The Railway Girls

by Leah Fleming

  Miss ‘Sherbert’ was fair, nagged a lot but did find a proper sum book for Tizz to get her teeth into. Pages and pages of problems and numbers to calculate. Better than Mally’s gingerbread, having a puzzle to solve, calculate and a tick mark on yer slate. She had to slow down though to make them last out. This book was borrowed under sufferance from old Bulstrode. Miss Sherbert would sigh as she did the ticks. ‘It’s such a pity you can’t be next door with the headmaster,’ she once whispered sadly. Tizzy had no desire to be in his class with the snotty-nosed village kids calling her names and holding their noses. Oh no! She was fine where she was; it was safer than poor Georgie’s job. She was glad she had been at school the day he got hisself run over.

  The missioner stepped back and the box was lowered into the ground. To her amazement Fancy stepped forward with a piece of paper to address the company. He looked so smart and clean-shaven even ‘Sherbert’ took a second glance as he proclaimed a few words in that strange gurgling language which sounded like music. Then he read some lines from a chap called Rabbie Burns, read it out proper in a deep voice and it got poor Sherbert dabbing in her pocket for a handkerchief.

  ‘Accept the gift a friend sincere

  Wad on thy worth be pressin’

  Remembrance oft may start a tear

  But oh! That tenderness forbear

  Though ’twad my sorrows lessen.’

  It was a bit odd to see such a giant spouting forth and one or two looked a bit nonplussed but somehow it made Georgie’s funeral special and dignified. Miss Herbert went to see if the parson were about but Cleggy the sexton said he weren’t getting involved in this do and that got the teacher all fired up again. Tizzy was ushered back down the path to the cool of the classroom while the mourners took rest in the Fleece for the start of their wake and Cleggy’s pony chomped away in his bag of oats, tied to the lych gate post in the shade.

  Tizzy turned round again to watch the sexton digging the hole in with a mixture of curiosity and terror. Where was Georgie Hunt now? Did he feel it as the earth dropped on his head? One, two, three alearie. Tizzy decided in an instant that she was going to live forever; a hundred years if need be. No one was going to trap her underground in a box.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Zillah peered out of her bedroom window with excitement. At last a dry morning for the sheep clipping at Middle Butts Farm and a day free from sodden clothing steaming in the schoolroom. There was enough blue in the sky to make a sailor a pair of trousers and the mist had rolled off the fellsides leaving the grass sparkling and freshly rinsed, drifting off the tops like a gauzy veil. The roses by her casement window scratched on the tiny panes of glass, with dark leaves dripping glassy beads of rain droplets. Rain before seven o’ clock, fine by eleven would be the order of the day.

  Down in the walled kitchen patch, clouds of late apple blossom wafted a delicious scent upwards as she leant out further to welcome in the day. Blackbirds pinked and in the fields the cattle were heads down at their feasting. This really was God’s own country, she smiled, so solid and sure of itself.

  The Birkett women welcomed her not so much as a paying guest but as a friend. She loved the farmhouse with its airy rooms and cool stone floors and the bedroom was snug and comfortable with her own commode and washstand, a counterpane of quilted cotton pieces in a patchwork design and a small writing bureau where she must finish her latest epistle to Nottingham to thank Mama for the parcel of summer finery she had urgently requested to be sent to the farm.

  You will perhaps wonder why I have suddenly decided to lighten my attire but as I told you, Mercy Birkett asked me outright why I always wore grey or black and who had died in my family. She is the sharp-faced, serious child with thick braids of corn-gold hair and freckles which she often tries to bleach off her cheeks much to everyone’s alarm. Mercy frequently reminds me that she has given up her chamber for my comfort when we walk down to school together but these comments took me aback even though her mother scolded her child for being impolite.

  Yet out of the mouths of babes and sucklings often comes a truth. If I am so full of the joy of the Lord why do I dress as if I am in mourning? I think at first I wanted to be taken seriously and would allow no frivolity in my attire except for my usual weakness when it comes to bonnets but even they are toned down somewhat.

  You see it is all so different from my expectations. Daleswomen are a breed apart, very forthright in their opinion-giving. They wear sensible sturdy clothing suited for life amongst mud and mire and some knit even when they walk to the village. Everyone is so industrious. They are never still for a minute, shaming me into appearing slothful. I still find the farmyard smells hard to stomach but Ellen Birkett assures me she doesn’t smell anything!

