The Railway Girls

by Leah Fleming

  ‘Keep him away from me, he’s got fleas. Stay back. I’m not going back.’

  ‘Is that you, Tizzy? Is that Miss Bulstrode I hear? Praise the Lord! You are found. We were so worried about you, Cora dear. It’s only Miss Herbert who’s lost her way as usual. It’s so late. I’ve come to take the child home, Miss Bulstrode. The headmaster sent me to fetch you both. He’s so anxious for you. The child won’t be ready for the examination tomorrow or is it today? I’ve no idea of the time, dear me! All that work for us to do, Miss Bulstrode, seeing to the school while the headmaster recovers. I’m sure he would want you to carry on his good work in his absence. Your nursing will soon have him on his feet.’

  ‘He’s dead! He’s dead. All of them are dead. What’s the point of all that work? I tried to warn him that the Lund boy was a danger. He wouldn’t listen. I tried to persuade him to give him money but he wouldn’t listen.’

  ‘You had to kill him, didn’t you?’ Tizzy said, her voice suddenly faint. ‘You killed Mr Lund.’

  ‘No, it was you, Widdup, you cursed him and he had to go.’

  ‘Now how could I bash his head in when I were out playing Mischief? You told me you waited behind the wall and what did you do with the stone?’

  ‘He shouldn’t have been looking at the stars, Miss Herbert. No, they were my stars, he’d no right to be stealing my stars. Now his blood is fixed into the stones of the viaduct. I put the stone back where I found it . . .’

  ‘I’m sure you did, Miss Bulstrode, but it’s all over now. Come down and have a warm cup of tea. I’ll put the kettle on myself and we’ll tell poor Ezra all about your little adventure.’

  ‘Do you think he’ll understand that they were my stars?’

  ‘Come down and tell him yourself. Here’s Father Hardy come to escort us safely back. Isn’t that kind of him, late as usual but I think he heard enough of your story to know what to do next. It’s time we all went home.’

  Sandwiched between Ralph and Zillah the sad little party wound its weary way back to the waiting group of navvies, back to the warmth of Scarsbeck where the navvies were thanked with ale and buns at the Fleece, back to Dr Fielding who gave Cora Bulstrode a sleeping draught and examined the child for exposure, declaring Billy Widdup to be unscathed but very definitely female.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Zillah sat at the high desk overseeing an empty classroom; only the ripe scent of fifty bodies stuck on wooden benches mixed with chalk dust, coal fumes and stale air lingering around the room remained. She bent over her quill pen, scratching a letter long overdue.

  Dearest Aunt Jane,

  Please forgive the delay in replying to your epistle. Please reassure Mama that I was never in any mortal danger during the search for Miss Bulstrode on the moor. I promise to dose myself regularly with ‘Dr Wakelin’s chillproof powders’ but I have received so much fuss and attention from my dear hosts, especially Miss Ellen who is overjoyed at the outcome, that I am in grave danger of being suffocated by kindness.

  It is hard to believe that it is only a week since poor Cora Bulstrode was escorted by cab to the Asylum at Lancaster, there to await trial for murder. She is so totally disoriented and disturbed in mind as to be unfit to plead to any charge, I fear. Her brother is a pitiable sight, being unable to move or speak, and has been removed to a sanatorium near Harrogate with little hope of recovery; condemned to a living death. He was a good teacher in his way, a conscientious choirmaster and organist but distant and unpopular by all accounts and with most peculiar tastes in literature. Sadly neither of them will be missed in the village.

  It was the unanimous decision of the board of school managers to appoint me temporarily to the post of acting headmistress, staying in the schoolhouse until such time as a suitable replacement can be found. I fear Mr Hardy has had a hand in this for he now takes his position far more seriously than of late and calls to give the children their lessons in Scripture every day. (I do not think he trusts my grasp of theology to be sufficient to cope with the task.)

  I really must try to be more charitable towards his motives. He lingers overlong and stares so hard when I reply that I am most confused and find myself stammering and blushing. I shall have to discourage these visitations as it puts me quite off my concentration.

