by Leah Fleming
Isaac Cleghorn sat hunched up in his black verger’s robe, his eyes cast down by the vicar’s text. Surely the parson had not got wind of his good fortune on Friday night during the storm?
Just minding his own business returning from Batty Green along the tramway track, Nippa plodding uphill against the wind. Then there was this almighty crash and wallop as forked lightning speared the ground and the horse shied up. Steady on, son, as the rain poured on us heads. We’re a good half mile from any shelter. Still Nippa stayed calm and Cleggy sang out the old hymn, ‘The God Who rules on high can thunder where He please.’
It was pitch-black and the track turned into a quagmire when he heard voices calling out, shouting from one of the gulleys down below. So he had to stop like the Good Samaritan. Not one to miss owt fresh to spice up his tales around Scarsbeck, he got himself close to the edge and shouted back. There was a goods wagon on its side, deep in the mud, plunged straight off the track, and he could make out the outline of three navvies scratching their heads, looking gormless. ‘What’s up?’ he yelled.
‘Wagon were struck by lightning, jumped clean of the track into this hole; full of stuff for the tommy store from Burgoine and Cock’s warehouse at Batty Green, vittels, tins, bottles all sinking into this shaft if we don’t crack on and get it sorted out. What a terrible thing to be happening on a dark night,’ said the tempter’s voice from the shadows.
‘Give us a hand to get it upright,’ yelled a nameless, faceless navvy from the hole.
‘Not so hasty,’ Cleggy argued. ‘It’ll take more than me and the horse to shift that heavy thing. Shall I tote mesen back to the camp and fetch help?’
‘Aye, happen you do right.’ Temptation’s voice again.
‘But it’s off my own way to go up there. I might be persuaded by some reward for my trouble and in such bad weather.’
The men whispered. ‘If we were to lighten the wagon of its load and add some extra boxes to your cart would that be suiting you?’
Cleggy needed little persuasion to fill up his empty cart with as many boxes of tins and comestibles as Nippa could carry. He lifted his cap and trundled to Paradise, leaving some vague message at the camp gate about a derailment somewhere in the neighbourhood which might only be lightning.
Even now this hoard was sitting under these stone flags; all was safely gathered in awaiting a second dispersal, buried in the House of God in the sexton’s cellar at the back of the church with the key chained to his waistcoat. Surely the Almighty would not begrudge him a reward for initiative and enterprise? He was in the process of spreading his bounty over hill and dale and bought Nippa a new blanket at Hawes market for keeping his secret safe . . .
‘Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth . . . where thieves break through and steal . . .’ Cora sat bolt upright as the vicar expounded the virtues of honesty in all things. She watched Ezra slumped on the pipe organ bench turning over his music restlessly while waiting for his choir to do their turn in the harvest show. He was always the same when the Fawcett exam was looming uppermost in his mind, agitated and withdrawn, tirelessly shifting papers in his study, his appetite poor, picking at his food without interest. Surely she was right to tempt his palate with that piece of fresh salmon simmered in gooseberry wine and fennel with a butter and herb sauce. He had eaten the steak with relish. It was good to see him relaxed. That incident with Sunter Lund and the broken window had unsettled them both. He sat back and asked how she came by such a fresh cut when the Ashman’s cart had not called for days.
The salmon was tenderly and truly poached to perfection, he complimented her, and she had blushed in the knowledge it was well and truly poached all right, from under the nose of the gamekeeper at Scarsbeck Hall, right out of Sir Edward’s salmon stretch of the Ribble, delivered to her back door by the skivvy sister of the Widdup brat, wrapped in newspaper as a thank-you for Billy’s extra lessons.
At first she had been tempted to chuck it straight onto the rubbish dump but it would attract vermin and cats. You never knew where these navvy creatures had been but one look at its prime pink flesh and bloom convinced her it would be a sin to waste such bounty. Ezra needed nourishment in his thankless task of pumping knowledge and standards into that cheeky child. Surely there was no harm in using what had already been blasted out of the water, sliced up and scattered to the four corners of the dale long before she got wind of it. She was just making sure the unlawful deed was redeemed by her best recipe and Ezra’s satisfaction.
