by Leah Fleming
Truth was she was going to miss the teacher summat rotten. She was kind and ladylike for all her funny ideas. Miss Zillah had been loaned to them, got them out of a pickle with her rent. How on earth would they manage now with just the three of them?
Uncle Warwick was losing heart, all the stuffing knocked out of him. They were talking of taking a cottage in the village and cutting the losses. Sunter might not have been the best son in the world but he had given them all hope for the future. Mother and her might as well pack it in themselves in that case, for on her own Ellie was no Jim Birkett. Last year it had been Father missing from the feast; now there was another empty chair. They were all punished by this murder.
There was a terrible heaviness around her heart which slowed her down. If things had only gone to plan then perhaps this would have been her first married Christmas. She would feel like making an effort if she had someone to bake and scrub for. She might even bother to watch what her mam did rather than ignore her cookery lessons. How she would have dangled him proudly on her arm among visiting company as they gathered in the polished parlour to light this year’s fire from last year’s yule log. Candles would burn around the punch bowl and they would sing:
‘We wish you a merry Kersmass and a happy new year,
A pocketful of money and a cellar full of beer,
A good fat pig and a new calving too,
Good master and mistress, how do you do . . .’
They would sit by the fireside admiring the greenery decorating the mantelpiece, sniff the spices of the Christmas loaf while sharing a bowl of hot frumenty together. Now she could summon up no enthusiasm for the usual round of callers, the circles of knitters clacking as fast as their needles, rolling out balls of spun gossip from lap to lap.
It did not help that Mercy was stuffed full of excitement and wanted to do everything to the book, perform all the traditions, singing carols at the spinet and inviting the mummers’ play into their parlour. She was still a child and thought that Christmas was a magical time of surprises and feasts. Mercy was going to have to learn that there would be no money for extras this year. Christmas was just another day with stock to feed, jobs to be done. I’m just a wet blanket dampening any spark of festive spirit, Ellie chided herself.
If only she didn’t feel so guilty. She had meant to write to Fancy and explain how that wretched Widdup brat refused to hand over his book to her, leaving her thinking the worst of him. The vicar had brought the book and she had slept with it under her pillow ever since. At first she had taken heart from his words on the front page: Be not concerned, I will return for you. It was over a week since his release and there was not a sight or sound of him in Paradise. Why should there be? What had she done to encourage him? So she must just keep busy and put her head down.
Her legs and hands felt as if they were tied to lead weights dragging her feet; shame, guilt, weariness and anger, if she were honest, those were the weights. The anger was the worst of all, anger at being alone, stuck out in the wilds without support, anger at Mother for being so stubborn and Mercy for being so cheerful and bumptious all the time. Little sisters were such a trial. She was angry with Fancy for sloping off to save his own neck. Anger at that child for interrupting their escape so effectively. But most of all she was angry with herself for being too proud to write to a prison, for not giving the vicar some sign of hope on his prison visit. I could kick myself for being that stupid. Here I work all day like a carthorse and waste my time like an ass, moping about what I can’t change now. No use crying over spilt milk, Mother says . . .
Ellie looked up in surprise to see Mother standing in the doorway with a strange look on her face.
‘We’ve got company just arrived . . . wanting to know if we need a pair of extra hands round the place. I said I’d have to discuss it with me daughter.’
‘Oh not now, Mother, I’m busy. You see to it, but I thought we agreed we’d manage without extras?’
‘Aye, but this one’s different. I reckon we owe this one a chance to prove himself. He’s tramped a long way by the looks of him, tired out and a bit downhearted. Come and see what you think. See if he’ll be suitable. Won’t take a minute.’
Ellie slammed down her pail and chuntered as she crossed the icy yard. Inside her eyes were dazzled by the lamplight. Then she saw the tall shadow of a man on the flagged floor and looked up.
‘Look who it is!’ Mercy was jumping up and down but Annie caught hold of her arm and pulled her towards the door. ‘Come on, Merciful, I think Ellie might be wanting to deal with this on her own.’
‘But, Mam . . .’ The child was yanked firmly out of earshot and the door slammed shut. Only the ticking clock broke the silence between them.
‘You’ve come back. Oh Fancy, you came back!’
‘Aye, lassie, the rover’s returned and if you’ll have me back I’ll no be stepping a foot oot this farmyard without you on my arm . . .’
Later they sat stiffly by the kitchen range while Mercy banged down the pewter plates onto the table giving the lovers a fierce searching stare of curiosity.
‘Have you told him about what happened here while he were gone?’
‘Not now, Mercy, Mr MacLachlan doesn’t want to hear all the gory details with his supper.’ Ellie shooed her sister from the table but Mercy was determined to have her moment of glory.
‘I bet he doesn’t know about Billy Widdup being a lass not a lad . . . How Patabully got him alone in his room and . . .’
‘That’s enough, Merciful.’ Widow Birkett clipped the child on her bottom. ‘I don’t know where you hear such tales.’
‘It’s true. Susan Hindle told me herself. She says they’ve all sloped off now from Paradise. She never even come to say ta-ra. Her name’s Tizzy Widdup. What a daft name for a girl is that. No wonder she got mixed up.’ Mercy nodded with satisfaction to her audience.
Fancy sat back on his chair scratching his head smiling. ‘There was always something a wee bitty strange about that wean and yon lassie owes me an explanation why she didna give you ma message. Tomorrow, I’ll get myself down the track and catch up with the Widdups. I’ve got some news of me own for them. I met up with the faither of the crew on me jaunts. Mr Ironfist Widdup, the tunnel tiger, just as Billy always said. I think it’s about time those two caught up with each other, don’t you?’
Ralph Hardy gathered his revellers and surveyed the motley bunch of choristers, handbell-ringers and performers, all gathered by the lych gate in Scarsbeck waiting for Cleggy’s wagons to convey them up to Paradise. A harmonium, extra chairs, barrels of sandwiches and buns, teacups and saucers were all carefully loaded onto a second wagon and three village wags had jumped aboard to hold the furniture steady on the bumpy ride up the track.
The mist curled over the fells, hiding the stars; with each jolt the travellers jostled and cheered, waving to each other in party mood. Ralph could see fires like beacons scattered around the camp, sparks darting into the darkness like fireworks. It was cold but dry and the track for once was nailed down with frost.
On arrival there were plenty of willing hands to unload the cargo, swinging storm lanterns to guide the party to the reading room-cum-Mission hut which was serving as a temporary classroom and was now decorated festively with paper chains. Some of the managers’ wives busied themselves with the tea urn and added their own baking to the feast laid at the back of the room. Once the doors were open children started to slide across the room, but were cleared away quickly to sit on makeshift wooden benches. Dressed in their warmest cleanest shirts and skirts they filled the rows up fast.
Ralph scanned the open door waiting for the rest of the contingent to arrive from various collecting posts along the village. If he was honest he was looking for only one face, one pair of bright eyes. He kept glancing around just in case he had missed her entrance. Damn it! Where was she? She had promised to accompany their duet. How could she be late? He saw the Birketts striding through the door and Ellie’s beau waving to h
is gang, looking already like a farmer, not a hired hand, in Jim Birkett’s tweed jacket and corduroy breeches, with shoes polished to glass and his hair a mass of tight red curls. No wonder the poor man wore a tail to drag out the kink of it.
Ellie had a grin on her face from ear to ear. They would be good for one another, those two, hope for the future in that alliance of fresh blood, strong arms to clear up land and set the farm back on track. Once poor Annie got over the embarrassment of having a navvy for a son-in-law, she would crow like the rest of the village roosters at their wedding. Whether they liked it or not the railway was bringing change to the dale. As fresh water needs a current running through it so a stagnant pool grows brackish and stale with the lack of a flow. Things have to grow, move, change if they are to stay alive. People have to change and shift too and that idea would make a good sermon for Sunday, he thought. A new year coming, a fresh start for all but progress was often painful, full of traps and difficulties like the problems besetting the contractors in building this railway line. But like Christian in Pilgrim’s Progress . . . Not bad to have his sermon plan ready on a Thursday night.
