“He wasn’t in uniform,” she said.
Water, Water
1910
In the West Riding of Yorkshire the problem of water has always been a talking point because it is a matter of serious and continued concern in men’s minds. Every part of the inhabited world needs water for human and animal consumption; the West Riding needs it for industry as well. Cloth cannot be made without water to wash the sheep’s fleece and later unite the woven fibre into a continuous fabric; presently it was discovered that tumbling water could also be a useful source of power. Now the West Riding, containing as it does a millstone-grit part of the Pennine Chain, is full of tumbling water; hundreds of small streams hurl noisily down the rocky slopes—the very language, including words like becks, delphs, cloughs, bottoms, mosses and so on, reveals what a watery vocabulary is necessary to describe the teeming landscape. It is well known to economic historians that it was tumbling water which took the textile trade from flat East Anglia, where you had to put up a windmill to get any power, to the West Riding. (The East Anglian sheep were finer, but the water barely oozed.) That the human, cattle and textile uses of water are here sometimes at variance, and water rights a dear possession, is obvious and local history, full of argument on the matter down the centuries, shows it all too well.
The rural district of Moordale, comprising the slope of a steep rough hillside, occasionally interspersed by small pastures, was edged on the south by a mere beck but on its northern boundary by a stream which, though swift and shallow was almost broad enough to be called a river, the Eddle. The hillside teemed with water. The neighbouring town of Duckersfield had previously concluded an arrangement with Moordale to take some Moordale water and pipe it away to their populous city. They paid a fee, built their own reservoir and seamed the land with catchment trenches, which was all very well until there came a dry summer.
The Moordale Rural District Council, in the early years of the twentieth century, were in session.
“Why should we build bridges across the Eddle all of a sudden? We never had ’em afore,” said Councillor Crabtree peevishly.
Councillor Ormerod, in the chair at the monthly meeting, felt vexed. He longed to reply sharply: “I am aware of that, Councillor Crabtree.” But to say that was as good as to tell that cheap incomer shopkeeper Councillor Crabtree feller that the Ormerod family had inhabited Eddle Hall for some three centuries, and that was the sort of thing Charles did not do. Besides, he reminded himself sardonically, everybody present knew the fact, even that new schoolmaster chap, Frank Hollis. He therefore restrained his temper and replied with his usual calm: “A request has come from the Haighland Council, which we are bound in courtesy to consider.”
“Let ’em build their own bridges.”
“The river Eddle is half in Moordale, half in Haighland,” put in the clerk, in the tone of an official who knows he is supported by documents.
“In that case they should pay half.”
“I believe Haighland R.D.C. are ready to consider this.”
“Well, why need we have iron bridges? Wood would cost less.”
“Iron would last longer.”
“Nay! Only if they were painted every two year,” put in Councillor Firth. Large, burly, slow, he was a farmer, and had a small bridge or two on his own land.
“An iron bridge in such a beautiful valley as Moordale Dene is an insult to the environment,” threw in Frank Hollis with contempt.
“Oh, we all know you think of nowt but beauty,” said Crabtree disagreeably.
“That’s not true, Councillor!” cried Hollis, his temper and colour rising.
“Now, Frank,” said Councillor Greenwood soothingly. Youngish, with a couple of children at the National School, he was a great friend of the schoolmaster, and his friendly tone had some effect. “Can’t you take a joke?”
“May I ask, Mr Chairman,” began Councillor Lumb (owner of a mill down the dale, almost in the little town of Moorfoot), “whether these proposed bridges are to be for vehicles, or merely pedestrians?”
“Vehicles!” exclaimed Crabtree in horror. “You’ll be wanting ’em of stone next.”
“If we are to have bridges, it might be as well to build them properly while we are about it, rather than take two bites at a cherry as it were.”
“No doubt they would be very convenient for you at your mill,” sneered Crabtree.
“Councillor Crabtree, I resent that imputation,” said Lumb hotly. “In any case it is totally untrue. Most of my workpeople live in Moordale and don’t need to cross any river; those from Haighland cross the big stone bridge in Moorfoot. Our wagons take the main road down to Hudley, or up across the Pennines into Lancashire.”
Several councillors looked severely at Crabtree, who saw he had gone too far. He looked down, snorted crossly and managed to get out in a surly tone: “No offence intended.” Lumb could be seen struggling but eventually murmured without conviction: “In that case, none taken.”
“Have we made any enquiries about (a) the location of the bridges (b) their probable cost?” enquired Greenwood.
“Location, yes. Haighland have made suggestions,” said the clerk, naming them.
“Have you a comment, Councillor Firth? You probably know the terrain better than any of us.”
“Well, yes; those are sensible,” Firth said, nodding. “They’re all at the foot of our lanes.”
“As to price,” began Crabtree, glad to regain his dominance.
“May I propose from the Chair,” broke in Ormerod hurriedly: “that we ask Mr Walsh, our clerk of council, to obtain estimates for wood and iron bridges? Of various breadths,” he added.
“How will he do that?” queried Crabtree.
“Advertise in Hudley and Annotsfield newspapers,” answered the clerk.
“Why not Bradford as well?”
“Greater distance means extra transport and extra transport would mean extra money.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re beginning to see some sense,” said Crabtree. “I’ll second that proposition.”
“A proposition from the Chair doesn’t need seconding,” snapped the clerk, who was tired of Mr Crabtree.
“Those in favour? Ah, that’s unanimous,” said Ormerod, relieved. “Well now that that minor matter is disposed of for the moment, let us turn to our major problem: the water supply.”
Everyone sighed, recognising the magnitude of the affair.
“Have there been any further developments, Mr Walsh?”
“Yes, Mr Chairman, I’m afraid there have. At our last meeting we mentioned the streams below the Edge, you know. I wrote to the Duckersfield Corporation, and received their reply this morning. I am afraid,” he continued, visibly swelling with indignation, “that Duckersfield are adopting a thoroughly dog-in-the-manger attitude. They take our water, use it themselves and even sell it to other boroughs! Yes, they do! But they won’t give us a drop. They say that ground below the Edge—”
“Full of water,” put in Mr Firth.
“—was listed in their Bill before parliament, you know. So it belongs to their water supply. By law.”
“How can that be?”
“It’s one of their catchment areas,” groaned the clerk.
“Well, it’s fairly ridiculous, I think,” said Mr Firth slowly: “that here’s Moordale, bursting with water all over—”
“Aye, it’s one of the biggest catchment areas in the Riding. The land, you see, slopes our way.”
“—every dip in the ground is full of water, and water falls over every rock, and yet we who live here have to fetch it in jugs and bowls, like.”
“And the children at school here have to walk a quarter of a mile to get a drop,” burst out Frank Hollis, crimsoning.
“Surely not, Mr Hollis,” said Ormerod. “There is a trough, holding a good supply of water, by the gate I understand—”
“The National School water-supply has been condemned by the Medical Officer of Health in Hudley.”
“Do we come under Hudley? It’s a good many miles away.”
“Only eight. Yes, as regards the Medical Officer we do. It was an arrangement...” began the clerk, rueful.
“If we were reported to the School Board, they’d close the school.”
“Never!”
“Aye, they would! It’s no use you saying Never! