s Educational Mission to the Deserving Poor, descended slowly from the cart unaided, her hooped skirt sagging with an apron of snow. She tried to feel confident but the cold had seeped through her four petticoats, right into her bones. As soon as her smooth-soled bootees touched the icy pathway she found herself face down, licking the snow while the hooped skirt rose up in an ark behind her. Thankfully there was no one behind her to witness this shaming. Perhaps she would have to reconsider trailing skirts and feminine accessories in such hostile terrain.

  Wiping the snow from her half-cloak, straightening her poky bonnet to a less rakish angle, she staggered into the barn and felt the hot foetid mess pouring into her boots. The stench hit her sensitive nostrils; that fruity mélange of beasts, sweaty men, unclean clothes, the smoke of a struggling fire stung her eyes into tears. This was not the adventure she was expecting when she left Ingleton Station and took tea with the vicar and his wife at Chapel le Dale. She knew now they had lingered too long over the tiered cake-stand and refills in bone china teacups. The delay cost them the remaining daylight and now a storm had overtaken the wagon train to Scarsdale, stranding her in a smelly barn instead of a warm bed in the schoolhouse at Scarsbeck.

  Think positively, praise the Lord in adversity, she scolded herself. She was safe, dry and there would be warm milk from a cow if all else failed. There was one other young woman resting by the wall so she had a chaperone of sorts. The poor Bulstrodes would be worried sick. Perhaps they had sent out a search party for her and she would be rescued, ere long, from this uncomfortable lodging. Perhaps she was being over-optimistic.

  The Lord always provides what you need but not always what you want. That was obviously today’s lesson.

  She found herself a corner alone to shake out her wet outer garments, hanging them over the stalls, and rummaged in her overnight valise for her Paisley shawl to keep her chest snug. She rooted out her unsigned letter and sat down to read it again.

  My dear Aunt Jane,

  It is with heavy heart that I recall our sad parting yesterday. I would have wished my parents had made the effort to accompany me to the station but the events of the past few weeks have obviously made their feelings plain.

  How could they imagine that I would ever consider Frank Warbuoys to be my life’s companion? He was always such a weak cup of tea from a pair of plain teapots. I found him neither hot nor cold in his courtship, mostly lukewarm in his opinions, tasteless in his appearance and wishy-washy in his theology.

  Thankfully I have other options and the timing of the Mission visit was godsent for this purpose, giving me a chance to escape from the gloomy atmosphere. I know that my parents feel I have ruined any chance of marriage, having refused the one firm offer and not having the physical graces needed to attract other attention.

  I grew accustomed early to the fact that I was a plain child of small squat stature and dark appearance. I have few appealing features; a mouth too wide and eyes set far apart with thick brows on a pale face. Added to this intensity of eye and gruff voice is my questioning spirit and argumentative nature. I know these are not qualities suited to a sensitive suitor like Frank. Now everyone is embarrassed by my refusal. I must do what I feel is right and leave the arena of conflict. So here I am stuck out on a bleak moorside in a blizzard.

  I had hoped they would give their last-minute blessing to the tremendous task I have undertaken on behalf of the Pastoral Aid. I’m not playing at being a missionary, honestly. I’m not deserting my class by choosing to teach in a remote navvy town with families who do not enjoy the benefits of wedlock. I know it seems the height of foolishness to you all, to sacrifice all the advantages of my elevated position in following ‘some fanciful whim’, as Papa said.

  This is the Lord’s doing and I must obey His call. I will not succumb to disease, debauchery or worse for I am safe in the everlasting arms of the Lord who at all times will be my Guardian.

  How can they say I will be unchaperoned and untutored when I shall be with Sister Bulstrode and her brother in the schoolhouse and the vicar of the parish will be my chaplain and his family will no doubt take me under their wing? All my needs will be supplied.

  And I have my manual of instruction from the Mission itself which is a fulsome document, alongside the prayer book, Bible and Commentary, and my journal to record mission work. Do not be ashamed to let it be known that I have a vocation for missionary service not marriage. I am twenty-four and surely old enough to pursue my own decisions on these matters.

  If they choose, as they threaten, to dispossess me of any worldly inheritance, then so be it. I am thrown then on the tender mercies of the Lord Who shall not be found wanting in that department.

  Mama will worry that I do not have the necessities for survival in such a rough climate but I packed my parasol and will wear a veil at all times to protect my complexion from sun stains. I managed to obtain rubberised overshoes and will wear red flannel undergarments at all times. I have packed a watercolour painting box, a writing compendium and a box of Nanny Brewer’s herbals, lozenges, tonics and remedies to add to my toiletries, some camphor candles against moths in my trunk and enough edifying literature to keep me from temptation on warmer days when I might wish to wander out unchaperoned to explore the beauty of God’s creation.

  I am sorry that you all find the idea of my mission simplistic and very unsophisticated, my aim is to give poor children access to the written Word of God. I realise they will never take kindly to the idea that their only child has chosen to abandon her genteel existence for plain habit and a life of hardship and poverty. />
  I have not taken legal vows but in my heart I am pledging my life to His Higher Service. Why does everyone call this a waste of upbringing?

  Please do not disregard my epistles, but look upon my efforts as journals of a soul who is searching out her salvation in fear and trembling with hopes as tall as spears. I beg you do not let them contact Sir Edward Dacre or Miss Augusta. I want no contact with county life but a simple, unadorned, anonymous existence as Christ’s obedient servant.

  I have always enjoyed being a Sunday school teacher and the extra training given to me by the Mission will be valuable. I was weary of a social life devoid of purpose.

  Yours in continuing disobedience,

  Always your loving niece,

  Miss Herbert put aside her letter to survey the groups who chattered and shivered in separate corners. Someone lit an oil lamp and another began to play a mouth organ. She heard the clink of pots and did not dare to look to see if any of the navvy men were imbibing spirits. Her eyelids drooped as the wearisome travel took its toll. It was going to be a long uncomfortable night.

  Suddenly there came a strange wailing from the young woman who had hidden herself in the darkest corner of the barn, like an animal in pain, shattering the comfortable low chatter with a loud moaning cry.

  Miss Herbert shot up out of her dozing, jolted and disorientated for a second. Where was she? What was she doing in this smoky byre? The driver, a little man with wide shoulders built on a slope, seemed to lurch to one side, doffing his cap as he crossed the room to summon her aid. ‘I think you should come, miss, women’s trouble, I reckons . . . It’s on its way with all that joggling.’ Isaac Cleghorn was fumbling for the words as they stepped over the men sitting on the floor smoking baccy in long clay pipes, reclining around the little fire.

  The girl lay on some sacking, sweating, her belly swollen into a dome under her grubby skirt. ‘Me time’s come. I can feel it down there ready to drop. Help me, please! I’ve never done it afore.’