Where had she got to now? The whirlwind in the valley who had stirred up the mud? Then with relief he saw a flash of bright green tartan, her dark ringlets bobbing as she turned to talk to pupils and families. Hadn’t she noticed he was looking at her, damn it!
He wished he had a thick length of rope to bind her to him loosely so that when he pulled she would be jerked back to his side obediently like a dog to heel. As long as he lived he would never be able to reel in that crazy little woman. She was always ahead with some scheme or other. Now she was hoping to set up some navvy Mission newspaper and was planning to meet others in the Midlands when she returned to Nottingham. He would have to get himself involved if he was to keep up with her.
For the first time in his life Ralph was terrified that this crazy woman would slip away from him and disappear. She can’t do that to me! A man who has resisted all ties now trying to lasso a steer. How could he presume she would even contemplate his suit? They were never alone, chaperoned by children and friends and committees. It had never been a problem in the past to isolate a girl and steal her away but this one was different. It never seemed to bother her and that worried him most of all. Surely he was not going to get himself rejected? That was not in his plan. It was not looking good.
‘Is it time to start, vicar?’ said Cleggy as he clung on to his bell-ringing group. Ralph nodded. The contractor’s assistant welcomed the visitors warmly and the proceedings began.
Ralph was pleased that he had bothered to set up the concert. It had diverted them all away from the terrible events in the village. All the years he had harboured such a pervert. He had seen the books and tales were beginning to creep out of the woodwork of his unnatural way with choirboys and scholars. Poor man, tormented no doubt by fear of failure and his sister’s pride. Ralph could not gloat over their sad fate, only mourn the waste of such talents. Somehow there was always someone at his vicarage door wanting to talk it all over. Once that would have bored him but now something was shifting within him and he was quite enjoying the novelty of being needed.
Now, as he watched the performance, the simple acts on the makeshift stage, he felt like a proud father watching all his children perform. Soon it would be his turn to face the candles. Where was that wretched woman?
Mr Tiplady, the missioner, sang his favourites: ‘My Mother’s Bible’ and ‘After The Battle’ in a fine tenor voice. The choir sang some carols and the bell-chimers joined in but managed to be one line behind them. Everyone clapped anyway. He stood with Henry Paisley and they recited the ballad of Batty Green, the dramatic but true tale of the loss of a horse and goods down a ravine, composed by Mr Burgoine the warehouse owner. It obviously came from the heart. How many sitting there had sampled the free bounty of plundered goods under cover of darkness? Then it was the turn of Mr Bulstrode’s glee club to sing in harmony, navvies alongside a few farmers, an unlikely combination. Ralph could see Miss Herbert nodding her head to give them the beat as she played their accompaniment without a fault. For one night at least harmony reigned in Paradise and he could glow in the pretence that all was well and all would be well. Tomorrow would be another story.
All too soon their concert was over and he stood at the front to receive the formal vote of thanks. Everyone was encouraged to contribute to the collecting plate in aid of a man who had fallen off the viaduct and who having lost half a cup of brains was now blinded but miraculously still alive; he needed treatment in Leeds Infirmary.
The supper was a great success. The visitors spread themselves around the room clutching plates, chattering, basking in the warmth of the welcome and congratulations on their efforts. Soon it would be time to leave but Henry Paisley insisted that they must all stay on for the second part of the evening. ‘Right, lads, shift the chairs back and clear the floor. Nothing like a bit of singing and music to get us all on our feet, warm us up on a cold night, what? Let’s have the jolly-up man.’
From the back of the hall a young navvy in white moleskins and shirt with a tartan waistcoat jumped onto the platform with his accordion and started to get everyone’s toes tapping and stamping. The floorboards were bouncing to the crack of boots and clogs.
‘How did that yen get ahold of my waistcoat?’ yelled Fancy pointing his finger mockingly. He shook his head and smiled at the vicar. ‘I must have been skint at the time but I canna mind a thing about it.’
‘Do you think we should be going now? We don’t want to spoil their fun.’ Miss Herbert looked up sweetly but Isaac Cleghorn had other ideas.