‘Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth . . . where moth and rust doth corrupt . . . This reminds me that Mr Hurst from Paradise would like it to be known that a wagon was derailed and its contents, mainly tins and groceries, mysteriously disappeared into the mud. Should you be offered any suspect cans, be assured that you may be handling stolen contraband of dubious origin. Not that I think any of this God-fearing congregation would stoop to such calumny. If any one has any information concerning the events of last Friday, you are to declare it to the contractor’s office at once and there will be a small reward, I am told.’
Was it Ralph’s imagination or did a wave of shuffling and head-lowering ripple through his flock?
Annie Birkett sneaked a glance through the corner of her black bonnet at Blaize Lund who was dabbing her cheeks with her handkerchief, trying not to look guilty. Annie stared ahead defiantly. Just wait till I get home, I’ll have the labels off them tins of peaches and shove them in the back pantry on the top shelf out of sight. Wait till I get hold of Cleghorn . . . spicing up my groceries with temptation by selling surplus railway stores at reduced prices indeed! She and Blaize had been delighted to stock up their larders with tins. You got sick of yer own stuff in a long winter. Peaches and cream for Christmas tea perhaps? By then no one would be asking where they came from.
They had shared a caseful and all in innocence but she was not giving a single one back, oh no! Surely they were entitled to a few treats after all that storing and bottling, hands soaked in pickled onions and gooseberry relish, beetroot chutney, bramble jam, raspberry jam, rowan jelly, rosehip cordial, raspberry vinegar and elderberry syrup, herb jellies and apples, apples, apples. She was sick of stirring and setting, peeling, mixing, sewing and mending winter woollies and flannel petticoats, darning stockings and not much help from Ellen who still spent her time outdoors like a farm boy. There was no talking sense into that one.
Short cuts were a godsend for a farmer’s wife. Perhaps one day women would have cupboards full of tins to see them through the worst of winter. Those tins would be staying put, her own buried treasure which she prayed wouldn’t rust as the parson warned. No, it was dry as toast in that back pantry. Her jewels would be safe there.
Mercy Birkett sensed her mother’s discomfort. She had seen the tins but her lips were sealed. The only person looking eagerly up at the parson now was Miss Herbert in a ravishing bonnet of golden straw lined with stripped blue silk and a bandeau of ruched ribbon circling the base. She knew all of Miss Herbert’s wardrobe for she sneaked in sometimes when she was out on her Mission work and tried on everything in her trunk. One day she would trail dresses behind her with a handsome prince to call for her in a carriage and four. She would be the envy of Scarsbeck for her finery.
She had no treasure to hoard for moths to get at but she hated moths flickering around her candle, fluttering across her face in the dark, making her scream to be rescued by Ellie who brought a cloth and flung the creatures out of the window. Did God really see what they got up to? How many eyes must He have to watch everyone at the same time? Surely He missed a bit here and there?
If there was big stealing going on He were not going to get steamed up about a few cake crumbs, nicked from the testing plates at the produce show. She and Billy had crept under the table and watched the feet of the judges going round the sponge cakes and biscuits and bread buns, oatcakes and tea-breads. She had smuggled Billy in with her and he’d stuffed himself silly so he was sick on the way home. He was such a sissy.
She stood a foot above him already. The other lads thought him soppy and left him alone. He was too pretty for a lad, she heard Miss Herbert clacking to Ellie. She was just as brainy as him any day. It was not fair that he got all the fuss so she popped some beetles in the school kettle which Miss Herbert asked her to fill up from the beck to heat on the stove for her luncheon. She liked Sherbert really but she had stolen her bedroom and was always sitting sewing with Ellie while she stood awkward like a pig in a parlour, waiting to be noticed.
One day they would all realise that she really was a lost princess waiting for the king and queen to rescue her and take her back to their royal palace. Mother would stay on as her grateful maid and Ellie would brush her hair and dress her in silks and satin dresses covered with pink rosebuds. Then they will all notice me . . . She sighed as she sniffed the fruity smells. I wish the vicar would shut up and we could all get on with the feasting. She turned to look up at her sister but she had that faraway dreamy look in her eye which sent Mother into a fit of grumps and sighs. Middle Butts was no fun any more.
