by Leah Fleming
‘He’s more absent than he’s present this term and Mr Bulstrode is making me responsible for getting him back to school again. I fear all I do is keep the children quiet and contained for a few hours and I came with such plans for their instruction.’
‘You can’t be held responsible for the Bulstrodes’ idea of doing things; a couple of queer ones who never mix with dalesfolk. I think he’s kept right under her thumb, poor man.’
‘Then there’s the parson. I just can’t stomach him.’
‘But he apologised about the funeral mix-up and he was seeing owd Beth on her way to rest. He and her were good mates. Can’t imagine Scarsbeck without her. Still she got her way in the end, got hersen buried up Scarsdale Cross end; but I’ll not be going in that direction until her spirit settles down in the sod.’ Ellie sat down at the table to join her lodger.
‘I just don’t understand how he gives in to such strange requests. It’s so confusing, don’t you think? I can’t find anything in Scripture to support this.’
‘We do things our way here. Offcomers, with respect to you, must find us an unholy lot but what’s done is meant kindly.’
‘That’s what’s so hard to swallow. I read my rule books and there’s nothing in them to cover all these happenings. I know Miss Wildman was a good shepherd woman even though she never darkened a church door but my Good Book says she’s unredeemed.’
‘She did many a favour, did Beth. I don’t know about rule books but doesn’t it say “by their deeds they are known” or summat like that?’
‘Yes, yes. It doesn’t tally, does it? I feel as if I’m in a foreign country with a strange language I’ll never fathom out. I met Cleggy Cleghorn this afternoon digging round his dahlias at Church Cottage. “Not bad for the backend show,” he smiles to me. “Backend of what?” says I, turning round to look. “Just the time of year, miss, backend of summer, leaves turning, wind freshening up, sun slipping, nights drawing in,” says he. “You mean autumn,” says I. “Aye, backend,” says he. I think he must think me a dimwit.’
Ellie was distracted by the caramel smell, a burning smell of sugar, and dashed over to the pan. The jam was blackening. ‘Oh no! We’ve let it burn. What shall I do? Mam’ll leather my backside if I’ve wasted her precious fruit. How can we save it?’ panicked Ellie, lifting it from the heat.
Zillah examined the sticky black mess, praying it was redeemable. ‘If we grease a copper mould, skim off the worst bits and hide the jelly pan, perhaps she won’t notice. I’m sorry, it’s all my fault for distracting you from your task. Come on, it’s worth a try.’ Seeing tears fill Ellie’s blue eyes she asked, ‘How is that young Scotsman . . . or should I not enquire?’
‘I still walk out with him behind me mam’s back. What she don’t see won’t hurt her, will it? I wish she could take it into her head that he’s a grand chap, is Fancy Mac. His grandad kept cattle but were driven off his land by sheep. He’s of farm stock. She’s so hard about him, so I must lie. He’s a gentle giant, one I can look up to for a change. I’m that churned up inside I can’t do right for doing wrong. Is there owt in yer rule books about that?’
‘Having a sweetheart suits you, your eyes are so bright they must glow in the dark!’ whispered Zillah as she sieved out the jam carefully into the mould with shaking hands. The bottom of the pan was caked in black crust.
‘Have you ever felt like I do, Miss Zillah?’ Ellie opened a tin of soda and sprinkled it over the pan.
‘No, I can’t say that I have. There was a young man in Nottingham whom Papa thought suitable but I didn’t . . . a bit of a limp lettuce. He did nothing for my tastebuds but his prospects were good. So I made a scene, stamped my foot and behaved rather badly. I’m past all that sort of nonsense now. I can’t see any man changing my mind.’
‘Not even our vicar?’ Ellie watched the teacher blush.
‘Least of all the vicar.’
‘But he’s so handsome and learned . . . a real gent.’ She prodded the sensitive spot.
‘Handsome is as handsome does, Ellen, and I fear no gentleman, if rumours are to be believed. He’s never done anything to alter my first impression of him.’
‘Shame, I thowt he’d sharpened up in the pulpit. He don’t read so much, don’t mumble and bumble so much and we all think it’s your doing. He’s not been near Liddy Braithwaite’s on market day for weeks and she’s that sourfaced she’d turn milk.’ Ellie soaked the brass pan and carried it out to the yard to hide behind the water butt. Zillah followed her, bristling under this scrutiny, feeling hot and flustered by the turn in their conversation.
