The Railway Girls

by Leah Fleming

  Since the incident in the Fleece weeks ago, Fancy had not bothered to return to Scarsbeck but spent his knock-off time at the makeshift ale house or poaching trout out of the stream.

  Now he made his way down to the ghyll opposite Middle Butts’ lowest pasture land and noticed a lattice of wooden penfolds erected on the opposite bank where the grass dipped down to the water. Here the usual ripple of water over boulders was dammed into a large pool. A pile of rocks was stemming back the flow into a makeshift lake. The navvy smiled as he kicked off his boots and stockings, tore off his shirt and breeches and jumped into the stream with relief. The shock of the icy coldness and the jagged edges of the stream bed stung him for a second, making him gasp. For a few minutes he played like a bairn in a bathtub, splashing away the cares of the morning, the sadness which had driven him from his daily task. Then he saw a shocked face peering out at him from behind a tree on the other side of the beck.

  It was the fair round face of the girl at the fight, the one who had tried to stick up for him, the girl who stood tall as a tree and watched him as he walked away. Now she was staring at him again, drinking in the view.

  Fancy felt himself blushing at his nakedness. Had she been there all the time watching him strip and cavort about? He knew she had. And was she now going to embarrass him as he stood rooted to the spot, up to his neck in clear water? This was his den and he came whenever he could to bathe in secret. Now he was discovered and his hideaway exposed. This girl had no intention of moving from her hiding place so he brazened out his dilemma and waved to her breezily, trying to act as if he bathed before lassies all day long.

  To his horror the girl stepped forward for a closer look and sat herself down on the bank with her chin resting on her hands.

  ‘This is a washfold now, not a bathing pool. You’d better get out quick or one of the shepherds will throw in his sheep and you’ll get such a dipping! You shouldn’t be down here.’ She smiled.

  ‘When did you make this pool, and by yerself?’ he shouted back, refusing to budge.

  ‘Aye, with a bit of help. Me dad showed me how. Now we dubs the sheep every year, get all the owd oil off their coats and the wool on their backs fair rises up afore clipping day. We get a better price for a fleece if it’s clean. What are you on with coming here?’ she asked, trying not to peer down at his nakedness.

  ‘Sorry, I just come here for a wee bit of peace and quiet, away from the camp, to listen to the water and wait for the kelpies,’ he teased, knowing she would be curious.

  ‘Who are the kelpies?’ came her query.

  ‘That would be telling of the wee sprites. Have you never seen a will o’ the wisp, they love to dance by the water . . .’

  ‘And drown poor souls if they get the chance like the boggarts in the holes. I keep clear of suchlike and so should you, if you’ve got any sense,’ she replied earnestly.

  ‘My secret is out, Miss . . .?’

  ‘Miss Birkett, Ellen Birkett, Mr . . .?’

  ‘MacLachlan, Fancy Mac, Miss Birkett.’ Now they were formally introduced but Fancy could not move, feeling the chill numbing up his legs. He was not going to retrieve his clothes in front of this lassie. She didna look the kind of lass who would be used to seeing men in their scuddies so he tried not to chitter and kept his hand splashing the water.

  ‘Do you need a hand at the clipping?’ he ventured.

  ‘Nah, thanks. There’ll be a gathering of sheep from down the dale and we all chip in and lend a hand, throw them in for a swim, dolly them top to tail and clip them next week if the weather holds. It’s a right good time, a bit of a do, a dance and a singsong and lots to eat. It won’t be the same this year since me dad went,’ she sighed.

  ‘He jacked in and sloped off, did he?’ asked Fancy.

  ‘Nothing like that, he had a bad turn and died on us last backend. Now nothing is the same.’ Ellen sighed, spreading her smock over her knees coyly. ‘Are you going to stay in there forever?’

  ‘Only until you let me in peace to get out. I’ll nay be shaming a lassie,’ came his reply.

  ‘You weren’t so bothered when you jumped in? Mr MacLachlan, shame on you.’

  ‘I didna ken I had a peep-show.’

  ‘Don’t be bashful. I know a tup from a ewe. I’m a farmer’s lass. I know what’s what.’ Ellen laughed and her pink face gleamed from the reflection of light on the water. Still Fancy did not budge so she relented. ‘If I go behind the tree again, will you get out and dress so we can continue our conversation, Mr MacLachlan?’