‘For where your heart is, so shall your treasure be also . . .’ Ellie watched the dust speckling in an arch of sunlight onto a child’s head bobbing two pews ahead. My heart is with Fancy Mac, so shall our treasure be in our sons, golden-haired William, Kester and James. They will sit in this pew as jewels in the crown of our marriage, the stars in our firmament. Mother will smile at us proudly and memories will fade of elopement and scandal, suspicion of a navvy offcomer marrying with a born and bred like the Swaledale tup they had purchased to perk up the flock and add strength to their stock.
As it was with sheep so could it be in the village with blood strengthened by new sires. She had chosen him and he, her. In their hands and loins lay the future of the dale. One look at Mother’s scowling face doused her dreams in cold water. She would never forgive a shaming, going behind her back to marry out. Ellie would be disowned and her destiny would be to tramp the land as a navvy wife. I will have my Fancy, she vowed silently. In a few weeks she would run away then return to face the furies. She hugged her plans to her chest, made notes in her head preparing for her absence. She was going in search of her treasure and no one would stop her.
‘I hope to get up a football team from the best of our village to play a select eleven from Paradise whom Mr Paisley assures me will not disgrace themselves on our village green, Saturday week. I’m looking to all you young men here to defend the honour of Scarsbeck and Mr Stackhouse has kindly offered refreshments to the teams after the match.’
Wally Stackhouse sat in the back row glumly. The vicar had just thrown cold water on his own scheme to earn a few pounds from the navvies, not give them away. Too many workmen now drank from their own ale casks, supplied by brewery carthorses straight to the camp stores and then secreted at dead of night in huts and bothies for all-night sessions. He had a licence to pay for and taxes to account for. Surely a late-night cock fight behind the far barns out of earshot of the squeamish would offend no one? He would place a guinea on Trojan Red, his own fighting cock, to claw his opponent from the camp to shreds. With a few barrels wheeled up for customers he could count on a good night’s takings. A football match was a bit tame, not the same draw for folk, but he couldn’t give the parson back word. Lay up for yourselves treasures . . . He was all for putting a bit by for old age and sickness or both. He would put his trust any day in gold to see you through to the end. When push came to shove, a gold piece would butter more parsnips than a sermon.
Sunter leant forward with interest for once at the talk of a contest with the camp. His team would show them. He had a reputation as a fighting man to uphold now. He could put off his escape from the dale for a few more weeks until they thrashed them navvies, rubbed their faces in the mud and kicked ’em to kingdom come. It would give him more time to soften up old Bulstrode and extract some juice as his dues, put the fear of God into that cow, Cora, and talk some sense into his stupid cousin. He knew she was sneaking off in the bushes with that Jock. If she didn’t see sense then she must be punished. This Lund was cock of the midden now.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The firelight flickered in the grate. Only the oil lamp by her bedside was lit. Zillah stirred, smelling the mustard poultice around her chest. The tight pain had gone and the hammer was no longer ringing in her head. She lifted her head from the pillow and the room did not spin. I’ll live, she smiled to herself with relief for the first time in days. What day was it? She should be at school . . . how were they managing without her? Miss Bulstrode would be furious at her absence and the headmaster drained by his sister’s twittering.
Whatever sickness had hit her and laid her so low was passing over at last, leaving her battered and exhausted but glad to be alive. The room was dark but it was not evening. It was that gloomy time of year, almost November, and she could not adjust to the loss of daylight on days like this when the mist lay thick as a blanket over the valley. Soon there would be even less light and she could hear the patter of rain on her window, battering the last leaves from ash trees.
Zillah was tempted to snuggle down under the goose-feather quilt and go back to her dreams. She sat up slowly. Away with sloth! Duty made her pile up the pillows behind her into cushions against the hard oak headboard. She stretched over to ferret for a pencil and her writing case. Poor Mama and Aunt Jane would think her dead, for she had sent no letters for weeks.
