The Railway Girls

by Leah Fleming

  ‘As I recall, I once lost one of me sheep at a sale in a mix-up; a good ewe that sometimes gave twins regular, so I scoured each pen till I found her mixed with someone else’s lot. I could tell her by her crooked teeth. All crossed over they were. So I tellt some gaffer what I was looking for and he checked the pen for me. I was right, it was my sheep and I got her back. T’other farmer had no idea it wasn’t one of his. Just shows it pays to know yer own.

  ‘Watch over folk, listen and keep yer distance. Come closer when they wander off. Leave ’em alone and they’ll come home, wagging their bloody tails behind them.’ Beth laughed at the nursery rhyme. ‘Leave ’em alone and they wander off some cliff like the stupid sheep they are, daft and canny at the same time. Need a lot of looking after do sheep.’ She lifted her hand as he stood to leave. ‘If I do get badly, come and sit with me awhile until I’m safely away . . .’

  ‘There you go again getting maudlin. I shall go straight home and get Cleggy to bring you a bottle of my best brandy. He can sit while you down the whole lot in one go. That’ll put a smile on your face, a flush on those yellow cheeks, the lash back in that tongue of yours and fire in your belly.’ Ralph bent over, grabbed her hand and kissed it. It was as cold as ice.

  Tizzy and Mercy met secretly by the beck during the school holidays to plan their surprise for Sunter Lund. Mercy told her new friend about the stones hanging in the cowshed, stones with holes in the centre to ward off the evil eye. Sunter was careful never to move the stones tied with twine to the stalls. Tizzy told how she had scared him with her curses and together the idea of scaring him witless was born.

  Now they were waiting at dusk in the shadows on the track past Middle Butts near the copse of high trees which whooshed and crackled as the evening breeze rustled through the glade. Already the dry leaves were curling up. They had blackened their faces with grate polish and then painted whitewash in stripes to look like bones on the sacks hung over their heads and bodies with a hole for a face. Mercy had made crepe poky bonnets with straw sticking out for hair. The final touch was candle lanterns floating in oil in case they blew out. They were hiding, listening for the clop of the cart as he staggered back from market, ‘fresh’ with ale from his stop at the Fleece.

  At the sound of hooves they crossed over into the straw field and climbed onto the stone wall just enough to swing the lanterns eerily and wail in high-pitched voices. ‘Coming to get you, Lundy Butts . . . boggarts of the potholes is coming for you soo–oon, Lundy Butts.’ They crept along the wall keeping pace with him but crouching down out of view.

  Then Tizzy sprang up and screamed like a banshee. The horse reared up at the noise. Sunter struggled for the rein and stopped it dead. There was silence, only the arching flickering shadows reflected on the trees.

  ‘Who’s that? I’ll bloody get you for that, Jock! Bugger off!’ He could make out figures, leaping and waving.

  ‘Murderer . . . your time is nigh.’

  ‘If that’s you, Jock, I’m coming to have you, once and for all!’ With one leap he scaled the stone wall, cursing as he stubbed his shin. He could see fleeing figures in the distance, running from the gate back to the wood. ‘Come back here, cowards. I’ll find you!’ As Mercy fled from her cousin she dropped the lantern. There was no time to dart back for it. To her horror the hot oil and candle flame spilled out onto the dry straw igniting the ground at once in a line of fire; fire onto ground as hot as oven plates; tinder, kindling twigs, dry leaves fuelling the flames into a blazing wall. Soon the whole field was alight; the crackling fire had Sunter galloping towards Middle Butts. ‘It’s afire!’

  The children stood back in horror at the accident. ‘Look what we’ve done!’ yelled Mercy, frozen with fear.

  ‘You go back and I’ll run to the camp for help too,’ shouted Tizzy, her feet scorching in the smouldering grass. ‘Run, run, Mercy. No one will see you in the dark!’

  The heavy clouds of choking smoke brought men down from the camp to lend weight to the fire-beating, throwing soaked sacks around the barns and buildings to steer the fire out from the farm up onto the moor. Whipped by the wind the torch of fire spread across bracken and heather. Sparks flew like fireworks and through the night Lunds, Birketts, navvies, farmers, struggled to control its wayward path.