  Ellen Birkett takes upon herself the mantle of the man of the house, eschewing farmhouse tasks in favour of a farmer’s day whenever she can. Sometimes she dons a farmhand’s smock and short skirts above her ankles and men’s clogs to scrape out the byres and sweep the yard, milk the cows and tend to the flocks with her cousin’s family. She is very tall and statuesque, Papa would say, but of the sweetest disposition. It displeases her mother that she is so uninterested in household accomplishments and would rather groom her tall carthorses than dust a room. The Birketts are quite constrained by the lack of a father and keep to a modest budget. They employ few servants and have no live-in maid as is the norm in these parts. All the women have to contribute to the task and I have made myself useful picking gooseberries, topping and tailing them for the sheep-shearing pies. Mistress Birkett allows me to skim the cream and stir up the cheese curds for they produce the most excellent creamy hard cheese and butter, the finest in the dale so I am told by others. They are far too modest to boast.

  The rule here is that farm and stock come first and family next alongside hired hands and self last. Caring for the needs of others is like a daily sermon to my selfishness. Do not be alarmed, I am still first and foremost committed to my Mission task, but after all those gloomy weeks at the schoolhouse where I was made to feel an intruder, it is such a relief to sleep in a soft bed with crisp linen sheets scenting of lavender. New beds are like strangers. It takes time to become first acquainted then hopefully comfortable old friends, and the bed at the Bulstrodes’ would be rock-solid and starchy however long I lay there.

  Sometimes at the end of the day Ellen and I walk the fields together to examine the stock and gather meadow herbs and flowers for her mother’s remedies. We often share our views and find ourselves laughing together, not at each other but with each other. There is no side to Ellen, as they say in the dale. I have much to learn from her simple faith and honesty. She is much taken with one of the navvy workmen but it has to be a secret for her mother can see no good in any workman employed by the Midland Railway who robbed her of pasture land, giving but a poor rate of compensation, and whose noise and smoke is sooting up her washing line and puts cows off their milking. I think her mother wise to mistrust the average navvy but this handsome red-haired Scotsman is above the usual type, being educated enough to write his own verse in his native tongue, and commands much respect amongst the men.

  You will be glad to know the monthly visitation by the Pastoral Aid Mission to inspect my journals and schoolwork went with only a minor hitch. I pointed out the discrepancy in the abilities of my scholars, especially Billy Widdup, whom I mentioned before. They were at a loss to advise how best to persuade Mr Bulstrode to accept him in his class. I have the beginnings of a scheme in my head to achieve this and will report further on this matter.

  I have to say they were also disappointed in the response from our lazy vicar, Ralph Hardy. Only a bolt of lightning will shake his slumbers in this parish. He reported that I was a regular attender at the services and seemed to be coping with my tasks in the school. He accused me of meddling in parish affairs and causing dissatisfaction amongst his congregation! Nothing more would he offer to the visitors. I think he would try the patience of a saint.


  I then had to explain this criticism to their satisfaction telling them how Mr Cleghorn, the sexton, would no longer tolerate bait in the font and about the troublesome matter of the amputated leg.

  We have had another serious accident on site when one of the workmen fell off the scaffolding which is being erected over the village, much to everyone’s consternation. His right leg was badly smashed and bleeding and after a while became black and swollen, requiring immediate amputation by the medical officer who came up from Batty Green with his saw. The poor man’s screams could be heard over the dale, the wind being in such a direction as to carry even a whisper through the valley. The injured man was one of Mr Tiplady’s temperance converts and was concerned for his eternal condition, worrying what would happen to his right leg on Judgement Day if he was to rise up at the Last Trump.

  It seemed only natural to the missioner and myself that this humble but not uncommon request for a leg burial on consecrated ground be achieved. Mr Cleghorn also felt that there would be no difficulty in propping up the said leg discreetly in St Oswy’s kirkyard in a plot he reserved for other unfortunate appendages, should they ever occur. But would the vicar agree? He was adamant that this was not his business and refused to entertain the idea. So it was raised at the vestry meeting and passed narrowly by the committee, thinking no doubt that this might be a useful place to pop any other spare human bits out of the dale, as long as they were suitably labelled in boxes and the navvy bits were kept apart just in case any navvy wanted to collect his bits and pieces and cart them elsewhere when the railway was completed. The said limb was duly buried by Mr Tiplady and the vicar has not spoken to me in church since. His attitude is so petty but I will not be ignored.