‘If it’s dancing they are on with then Scarsdale can show them a few specials they’ll never know about. My missus and I and Ellen can teach them a few country turns around the floor, can’t we?’ No one seemed to want to depart so they all sat down around the edge of the room watching the patterns and swirling figures on the floor while the windows dripped with sweat.
Then Cleggy took himself onto the platform to say his piece. ‘How many of yous know the wishin’ dance?’ A few hands went up. ‘Righty ho! For this dance you need a partner, a sweetheart is best. No old ’uns, please. Leave this one to the youngsters and you, vicar . . . and you too, Miss Herbert. You’re no different than the rest. Get yourselves a chair.
‘This is an old dance, so they tell me, and we usually saves it to the last but you lot may go on all night. Some of us ’ve got cows to milk and beds to warm so we’ll get it over now. When the music starts I want one young man to stand up with a cushion and start us off, walk to your favourite girl in the room, don’t be shy . . . put it front of her, both kneel down and give her a smackeroo, a kiss for the gentry folk here tonight. That’s all there is. If you can’t find a cushion yer kerchief will do, anything for her to kneel on.’ There was a roar of oohs and aahs from the bystanders. ‘Once they get hitched up, a girl must find her favourite fella and do the same, don’t be shy. Now you see what we get up to in the country. I want every one of you lot paired up so we can start the dance proper, take her arm and swirl her round the room. If anyone is daft enough not to kneel down, I shall come with this broom and push you on the floor myself. That’s the way of it. Arm in arm, round and round. Come here, Ellie Birkett, and show them what’s what. They look a dozy lot to me. You set the ball rolling. Music, please, and a chord when they kneel down.’
Ralph’s heart was thumping like a drum; the cunning old fox had them pinned to the ground, never mind kneeling down. What was he up to? He watched Ellie march to her man and they both knelt down and kissed. Good for her! He had seen her duck this dance many times at the church socials, observing safely from a distant doorway just like himself. A navvy lad stood up awkwardly and stuck his red and white spotted neckerchief in front of a puce-faced skivvy girl who leapt down eagerly to meet him. One by one they were all going down. Once upon a time he could have pleaded a bad back but the funny thing was there had not been so much a
s a twinge for months. ‘The parson’s grown a backbone at last,’ he could hear Beth cackling in his head, ‘so bloody well use it!’
Ralph stood up slowly and there was a hush. He had no cushion and no neckerchief, only his best white clergyman’s stock which he slowly began to unwind. It was a ten-mile hike across that floor to the dancing partner of his choice. He felt like Sir Francis Drake spreading it out before the green tartan skirt. For an endless second there was not a movement, not a flicker, and he could see Cleggy hovering with his brush; stubborn little woman holding out to the last enjoying his agony, her shoe tap-tapping. Then to his amazement the blessed Zillah bent down to greet him eye to eye, smiling shyly as he pecked her soft cheek and sniffed a tinge of lavender water in her hair. There was a thunder of applause and shouting. ‘About time, vicar, might I say . . .’ Not a brush in sight. He grasped her tightly, fearing she would dissolve, and they rose up as one for the dancing.
‘Arm in arm, round and round,
Me that loves a bonny lass,
Will kiss her on the ground.’
Above their heads, unseen, other kisses and cushions were floating silently down; plump goose-feathers of snow falling thickly on the ground, covering the rooftops and tracks of Paradise and Scarsbeck; snowflakes swirling and whisking up their own merry circle dance over the dale.
Acknowledgements
You will not find Scarsbeck in Scarsdale on any map of the Yorkshire Dales for it is an amalgam of many villages found alongside the famous Settle to Carlisle railway. My story and characters are entirely fictitious but I have based incidents on true happenings during the railway’s construction. I am indebted to the late Dr Bill Mitchell’s excellent Castleberg series of publications on the history of the Settle–Carlisle railway and for his continuing support and encouragement in turning fact into fiction. I am also indebted to Marie Hartley and Joan Ingleby’s excellent Life and Tradition in the Yorkshire Dales and to the folk museums of North Yorkshire. I thank my friend the late Kathleen Firth for walking over these limestone dales with me. Finally, I would like to thank the Midland Railway for building such a splendid route, the cost of which broke many a back and many a purse. Long may it flourish!