‘So she should, a married woman. It’s disgraceful!’ sniffed Zillah, ready to mount her high horse of indignation.
‘I was wondering if he had other fish to fry nowadays,’ chirruped Ellie with a look of mischief in her eye, watching the blush creep up from Zillah’s red neck.
‘I don’t know what you mean . . . and if I do then you’re greatly mistaken. We have not exchanged one civil word since the vestry meeting and the funerals. I may have to join the chapel if things continue.’
‘You can’t do that, miss, never. Once you’re church you stay church, no swapping coats. Make up your differences. It’s lonely in winter up here. You need friends and company to warm yer heart when the house freezes over and water comes in ice blocks. He’s not a bad parson for all we go on about him.’
‘He’s far too worldly-wise for my taste. We have nothing of common interest, nothing to draw us together, Ellen. I think we should clear up this mess and put the damson cheese to chill in the cold room out of sight. I’m beginning to itch again . . .’
Zillah was finding the idea of winter depressing; the thought of long nights and cold classrooms, muddy treks back to the farmhouse and Mercy’s incessant chatter. Whatever was she doing here, itching herself to bits, isolated in a lonely farmhouse, a crosspatch with everyone? If only she could escape her duties and sneak off for a break from this Spartan regime.
Chapter Twenty-One
The tall navvy with muddy moleskin trousers tied under the knee with thongs inspected his new watch and chain as his team of gangers were clearing debris from the track. He paused to admire the way the line curved gently as it hugged the contours of the slope, tucked in against the worst of the wind, banked up neatly with bare earth. Soon the autumn seedlings would burrow into the soil for spring’s green sprouting of shrubs and wild flowers, hiding their handiwork from view. In the distance the line levelled out across the fields to the scaffolding at Scarsbeck.
Fancy lifted his cap in respect at the sheer madness of building a fast track under and over mountains and gullies. Only the finest engineers, latest equipment and navvy nous could achieve such a feat. He felt for once a tingle of pride in the steady rhythmic progress of his own team. No one could say his gang was not on top of the job. His reverie was disturbed by the sight of a carriage and four horses trotting sedately alongside the track with faces peering out of the windows.
Pity it was still the open season for tourists, visitors from Scarsbeck Hall up from the city for the grouse-shooting, tramping through the camp in heathery tweed suits and deerstalker trilbies, enjoying a day away from their guns at this local menagerie, casting snooty eyes over the menials at work as if they were exotic animals.
How Fancy hated those imperious English accents with their superior manners! It was such land-hungry Sassenachs who robbed his grandfather of his living and reduced many of his race to penury and exile. Now a bunch of gentry were alighting from their carriages waiting to be escorted by that servile Scot, Henry Paisley, on a conducted tour of the construction site with a ride down to Blea Moor tunnel works. Fancy stood back to let them pass, resisting the urge to spit on the floor after them.
‘Mind yourselves, ladies, please,’ ordered the resident engineer as three ladies descended carefully onto the roughly scattered gravel track. Fancy noted their unsuitable clothing and feathery bonnets held tightly against the biting wind. It tore at thei
r ringlets and ribbons, raising their flimsy skirts, much to their discomfort and much to the amusement of the gangmen who smiled impishly at each other.
The group trooped past the workmen like schoolchildren on an outing behind the waiting engineer. The man paused to acknowledge Fancy and ordered him to tag along to instruct the party. They all walked silently towards the viaduct, the wind ripping at skirts and sending hats whirling and rolling down the soil embankments. Then they halted by the huge viaduct, looking up to see cranes swinging back and forth.
Henry Paisley pointed to the rescue hut built onto the wooden frame where workmen sheltered in bad weather. Huge posts were set deep in concrete, dwarfing the low-slung cottages at the end of the street. Fancy felt sorry for the poor sods who now had to live with a giant straddling over them. Who could stop the Midland Railway or protest at its progress? Nothing now would halt the track-laying. Fancy knew that the weather would have the final say.