  Thank you again for the pink muslin, blue striped and the cream tussore silk, the lace shawl and cotton petticoats and summer straw bonnets with the silk flowers. I shall have to have their hems upturned if I am not to ruin them in one outing.

  Yours joyfully in the Lord,

  Your grateful daughter,

  Zillah Jane

  The letter was duly sealed and addressed. There would be so much to help with downstairs but Zillah leant out of the window just to make sure it had not started to bucket down again. How it could rain, soaking through her woollen jackets and skirts, but today the sky was forget-me-not blue and white may blossom dripped from the bending branches. By the big barn the shearers had set up their stalls in readiness as the sheep were gathered off the fells into separate bunches baahing and protesting, calling to their lambs and fussing at yet another disturbance of their daily routine.

  Zillah looked up at the pink muslin dress with delicate cream flowers scattered over the full skirt. Thank goodness she had unpacked it earlier for it stank to high heaven of camphor candles to discourage the moths and was creased and limp like rags. She tried to flat-iron it herself but was defeated by the fullness of the skirt. Ellen came to the rescue and finished off the task. The dress was then hung up by the open window to loosen the stink and doused liberally with lavender water and a bag of last year’s dried herb sachets which Ellen kindly donated to the cause.

  Ellen herself was not bothered about the dressing up for she had a hundred jobs to tackle and as Fancy Mac would not be welcome at the feasting afterwards, any excitement she felt was limited. Zillah shook out her petticoats and dressed with care, her spirits rising at the sight of her pink cheeks and healthy glow. Where had that pale face and pallid complexion gone? Too many outdoor walks had put a blush on her skin and a sheen to her face. She was filling out and loosened her stays by two holes; all that open air and hearty food was sticking to her ribs. The Birketts didn’t know about ladylike appetites and pecking at plates. They wolfed down platefuls of meat and vegetables with relish, enjoying every mouthful, hungry, tired and sometimes burping at the table in satisfaction. Mama would be horrified to see how coarse and unrefined Yorkshire women were but somehow her opinion no longer mattered.

  She brushed out her hair and let it hang for a few minutes, watching the way it swished and swirled as she pirouetted gaily. The sunshine streamed in through the window lightening her mood. She would never dare to go abroad like a wanton but as it was a harvest feast for a crop of fresh fleeces, Zillah would honour the occasion with a change of hairstyle. She tied ribbon at the bottom of her hair and rolled it upwards into a soft smooth effect, tying the ribbon round her head and fixing a silk flower onto her broad straw bonnet which had a pink ribbon trailing down from a bow.

  Already the yard was full of farmers: the Braithwaite family with strapping sons, Warwick Lund and Sunter the cousin for whom Ellen had not one good word to say, and farming families from all over the dale. The Birkett farm was always a popular spot for the annual clipping in Scarsdale when the farmers’ sons got a chance to compete with the hired shearers for the quickest shearings and most number of sheep shaved in a day.

  Ellen was swathed in an old smock, guiding the flocks towards the shearing bay where the men sat on their stools, lifted up the ewes and began to clip with long pointed scissors from the neck down each side, all in a smooth swift pattern which made it look a simple task with wriggling sheep. The sheep was dabbed with dye and darted off. The fleece was thrown to someone who rolled it up tightly and then it was thrown onto a cart. It was a back-aching job, judging how some got up and stretched, supping their ale and pasties and catching up with how the others were doing in the competition. Zillah found a job for herself passing round refreshments and taking away the empty tankards to be washed at the pump.

  As the heat rose during the morning so the scents blended into an oily, sweaty, pungent aroma of sheep oils and the sickly stench of the gowdings, the pile of dirty tail-ends of the sheep, unfit for a fleece, which had flies buzzing over them.

  Zillah drifted into the kitchen where Annie and her friends were preparing a lunch of mutton pie and gooseberry and raisin tarts with bowls of cream, all to be washed down with freshly brewed elderflower cordial which was cooling in the still room with elderflowers floating like curds on top of the earthenware jugs.