It was difficult to focus her eyes on the blank page; her hand was trembling and her handwriting as spidery as an old woman’s. Her nose was dripping dewdrops and she smelt like a navvy, her nightdress whiffing of fevered unwashed sweat. Zillah gulped another spoonful of the soothing poppy juice from the apothecary’s bottle to clear her head and caught sight of herself in the washstand mirror. What a sight! Wild eyes glowing like burning coals, a white face flushed of cheek, hair in rat’s tails poking out of her lace nightcap like Lady Macbeth fleeing the hounds of hell.
It was hard to concentrate on her task with a full bladder so she struggled to get her limbs out of the bed to search for the pot. As she sat on her tiny throne the room loomed above her like the room in Alice in Wonderland. She felt as tired as if she had journeyed into some far country without a guide. Now she was oddly disconnected from the real world outside her sick room. How had she come to be in this state? Zillah struggled back up to the mountain of bedclothes and settled back to write her letter, again remembering it all.
Dearest Mama and Aunt Jane,
You must fear your errant daughter to be a stranger as it is so long since we all met face to face. I fully intended to return to see you last month but have been so severely indisposed as to make all travel impossible. I have been confined to bed for some time but now am recovering sufficiently to put pen to paper.
Thank you for the trunk of winter clothing which Maria packed so neatly and cautiously. Had it sunk by accident into Semerwater Lake, all my garments would have lain dry and safe like buried treasure. Twelve flannel chemises, six flannel petticoats, six pairs of flannel drawers, six alpaca underskirts, six wool house dresses, two morning dresses, a morning robe and two housecoats, two dressing jackets, my half-cloak and four pairs of boots. All present and correct.
Having sampled a Yorkshire spring I am sure all my winter clothing will be layered one on top of the other. Warm as the welcome is here, the farmhouse is draughty and doors rattle when the wind comes in a certain direction. I am getting acquainted with a needle and cotton to shorten some of my hemlines from the mud. The Birkett women are kind but very busy and I cannot expect them to mend my clothes. You offered to send Maria as my maid but I do not think that will be appropriate and Maria would find conditions here very uncomfortable. There are plenty of women who will do alterations in the village.
Thank you for thinking about me. You worry that I am bereft of decent company. In fact I find the company here most congenial and sincere, unfettered by society manners. There is a freshness in conversation which allows
people to say exactly what they mean without lacing everything round the edges like table doilies.
The severe cold which has confined me indoors is due entirely to my own curious fault. It will teach me not to expose myself so thinly shod to the rigours of the village green on a wet Saturday afternoon in order to watch some strange ritual sport which only an uncouth savage would consider enjoyable. I blame the violent game of football entirely for my undoing. How can I describe this activity which almost caused a riot in Scarsbeck?
Our village green, which stretches in a thin line through the main street, widens at one point into a large rectangle opposite the school where the children let off steam at playtime. Here two large net bags were erected upright at either end like snoods. Then two teams of about ten men assembled with a leather ball about the size of an atlas. Apparently the aim of the above game is to kick the said ball from end to end in order to get the ball in the net which is guarded by the only man who is allowed to handle the ball. It was explained to me several times that there are strict rules but I was not able to fathom why everyone was getting so excited when Mr Lund kicked the ball into one net to great applause and then when it slipped off his feet into the other net the village turned on him in derision and the poor lad was booed and spat on for the rest of the game. The whole afternoon was taken up with men kicking the ball at the same time and kicking shins and legs even when there was no ball. The entertainment seemed to provide an excuse for much screaming and shouting from the boundary line by crowds of spectators waving rattles.
On Paradise side was Mr Paisley and his navvy team in knee-breeches and thick boots who brought gangs of workmen and women to cheer them on. The village team was headed by Mr Stackhouse from the Fleece hostelry and seemed to be full of farmers’ sons from all over the dale. So it was like two opposing armies on the touchline who jeered at each other and threatened to flood the field and join in. There were people viewing from the viaduct scaffolding and one of my pupils fell off halfway through but was unharmed. A locomotive sat on the top of the viaduct track hooting on the engine every time Paradise looked likely to score.