  Fancy needed no second bidding and shot out of the water purple with cold, shivering. He darted behind a bush and dived into his breeks, wiping his body with his shirt. At last he was decent. He called out softly, ‘Miss Birkett. You can come out now.’ He turned but she was nowhere to be seen and instead he found himself facing the sour red face of the farmhand whose face he had rearranged at the Fleece.

  ‘Get off this land. Get back to yer camp and don’t bother my cousin again or I’ll get the constable on you. I owe you one, Jock! Go on, bugger off!’

  Fancy gestured to him defiantly and turned back up the path into the heat of the day. Nothing and no one would stop him seeing that bonny lass again.

  Chapter Twelve

  Ellie got an ear-bashing all the way home from her cousin; about the danger of consorting with a navvyman, the risk to her reputation, about ever talking unchaperoned to a stranger. Sunter seemed to think he had rescued her from a terrible fate, promising not to say a word to Widow Birkett as long as she would dance with him at the dubwash party. Ellie was fuming at being interrupted and stamped up the lane, her mind racing to remember every word they had exchanged. The vision of that handsome Fancy Mac in his naked splendour danced before her eyes, tantalising, out of reach now Sunter had spoiled the tryst. She wanted to race ahead and find a quiet shady corner to hug it all to herself.

  Now she was being escorted back like a loose cow from the village street. Once indoors she would be caught up in the preparations for the dubwash. Mother was bashing on with the baking as if life and reputation depended on it, acres of pastry for gooseberry and raisin pies, curd cheese tarts, plum puddings to be boiled in cloths in the copper and of course her famous rabbit pies to get the feasting underway. This was to be flushed down with elderflower fizz which lay in deep bowls cooling in the larder on the slate slabs. The men would make alternative arrangements, bringing their own concoctions which even the Methodists among them found hard to resist.

  For Ellie the afternoon would bring more stirring and mixing, slaving over the range, Mother barking orders like a flustered dog and all on a hot summer’s day. It was much more fun at the dubwash, gathering up the hundreds of sheep, guiding them into the pens, putting on fleece body wraps to wade into the cool and pull the sheep through the dipping pool. There was so much joking and merriment.

  Dad always had a little joke up his sleeve and sewed up a farmer’s trousers here or an armhole there. The whisky bottle passed between them. Dad always let her guard the lambs to make sure they found the right mothers. She should be down with Beth Wildman and the other shepherds, not stuck in the kitchen with the women. Ellie felt her throat tighten at the thought of Dad not being there, leaning on the farm gate sucking his clay pipe. Their life had no order now, at the mercy of the Lunds’ contrived concern and Sunter’s fussiness. ‘Oh Dad! You should be here and all would be well in our world and I would tell you about Fancy Mac and you would let him help on the farm and perhaps . . .’

  ‘Ellen Mary Birkett, don’t stand there like a month of Sundays! Get scrubbed up and give us a hand. We need to get a leg on!’ came Mother’s dulcet tones from the courtyard as she beat furiously on the best pegged rug, sending dust flying, puce-faced with the effort.

  It was cool inside the stone house, dark and refreshing, until Ellie saw Mercy pulling faces at her. Girls of ten could be so silly and spiteful. Mercy was never the most appealing sister with her plain features; as wick as a weasel she
might be but whingey with it. She would never speak about Dad. It was as if he had never existed and this made Ellie sad. Mother said it was better to let her get on with her lessons and forget him if it made her more biddable. Ellie was not so sure.

  ‘We’ve had a visitor and you don’t know who,’ smirked Mercy. Ellie shrugged her shoulders. ‘We’ll have even more tomorrow so there!’ This lack of interest made Mercy stick her tongue out. ‘I’m not going to tell you then.’

  ‘Don’t bother yerself. I have my own secrets too.’ That would take the shine off her apple, thought Ellie, walking away. Mercy skipped down the stone flags after her.

  ‘Miss “Patabully” came a-calling all the way from the schoolhouse. I had to walk home with her and she made me stand up straight and stick me chest out like a lady, so there.’ All this was delivered in one breath.