  You will be pleased to know that I am to be resident in the schoolhouse. To this end and with much help from Susan, Blaize Lund, the Birketts and Mrs Cleghorn I have cleared out all that remains of the Bulstrode regime, burnt much stuff and packed away their personal clothing in boxes which now are stored in the loft of the vicar’s stables. I am sure no one will ever come to reclaim these goods and they will be sold for charity. Thus are the gloomy couple disposed of. What a task we have had, opening windows, banishing darkness and clutter, whitewashing and painting, stencilling pretty patterns on plain walls, polishing and reclaiming each room. The transformation is delightful and I look forward to collecting some furniture of my own to brighten the effect further.

  Much as I have loved my stay at Middle Butts, the convenience of being across the yard and no more weary walks with Mercy Birkett will make a harsh winter bearable. The Birketts are distressed at my leaving but they have reason to look forward to a future now that Ellen’s young suitor has been released from prison.

  Winter is gripping us tightly, its icy fingers squeezing our breath. The trees and rooftops glisten with hoar frost, a silvery coating of powder which changes from grey to blue to pinky purple as the low sun crosses over the valley.

  So much has changed since we last exchanged letters. Tizzy Widdup, as we must now call her, although I much prefer Matilda to Tizzy, was allowed to sit the Fawcett out of respect for Mr Bulstrode’s application on her behalf. She had no difficulty in achieving a satisfactory mark but of course there is no question of her taking up a place in a boys’ school. The nearest establishment for girls, near Kirby Lonsdale, would not consider taking on a child from such a background. If she were a city child then perhaps a place would be made for her as a pupil teacher and a respectable way forward for her prodigious talent could be found. But this is 1871 and a land of few opportunities for women without means. I was very interested to hear that you attended a lecture on the emancipation of women by Miss Lydia Becker and that there is a growing movement in favour of further education for older women. I fear it will take centuries for any such ideas to reach Scarsdale.

  What is worrying me is that Tizzy and her family, such as they are, are like rudderless boats bobbing on the ocean tossed any which way by the tide of necessity and circumstance. There is no firm hand at the tiller guiding them forward. If only the father could be found to take on the responsibility, he might be an influence for good. So I have taken upon myself to inform the contractor and request that he telegraph up the line and down to see if Mr Ironfist can be found.

  I have also been thinking for some time about a way to communicate to navvies across the country; something which might make the workmen pause to think about their wretched condition; a newsletter to give addresses and news of relatives and friends on the line. Something which could be passed from camp to camp. Ending up no doubt as wallpaper decoration on some hut. Would it not be wonderful to imagine Mr Emmanuel Widdup, alias Ironfist, sitting by a wall plastered with paper and suddenly out of the print he sees his name and is reunited with his family? I shall remember them in my prayers daily.

  You may be aware of the work of Henrietta Cresswell and I’ve heard there is a lady in the north, Elizabeth Garnett, who is already attempting to produce a pamphlet. The Pastoral Aid seem to be eager to develop this idea. Who knows what these seeds may produce as a harvest?

  My days are filled with school duties and preparations for our Christmas service and performance. My evenings are taken up with rehearsals for the navvy entertainment in Paradise reading hut which will be followed by a country dance and feast. Now that the atmosphere is less strained between camp and village and the murder has been solved, there is a degree of cooper
ation again. It is not exactly jovial or even cordial but certainly less frostbitten than of late. The village supply wagons are back in the camp much to everyone’s satisfaction and benefit. Mr Hardy is hoping his entertainment might just help heal the mutual suspicion.

  If you could see the state of the construction works and the village street, mud and mess everywhere. We skate on ice or mud. I cannot foresee the camp being disbanded. Paradise will be above us for many years. There is talk of building a brewery. Over my dead body!

  I am strangely reluctant to contemplate a life outside this dale. I talk of us and we when I should be saying they and them. That old shepherd woman was right when she said that this valley would wind itself around my heart. My Paradise flawed, I wrote once to you. How can a life on this earth be anything but flawed? But there is something unique about this hidden dale.

  Once the new master is arrived I suppose the Mission will want me to move onwards and upwards. I am not eager to anticipate that moment of departure.