Everyone now bent forward into the gusting wind as they watched stonemasons and bricklayers at work under the arches, filling in its curves. Wobbly Bob waved to Fancy from his precarious platform. Fancy was glad that the Widdups now lodged in his hut, out of that dreadful wagon on wheels where the old man snoozed not knowing night from day and fettled up tools, hammering late in the moonlight.
The visitors huddled together for shelter, not impressed by the rough conditions or the sight before them. One man condescended to offer his opinion to the workmen, shouting loudly, ‘Hold on tight, chaps, another blast on its way.’
‘This is nae a wind, man, but a wee puff of smoke. You wait for the Helm wind to rattle down this valley from the north. Watch for the mist to cap yon hill like a nightcap and then take cover, tie yersel in against a hurricane or the Helm’ll blow a body off yon scaffold like a leaf off a tree . . .’
Another man in a black bowler hat drew closer and brought out a notepad, introducing himself as a reporter from the Lancaster Guardian. They were ushered into a waiting open wagon on wheels attached to the end of a line of empty goods wagons, drawn by a twelve horsepower locomotive for the trip southwards on the tramway down to Blea Moor tunnel shafts.
The ladies shivered in their finery, hair and hats dishevelled, faces already covered in a film of dust, and turned to each other loudly. ‘How can anyone bear to work among savages and dreary hills? It’s so depressing, so cold and dismal. Are we safe to go further?’ They eyed Fancy with suspicion, lingering over his dirty clothing. He was in no mood to humour the silly bitches and snapped back, ‘You can stomach anything, lady, if the pay’s good enough and yer bed is waiting warm and dry in a wee bitty hut, so you can.’ Ignoring his quip, they turned to Henry Paisley for support and Fancy saw a flicker of a twitch at the greying edges of his moustache.
‘As you see, ladies, the men are far too busy to bother you but just in case, Mr MacLachlan here will escort you and ensure your every comfort. Hop in, Fancy, and mind these lassies. Tell this reporter anything except that we are running behind schedule. I’ll take the gentlemen in the next wagon and pray it dissna rain.’
They rode up the incline in silence, surveying each side of the temporary tramway, smoke from the little engine blinding eyes and choking throats with coal dust. Leaving the hidden valley behind they passed stone quarries and marble works, crossing over the bleak fell track where isolated huts pointed the way to Blea Moor tunnel.
‘This is the worst jobbie, ladies. Not a drop of rock comes oot this tunnel without gunpowder and I’m told it’s like a roasting oven in there,’ offered Fancy to his pupils.
As if on cue, a man crawled out of the tunnel on all fours and rolled over to gasp for fresh air. He was caked in black dust, coughing and choking, spitting black phlegm in spurts onto the turf.
The overseer, a walking gangmaster in brown corduroy jacket and trousers, pulled the man up roughly and yelled, ‘Five minutes, Taff, spit it out and get back in!’
‘Thanks, Ironfist, I’m coming.’ The miner looked up and grinned at the ladies from two white slits in a boot-polished face. He staggered to his feet, straightened his limbs and rolled towards the hole. The ganger turned to his audience, raised his cap and grinned but his eyes were hard as granite. Checking his watch he, too, sauntered towards the tunnel.
‘Sturdy men, your average navvy, eh?’ said the reporter. ‘Fine figures, thick calves, real backbone of the construction industry. ’Tis pity they are so wild and lawless.’
Fancy turned quickly. ‘Don’t believe all you read about us. We like a dram or two, our sturdy hurdies come from backbreaking work and so does a thirst. As you’ve seen there are all types and tripes needed to build this railway, but you call us all navvies. I wonder why that is?’
The reporter nodded as he wrote, looking up at Fancy’s question to say, ‘But our readers like to hear stories of the wild goings-on . . .’
‘Sorry, canna help youse. As I said afore, we drink to slake our drooth in this furnace.’
The reporter winked. ‘Come on, young man, yer not telling me there’s never any trouble here. Why, the papers are full of magistrates’ tales and the house of correction at Wakefield could be a navvy camp.’