  ‘So what was Miss Cora wanting out here? We are honoured. She never leaves the village unless it’s to call at Scarsbeck Hall once a year to attend Miss Augusta’s literary meeting.’ Her mother was quick to enlighten her.

  ‘She wants to find new lodgings for that ’ere Mission teacher on account of Mr Ezra’s indisposition. You know, the young lady with the fancy bonnets what sits in their pew in church. I’ve never seen such expensive ribbons on such tall hats. When she walks down that aisle she looks like a chest o’ drawers. Anyroad Miss Cora wondered if we, being an all-female household, might oblige. It being more proper for Miss Herbert, that’s her name . . .’

  ‘Well, Mother, I hope you said yes?’ Ellie liked the look of the young woman and an extra pair of hands as well as income would be welcome. ‘She could have Mercy’s room and Mercy can have the attic to herself.’

  ‘That’s not fair. It creaks up there. I shan’t be able to hear anything. I’ll be flayed of fright.’ The girl sulked. ‘I don’t want no teacher in my house. She’ll be on at me. She’s a right tartar with the navvy class. Miss Patabully says we shouldn’t mix ’cos they’re dirty and Patabully says she’s not a proper teacher, just a helper, so there.’

  ‘Don’t be disrespectful to your headmaster, Mercy Birkett. I’ve told you afore. I’m sure Miss Herbert will fit in a treat. Oh, was I glad that the old fusspot didn’t catch me still in my washing gear with a dirty floor and messy tables. I took Miss Bulstrode straight into the parlour all beeswaxed and smelling like a posy, gleaming like a new penny it was. Her eyes raked all over it looking for a speck of dust, just like them farmers’ wives will be doing tomorrow, sneaking up here for a quick pee and a sken, to see if I’ve bottomed it all out in their honour. Which I have. I don’t want none of them clacking round the dale that Widow Birkett can’t put on a good show.’

  ‘Did she like the place then?’ asked Ellie, seeing her mother flush with pride at being singled out by the fussiest woman in Scarsbeck.

  ‘Aye, she did that, her eyes were on stalks at the size of the rooms and the polish on the oak and the French china plates what Amos Birkett brought back from Napoleon’s war. I don’t think she expected to see his portrait on the wall and that kist in the hall or yon silver plate but she said nowt. That’s her way, but her eyes were greener than grass at the sight of it. Are you sure we do right to take in a stranger, Ellie? Whatever would your Dad think to be reduced to this?’

  ‘You mustn’t think like that, Mother. We can make use of the spare room, perhaps gain an extra pair of hands. Town-folk like to be around animals and when we get snowed in, Mercy will have her own teacher on tap. Who knows? She may even take a shine to Sunter and take him off our hands once and for all.’

  ‘I hear she don’t get on with the parson. Cleggy’s missus told the baker and he told me, she called him a trout to his face, so it’s said.’

  ‘Well, she’s not far off the mark then, is she, the time he spends at the beck. When will Miss Herbert be coming?’ asked Ellie.

  ‘Her trunk is on the cart even as we speak,’ smiled her mother, ‘so crack on, our Mercy, and clear out your room.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  The cart bobbed down the lane, a simple hearse pulled by a black Dales pony with a plume of dark feathers stuck in his harness. The coffin was laid on a bed of meadow flowers: buttercups and orange mountain poppies with branches of willow strewn at the sides. Behind the cortège came the family and friends and most of the camp women with black scarves tied around their sun bonnets, navvies in their Sunday best caps and officials in frock coats and stovepipe hats, to honour this first fatality at their works. The missioner from Batty Green in wideawake hat and a black suit carried his Bible, escorting the child down into Scarsbeck village.

  It was not a day for blackness; the earth was burnt like toast and the bracken tinder-hot. The fierce sun glared down from a cloudless sky as they processed silently down the empty streets; St Oswy’s bell tolled out the occasion and some of the villagers stood respectfully in their doorways, caps off, curtains closed. The silence was broken only by the bell and barking of dogs tethered in the shadows. There was no love lost for a navvy but nobody begrudged a child a place in their kirkyard. Cleggy made sure the grave was dug and the bell was tolling.