  It is sufficient joy for me to be returning home at long last to the bosom of my family. I am glad that Mama and Papa have recovered from my spiritual elopement and have accepted the decision that their marriage plans were never mine. I see the possibilities in such an estate eventually but until now there has been no one on the horizon of sufficient interest to make me examine the prospect further. I will say no more on that score for fear of ever raising their hopes in that direction again.

  Marriage to a spiritual cause is satisfying but it can be lonely of an evening with no one to share all your disasters and triumphs. On the other hand the single life has much to recommend it when the time comes to choose what you do and when, do you not think?

  I have a pass for the train from Ingleton to Leeds and from thence to Nottingham. I am to be conveyed down the temporary track on a wagon to Batty Green, as a special dispensation from the Midland Railway for my efforts on their behalf. By the time I arrive at Batty Green I shall no doubt look like a chimney sweep.

  Do not expect to see the same Zillah who fled from you all only nine months ago, who braved a blizzard for fear of being sheltered in an ale house, putting the lives of all fellow travellers at risk for her principles. My rigid views were like spikes in the ground as barriers and spears. So much has happened here to challenge my thoughts and humble my opinions.

  Now I will examine the size of a snowflake, the direction of the wind and take advice before putting one foot out of doors. Your niece is learning sense at last.

  Soon the farmhouse will be reeking of spices, Christmas pies and a dish called frumenty which I am assured is all part of the traditional feasting. My ribs are bursting with farmhouse fare and I am in danger of rivalling a plum pudding, such is my girth. My waist, I am ashamed to say, has expanded a full two inches at least. It is with great joy that I look forward to our reunion.

  Yours in anticipation,

  Zillah Jane

  Fancy stood on the platform with his bundle, the gates of the House of Correction in Wakefield firmly closed behind him. Free at last but he felt nothing, neither the usual raging thirst nor the anger burning his throat; just an empty cold pit in his guts. What should he do next, where was there to go? Who cared?

  All those weeks in the jail planning where he would roam if justice prevailed and now opportunities were endless. Only the vicar had bothered to write and explain the circumstances of his release. He was assured of his old job on site if he chose to return to Paradise.

  What was the point? Someone else would be giving orders to his gang. What was the point of freedom if there was no one to share the journey? The silence from Ellie Birkett was deafening. Not a word from the minx. She no longer cared but why should she? He had fled from her to save his skin. His pride would not let him beg pardon. Who would want a jailbird navvy with shaven head and no whiskers? He could feel the wind on his neck at the place where his long pirate’s tail warmed him like a scarf. Hair will grow but no one could redeem the time lost. The other convicts on the station would no doubt be going back to some warm fireside.

  He watched the waves of families step forward as the engine chugged into the station, surging into the third-class carriages at the back, women with shawls full of infants and baskets full of food; children carrying cages of squawking chickens. He might as well join the crowd for the ride.

  In the corner of his carriage sat a woman in a battered straw bonnet and shabby skirt, a tired, crumpled face, an ordinary woman with her bairns by her side; a boy with ginger hair tufted like a helmet and a snivelling baby on her knee with a face round as a ball, his mouth plugged by his thumb as he stared anxiously at the stranger before him. People might think they were all one family off on a tramp somewhere. The woman looked suspiciously at his clean-shaven face, bunching up her children more closely as if he might harm them. It made him want to cry.

  Fancy turned away to hide his grief, staring out of the window, soot-stained, staring at lines of grey buildings and factories with chimneys belching black smoke; Leeds spread in front of him, mile upon mile of grime and grimness in the dark December afternoon. Then he noticed they were following a river and the landscape widened into a valley and the houses were lighter and sparsely spread. He could see the outlines of hills topped with snow. The sky was bluer and brighter; his spirits were lifting at the sight of hills.

  The train was heading north. Fancy had not cared which train he was boarding but now he was glad. There were worse places to be than Yorkshire and he knew that the hills would shout louder to him as they puffed up the gradient. Go back, don’t run away. All his life had been one long journey to find somewhere to belong. If he did not go back he would never know. Like the invisible face in his dreams which haunted him for years until he met Ellie. All those months loving Ellie and the dream had been absent. She was the sun who burnt away the gloomy mist on a summer morning. That was a good line to hold in his head until he found some paper and a pencil. The words were coming back too.