‘Aye, there’s trouble. I mind a few weeks back a poor laddie who had to be strapped down on his bed with leather belts. He was shaking like a man who had seen the fires of hell! No bairn should have tae hear his pa screaming like that for the want of a dram. It went on all night but being the strong ox, like you was saying, he burst those straps and smashed a pane of window glass, grabbed a jaggy piece and tore at his throat from end to end. We reckon it took him all morning to choke to his death. They called oot the minister of the kirk from his bed in Scarsbeck to sit with him and calm his woman and bairns. Is that the sort of trouble yer readers are after hearing?’ asked Fancy, watching the ladies holding handkerchiefs over their mouths in disgust. Ironfist . . . Ironfist, why did the nickname ring bells in his head? The reporter was still scribbling onto his pad, oblivious to the scenes around him.
The party was marched across the turf to view the shaft headings where the airholes were sunk deep to relieve the tunnel atmosphere. A steam engine was hoisting up spoil out of the shafts, tipping the containers onto a huge pile of rubble. Huts were dotted here and there, high and unprotected by the shelter of hill or tree. Fancy knew these were the roughest huts where men lived like animals in cages, one on top of the other.
The rain began to spit and spot upon the bored contingent of visitors who looked anxiously for the return of their wagon to Scarsbeck dale and afternoon tea with Sir Edward Dacre’s shooting party back at the Hall.
Fancy watched them scurry towards their transport. He was going to walk back alone over the moorland track towards the valley opening out before him. His jacket was warm enough and his boots worn in and watertight. His chest was snugly fitted with Ellie’s knitted waistcoat.
The navvy stopped to watch the last of the summer curlews, buzzed and threatened by a hawk. They soared high, circling around, wailing and screeching at this attack. The hawk lost interest and flew off. He was getting to know these fells. They were not the hills of home, majestic and mysterious, rising from the foot of deep blue lochs, but they were Ellie’s hills. In her presence he was knowing a peace for the first time in his life, a warmth which soothed his anger. He could settle here on high ground. When he was with Ellie he had no urge to tramp off.
Fancy was beginning to recognise local birds. His favourites were the hawks and merlins, peregrines and harriers. Ellie was afraid of them, fearing for the small creatures which were scooped up in claws high in the air. For a farmer’s lass she had the tenderest of hearts. Now he recognised the lark’s song and the peewit’s chatter, the bobbity wagtail, flycatchers and swallows from swifts. Why had he never noticed before what a mixture of creatures there were living on a bare hillside? Whenever they walked out together, she would stop and point him towards some moss or lichen, bird or wild flower, pansies, blue harebells, the smell of the clovers. He
could smell the hills of home there. How he looked forward to their secret meetings, out of sight of prying village eyes. She was so honest and feared this deception but risked her mother’s wrath nonetheless.
No woman had ever turned his heart before or broken the barriers of his nonchalance with such freshness. Fancy knew he was loving her for her enthusiasm, her sense of the wonder of things. He sat down where he stood to pour out his emotion into his verse book. It was torn and tattered, his most precious possession, and now it was filled with lines about Ellie. She was opening his eyes to the magic of these hills, to the wonders of nature, to the joy of pure loving and it terrified him. The pain came again; the knowledge that he was trapped by silken threads invisible to the eye of any man, the two of them bound together by a thousand tiny threads twisting over their hearts, drawing each into one heart. The muse was coming so fast he could not feel the torrent raging above his head until the paper began to crumple and stain with the rain.
He needed no party of toffs from their distant world to remind him of his menial station in life as he strode down towards Paradise camp with his cap brim dripping raindrops. Fancy struggled with the knowledge that he too was a stranger here. What could he offer Ellie but a wandering life amongst other strangers? It was no life for a creature who loved the land and growing things. A workman’s hut was no place for her to live. For the first time in his life he felt shame that he had not made the best of his education or tried to better himself with the railway. And then there was Ironfist. Why did that name keep dancing into his head?
Chapter Twenty-Two
Tizzy could hear voices raised behind the study door, one loud and foul-mouthed, the other calmer, trying to reason. She stared down at the hall tiles with their criss-cross pattern of black and brick-red star shapes to avert her eyes from Miss Bulstrode who was eavesdropping, straining to get the gist of the argument, her keys dangling from her belt as she plucked at her lace-edged apron.