  Miss Herbert ushered her class out of the temporary classroom into the sunlight which blinded them for a moment. Tizzy found herself at the back of the procession gathering in the straggling younger children who were excited to be let out of school to see Georgie Hunt’s big day. They were lined up around the hole in the ground and the missioner, Mr Tiplady, who often wandered round the camp with his British Workman magazines and Bible pamphlets, read a lesson, said a prayer for George and looked solemn and important. Tizzy could see Mally and her neighbours trying to console the weeping mother whose small bemused children clung to her skirts. The gangmen looked uncomfortable at all the wailing going on.

  Tizzy started counting, one, two, three alearie, five, six, seven alearie . . . she always did this when she was nervous, trying to keep her eyes from the hole, gulping hard not to cry. Boys never cried but she knew Georgie Hunt. He was one of her gang and she fingered his best marble in her pocket; the one she had bartered with him for one of her own bull’s-eyes. She could beat him at football and he was going to be an engine driver. Now he was in pieces in a wooden box, going down into a dark hole, and he’d never see daylight again. Tizzy was shivering at the very thought. One, two, three . . .

  Everyone told stories of gruesome accidents on camps far away or the other side of the one you were on. It didn’t happen to you, though, or someone you knew. She was used to kiddies dying and going to heaven. They did that all the time, lying like waxen dollies wrapped in white cotton with lacy edges, and you went in and said goodbye before they put the lid on. Mally would not let her see George. None of the tea nippers had seen him. The lid was down and that was really scary. What did he look like under it? All mangled up and squashed, so the other lads whispered. Was he really put in a sack in little pieces and dumped on his mother’s trestle table to put together again? She hoped not.

  What if it had been her? Then they would discover her secret and Mally would be in trouble. Granda was so fuddle-brained he had never cottoned on Tizzy was missing and accepted her as dead Billy Boy. Then she remembered the pit and the burning of bodies done at the dead of night and she wanted to run far away from this kirkyard and the noisy wails and the preacher man droning on.

  Tizzy felt faint in the heat. She and Mally were in too deep now to escape. One, two, three alearie . . . She was Miss Herbert’s monitor, her and Poll Blewitt together made the little kids stab out their letters and she got them writing down numbers too. How could she own up to her cheating? If only Mally would jack it in and move away but she was off her meat for love of a brickie from Burnley they called Wobbly Bob, which Tizzy thought a daft nickname for a bricklayer. She wondered if all his bricks kept toppling off his walls but Mally laughed and said it were summat to do with a Saturday night randy when he had had a skinful. Anyroad there would be no shifting Mally Widdup now. She had a good laundry round and helped
out with cleaning in Upper Paradise in the better huts. The search for Ironfist was all but forgotten. Tizzy and Stumper the three-legged lurcher were left to their own devices most of the time.

  Tizzy looked across at the line of gangmen to the tall figure of Fancy Mac, standing head bowed, clutching a real tam-o’-shanter beret, his bleached hair glinting like gold in the sunlight. One day she would grow up and marry him if he would wait for her. The signs were not good though. He was another off his meat, plastering down his hair, putting on his best shirt and tartan waistcoat to wander down to the village just in case, Mally laughed. She recognised the signs herself. ‘He’s going out trapping, Tizzy, and it’s not foxes or rabbits he’s after, that’s for sure.’

  Tizzy loved the way he took her aside and explained things, how to keep yerself safe, why she must go to school and how his forefathers in Scotland lost their land to sheep. Sometimes he showed her his leather book and read out strange poems in a foreign tongue. She knew they must be proper poetry for they made him go dew-eyed and pink. Oh, why couldn’t he wait? But there again he thowt she were a lad, not a lass, and that was all her own doing.

  There were no bullies in his gang or rough men who hit you and kicked yer backside if you were late with their hot water. Woe betide you if the tea weren’t drummed up to their liking, then they would push you over into the mud or dunk yer head into a cesspit just for fun. Sometimes they teased and played cruel jokes. Teasing made her bottom lip tremble and tears fill her eyes for she could never tell if they were serious or not. But worst of all was when they wouldn’t pay you at the end of the week and made you do rude things to get yer money. She hated that more than anything when they unbuttoned their flies and tried to get you to . . . She ran away then and refused to go back to that gang. She told Fancy scraps of this and he made sure that she worked only for his men. She could die herself for love of him after that.