  Go back, go back over the track, quickity quick, he could feel the rhythm of the wheels on the track, lickity split . . . Go back and face the demons, that stern grey face of Annie Birkett and the sad blue eyes of her daughter. Only when he saw her eyes would he know.

  ‘Hurry up, we’re packing, Tizzy, shift yourself. It’s time we were on our way. I’ll be glad to see the back of this place; folk gawping at us as if we’re out of a peep show. I know when I’m not wanted. That Wobbly Bob has done nothing but complain about me mutton stew and the way I flat-iron his shirts. He can sort out his own washing from now on. I know when I’m not wanted so we’re off to pastures new to try our luck elsewhere,’ said Mally as she whisked the bundles onto the handcart.

  ‘Where the heck are we off to now? It’s too cold to be tramping,’ muttered her sister as she tied a piece of string around the dog.

  ‘Only down to Batty Green. There’s more life there and they’ve opened a bakery, a brickworks and lots of shops. Plenty of women’s work. I had a look last Saturday, we’ll soon get fixed up. There’s even a school and all . . . you needn’t look like that. I can’t wait to be rid of this place. I never did like Paradise, it’s far too quiet.’

  ‘I’m bringing Stumper,’ answered Tizzy.

  ‘You can take what you can carry, I’ve told Granda to collect his stuff and meet us by the Blea Moor track. He can please himself otherwise.’

  ‘You’re a top and a whip, a hard woman, Mally Widdup. Can’t I stay for the school concert? I might get a part.’

  ‘Well no one will give you a solo, that’s for sure, not with that squeaky voice of yours. If we get there quick you can join the other school and perhaps they’ll be dishing out a party or two. Sunday schools is allus good for bun fights. No one’ll know us down there, we can have a fresh start.’

  ‘I suppose so. Do you think we might find owt about Dad?’

  ‘What do you think? We can manage on us own without any fellas. I fancy a job in the bakery, think on, lots of buns and fa
ncies for tea. Stop dawdling, I’ve made me mind up.’

  ‘I’ll have to say ta-ra to Mercy. She’s that gobsmacked at me being a lass, her mouth keeps opening and shutting like a fish. She’s not kicked me for a week and mithers me to death about the Fawcett. She’s on at Sherbert to change the rules and give her a go. I don’t hold out much hope. I never want to hear about any of that again and I won’t do any more cursing either.’

  ‘You never said what happened, what he did to you.’

  ‘I’ve done with all that too.’ The events of the past weeks were already being shoved into a back cupboard in her mind. Tizzy would not be sorry to leave Paradise camp and all those pictures of Patabully which were giving her nightmares.

  ‘Never you mind . . . least said soonest mended. It’s all over now. I take it you won’t be putting on any more breeches.’ Mally smiled as she started to shove the cart out of the mud.

  ‘Why not? There’s not much going for me in a skirt, is there? So why not stick it for a few more years? No one’ll know us down there,’ answered Tizzy, guiding the wheels out of the ruts with a push. ‘How else will I get a wage?’

  ‘Oh no! Not all that rigmarole again,’ sighed Mally with another heave to. ‘Granda will be that confused again. Promise me you’ll jack it in when your jugs start sprouting out of your shirt but until then your secret will be safe with me . . . as long as you behave.’

  Tizzy Widdup beamed up at her big sister with relief. ‘Hang on a second, then, while I get changed behind a wall. I never did throw out them clothes. Come on, Stumper. Let’s see what Batty Green’ll make of us lot.’

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  ‘Come on in, Ellie, Mam’s starting the Yuletide puddings, stir and make a wish!’ shouted Mercy from the doorway into the yard. Ellie lifted her head briefly, shrugged her shoulders and carried on with her task. Why should she get excited about stupid cloth puddings with so many jobs to do and so few hands to do them? Upstairs Miss Herbert would be packing her stuff to take down to Scarsbeck before her journey to Nottingham. What a hike just to see yer relatives at Christmas. Humbug! She was getting just like Mr Scrooge in the magazine story. What did she want to make wishes for?