  No one would clip their flock until the elderflower clusters lay like snow on the branches and high summer was overhead. Zillah sniffed its rich perfume with pleasure. It was a relief to be inside out of the bustle in the cobbled yard and jovial banter in a broad Yorkshire dialect she would never understand as they greeted each other in thick accents, ‘Nah then.How do, owt fresh?’ and the reply came, ‘Fair to middlin’ but nowt fresh. See thee.’ If she lived here for years she would never understand the language.

  No sooner had the lunch been enjoyed than the women cleared away the trestle tables to prepare for the evening feasting and the merriment at the end of a long day. Back into the kitchen they went to bring out all their baskets of fancy food assembled earlier at home and brought together in one big meal which Ellen called a Jacob’s Join.

  Ellen changed out of her smelly clothes and put on a crisp blue shirt and a full skirt which looked as if it had been made out of old curtains of ancient brocade. ‘We don’t waste owt in this house. I think they must have come from the windows of Scarsbeck Hall, they’re that heavy and holey, but Mother made a grand job, don’t you think, and yer can’t see the patches, can you? The rest of them hang over the parlour windows if you look careful.’ Ellen laughed, seeing the look of astonishment on Zillah’s face at their thrift. ‘You look like a picture in that pink and quite different, Miss Herbert, more like a . . .’ She hesitated, not wanting to offend. ‘More like a lady if you don’t mind me saying.’

  ‘A little softer on the eye, perhaps?’ Zillah answered as she smiled, glad she had honoured the occasion and it was appreciated. Mercy danced around her all afternoon fingering the lacy edges of her cuffs and looking longingly at the swish of her skirt. ‘When I’m a teacher I shall wear a pink dress every day and a yellow one on Sundays, with sticky-out petticoats which rustle when I walk and everyone will turn round to look at me, so they will.’

  Beth Wildman, th
e white-haired shepherd woman, stood by the farm door listening to the child prattle on, her dog at her heel. She smoked a long pipe like the men, she had on a waistcoat of lambskin over a man’s shirt and a long skirt of an ancient plaid wool which was fading into a heathery berry colour. She lifted her skirt to curtsey to the child. ‘My, aren’t we going to be the grand one. What if I telt yer I sees you far away across the seas in a new land with a caravan of silks and satins at yer command? What would you say to that, my lady Merciful, would that be suiting you?’ The child jumped up and down with excitement.

  ‘When, when . . .?’

  ‘That’s for me to know and you to find out,’ came the wise reply and Zillah, who disapproved of any fortune-telling as a rule, smiled and nodded.

  ‘As for this young lady, she’s already stirring up the dale, scattering dust in all directions for a right sweep clean afore you gets shut of the dirt but you’ll be for losing yer own heart to the dale like little Bo Peep and not know where to find it for a while. But I’m a-speaking out of turn.’ Her strange eyes flashed in mischief, seeing the teacher blush with annoyance at this unsolicited advice. ‘Come on, Miss Merciful, you can show me round yer patch and we’ll gather a few wild bits of herbs for yer mother. There’s a doctor in every hedgerow if you know where to look.’

  Stung by the wild woman’s prophecies, Zillah scuttled back indoors out of the afternoon heat and busied herself dutifully around Annie Birkett’s table.

  ‘Where shall we put all these bowls of strawberries? The table is full,’ she asked a distracted Ellen.

  ‘Reserves go in the back pantry. Do you think we’ve enough?’

  ‘Enough for Wellington’s expeditionary force . . . a vat of steaming meat pie, bowls of peas and cabbage, jugs of gravy, hunks of crusty bread, a whole cheese wrapped in muslin, pickled eggs and piccalilli and that’s just the first course. I spy a sea of puddings and an island of cakes and pastries, junkets and whipped cream concoctions with toasted almonds and nuts, bowls of red fruits glistening like jewels, cold custards garnished with petals and mountainous fruit jellies, finger biscuits and fancy breads, butter pats moulded and sculpted into pretty shapes. Praise the Lord for your Jacob’s Join. Mistress Birkett’s friends must have been baking for a week to put on this spread. Why so much?’ queried Zillah, pinching a ripe strawberry and dipping it in the cream.