  A chain of women carried buckets from the trickling beck. Annie Birkett and Zillah took turns to pull on the well-rope, hauling up water to douse the firebreak while Ellie led horses and cattle to safety near the beck.

  The black silhouettes of men fought tirelessly to and fro, choking from smoke and dust. Mercy dashed around in a frenzy of remorse unable to do anything but get under feet.

  As dawn broke the farm stood safe, blackened by smoke, the garden a trampled mess, while the bracken and moorland smouldered under the first downpour of autumn.

  The navvies under Ben Robson, the resident engineer on duty, brought a stirrup pump but the stream was almost dry. The beck was a good firebreak though and there was no danger to the camp on the other side. The railway track through Middle Butts pasture lay in ruins; the sleepers had burned to dust and iron rails buckled in the heat. Half a mile of useless embankment charred and all the equipment left overnight destroyed.

  Fancy Mac and his gang helped to clear up the mess around Middle Butts, silently lifting cartwheels, checking for any sparks and dampening the hay with wet sheets.

  ‘Yer could have lost all yer fodder. A rum do.’

  ‘How did it start?’

  ‘A spark of lightning?’ The men sipped tea with parched throats as the questions came thick and fast.

  ‘He started it!’ Sunter accused, his clothes splattered with scorches, pointing his stubby finger at the gangmaster. ‘You, Jock, were behind that wall with a torch trying to make a fool o’ me. I saw yer. He chucked down his torch and fled. I saw it. He’s yer man!’

  Fancy stepped forward, towering over the man, pointing his own finger angrily. ‘Yer out of order, sonny. Ach away with yerself . . . There’s a dozeny men here who was drinking in ma hut when Mr Paisley shouted us to help out doon here. He can telt ye the truth of it, so he can. I wouldnae put it past yon fool to have started it hisself.’ Sunter rushed at him but Warwick held his shirt.

  ‘Come away, son, it’s no use a-blaming. A spark could kindle a flame in this drought. It’s just one of those things and land is better for a bit of burning.’

  ‘But I’m telling you. It were him or one of his. I seed it with me own eyes, calling out names. You should send for the constable,’ pleaded Sunter to an audience which shrugged shoulders and turned backs wearily. Sunter was a fool to himself to spoil for a fight after these lads had worked all night to put out the blaze.

  Annie Birkett shook the manager’s hand, saying thank you for their efforts. She stopped short, looking up at the sooty face of Fancy Mac. ‘Our last meeting was a cold one, Mr MacLachlan. This one a mite too warm though it don’t change owt.’

  She smiled as he bowed courteously with a flourish. ‘I’m after catching yer drift, mistress, and I’ll do ma best to resist temptation but I’m no promising, mind.’ Fancy searched out the smiling eyes of his fair Ellie, sensing with relief that all between them was forgiven at last.

  High up on Paradise field, Tizzy watched the fires blaze, shaking at the terrible consequences of their stupid plan, hugging Stumper for comfort. As the crowds gathered to watch the fire rampage, she crept back to the wagon and dived under the cover to hide her tears. Was it true about the boggarts? Were they teasing her like the gangmen who hid their mugs and claimed she’d lost them? When she let loose her cursings on Lund had she set off another fire in the hills which no one would control? Her secret was running amok. Like Georgie Hunt she was trapped before rolling stock waiting to be crushed and buried. Was there no way out of this pickle but to confess her guilt?

  Zillah was bone-weary from the night’s drama. Now she must face the morning’s funerals for the smallpox victims taking place in the burial field by the side of the
kirkyard in land donated by the Dacre family, hastily consecrated for this purpose. The navvies were to be cordoned off in death as they had been segregated in life.

  Zillah was sick of funerals, wreaths, bidding cards, funeral biscuits and wearing heavy black garb on another August morning with an ink-blue sky. She was sick of sad faces and the stench of burnt turf, the roasting flesh of the few beasts caught by the firestorm.

  Smoke seeped into the farmhouse covering walls and surfaces. There was black dust everywhere. Annie was crotchety. Mercy was sickening for something, pale, wan, off her porridge and very tearful. Ellen was frantically trying to clear up the mess, relieved that no further damage was done and that the overnight rain, thank heavens, had cooled down the smoulderings.

  What a summer! This northern high ground was as harsh and unforgiving as it was beautiful. She felt so powerless against such strong forceful elements, so small, so vulnerable. For once in her life she felt out of control.

  The vision of Janey and Mary Ann kept disturbing her concentration; Janey was birthed with such optimism and such naivety. Nothing was turning out as she hoped. It was changing her in ways she didn’t like, making her question why she had come in the first place. Who was she to think she could change anything in this strange hidden world?

  For the first time since her arrival, the teacher yearned for city streets and civilised society, lofty drawing rooms and crisp clothing, dainty food, polite manners and refined society. Suddenly everything about her old life seemed so appealing, so normal. Then the tune of the chorus came into her head: ‘Yield not to temptation, for yielding is sin. Each little victory, some other will win.’ How could she think of deserting her post in the hour of need? A good night’s rest, a few of King David’s psalms to read and a mug of Annie’s blackcurrant cordial would make a new woman of her.

  She made her way up Church Brow to St Oswy’s lych gate where a long queue of funeral carts stood nose to tail right down the street.

  The sexton was waiting with a line of resident engineers, gangmen and families. Isaac Cleghorn lifted his stovepipe hat and scratched his head, flummoxed by the absence of clergy to officiate at the burial. ‘Parson knows about the sidings. It’s not like him to be late for a big do.’

  ‘Is it not?’ snapped Zillah Herbert. ‘This is the giddy limit. I’ll be writing to the bishop and my Mission. How dare he insult the families with his lackadaisical attitudes? Perhaps he’s gone fishing again. Shall we send out a search party?’ Zillah stamped her boots, embarrassed by this disarray.

  ‘Don’t fret, Miss Herbert, the hole is dug and bell tolled, the people are present,’ answered Joseph Hirst, the subcontractor, calmly. ‘All it needs is for someone to say suitable words. Fetch the books and pass them round and we’ll say them together ourselves.’

  ‘Is that sound? Will it count like with the Almighty?’ queried Cleggy as he shuffled lopsidedly to collect the hymn books from the back of the small church. They were passed along the men and the few visitors from the village who dared risk attending.

  Zillah could not concentrate on the singing but a burning frustration at this insult choked in her throat like acid. How dare this man call himself a priest. She would have him publicly defrocked!

  Beth Wildman tossed restlessly on the bed, hair ruffled up like cotton fluff, her face a sickly gold in the firelight. Ralph sat patiently by her side as he promised. He had been called in the night and rode up at first light, telling no one of this errand.

  I will miss this old witch more than she will ever know, his only friend in this godforsaken dale. He could feel his back twingeing as he stretched out to feel those hands which nevermore would soothe away the pain. How quickly her hands had aged; knuckles gnarled with wrinkled tissuey skin like chicken bones.

  There would be no reason now to ride out onto the moor, watching her limp over the moss, her crook raised like a staff. He would miss her cantankerous cursings, her shepherd’s wisdom and her foresight.

  It was Beth who prophesied the doom and gloom, the April blizzard and the sickness. He could see her marching down the aisle at that useless meeting, putting the fear of God into those gullible faces, those black feathers on her crow bonnet dangling as she warned of death filling up the churchyard . . . Oh God! The service for the burial of the camp victims. He stared in disbelief at his gold watch. The funerals were two hours ago. He should have been down there but time always stood still in Beth’s domain.

  Now, in keeping this promise, he had broken faith with his own promise to others. No one knew where he was. They would presume the worst. He put his head in his hands; there was nothing to be done now but apologise on his return. He was not leaving Beth alone. Damn it! The one time he tried to be a good shepherd he ended up losing his entire flock. It’s no good, Beth Wildman, you’ll just have to pull through and get me out of this bog. He smiled and turned hopefully towards the bed. One look at the still frame told him he was now on his own.

  Tupping Time

  Backend 1871

  When apples be ripe

  And nuts be brown

  Petticoats up,

  Trousers down.

  Anon

  Chapter Twenty

  He was there again, half-hidden in the shadows watching the schoolhouse, using twilight for cover, staring into the open window as Susan lit the lamps. For three nights now he had just paced up and down with his hands in his jacket pockets. What did that greasy lump of lard want from them now? There was nothing Ezra could do for that stupid boy. Cora drew the curtains quickly to blot out his view.

  He was the poorest of their scholars; why ever did Ezra take him on in the first place? Sunter Lund always smelt of the farmyard, resisting all her attempts to scrub him up to standard; a sulky boy, ungrateful. He failed Ezra’s special tests and Cora was glad to be shot of him.

  Why Blaize Lund had kicked up a fuss she could not understand. The woman was nothing but a plumped-up farm servant; a live-in who wooed and wed the farmer’s son one summer and bore him an heir only months later. How could they expect to make a thoroughbred out of a carthorse? Sometimes Ezra’s enthusiasm and philanthropy were hard to puzzle out.

  Cora crept up to the landing window in the darkness. The figure had gone. The street was empty once more but this vigil unnerved her, setting her teeth on edge with the sour knowledge that he would return.

  ‘Can I borrow a needle?’ whispered Zillah with some urgency as she watched Ellie stirring the pan of bubbling damsons on the oven range in the kitchen of Middle Butts.

  ‘Are you taking up knitting then?’ said the other girl, lifting out the stones one by one as they surfaced, bobbing in the scummy froth.

  ‘Not exactly . . . if I don’t poke something down my stays this minute, I’ll scream. I’m being bitten alive with lumps and bumps everywhere . . . in the most awkward of places,’ confessed Zillah as she squirmed, trying hard not to scratch at the very thought of the beasts lurking under her corsets.

  Ellie laughed as she arranged purple stones into a neat pattern on a large white plate. ‘Them’s just thunder bugs! Do you no harm, they’re that tiny you can’t see them but you keep up that scratting and they’ll swell up. So no touching or yer’ll get a scar.’

  ‘How can I stop? They’re everywhere.’

  ‘Go to the apothecary and get some flowers of sulphur, his green powder should calm them down a bit, and pray for rain to douse them away. We allus gets them in dry weather off the fields, Miss Herbert.’

  ‘I wish you would call me Zillah.’

  ‘No, that wouldn’t be right, you being Merciful’s teacher.’ Ellie turned back to her stoning. The smell of the damsons bubbling had both of them sniffing into the pan. ‘I have to get out all the stones or Mother will be on at me again. She wants to win a prize at Scarsdale Show with her damson cheese and our butter and our cheese too.’ Ellie had refused to enter for the sponge cake competition after each of her efforts collapsed and had to be crumbed up into a trifle base. Surely she could n
ot ruin the jam if she hugged the pan. Then she would count up all the stones to see if Fancy Mac was still her sweetheart. Miss Herbert was hopping from one leg to the other as she pointed her in the direction of the dresser and a bag of spun wool by the wheel to ferret for a needle. ‘Loosen your stays, miss, or would you like me to poke it down yer back?’ Zillah was already sighing with relief as she directed the sharp point to hit the spot.

  ‘If my mama in Nottingham could see me now, she would disown me. In four months I’ve lost all my decency and you tell me to loosen my corsets! Why, Ellen, what with shortened skirts, thick boots and a tight cap to keep away the nasties no one would recognise me any more. I’m such a plain Jane. Still, I suppose there’s little vanity in country living, none of your frills and furbelows, just sensible garments.’

  ‘I think you’re beginning to pick up our accent as well. I’ve never liked to ask what really brought you from all them comforts to this bleak hole,’ ventured Ellie.

  ‘I have quite forgotten myself if I’m honest. I suppose the Mission work came just at a time when I needed to escape. You can stay too long in comfort, it makes you lazy and unquestioning of how other people live. So I came with my baskets full of schemes and dreams, thinking I had all the answers and the Lord in my pocket. I thought I was being obedient to some heavenly vision. I think I got carried away by the idea of mission work, being an instrument for good and all that. Sometimes I wonder now if I’ve done anything useful at all, or just interfered and meddled a bit, I’m not so sure as I was. I often get a terrible feeling that I’ve brought trouble on you all.’

  ‘How can you be blamed for the smallpox or our fire or for poor Janey’s death? Don’t be so hard on yourself. Look at the miracles you’ve managed at school with young Billy Widdup . . .’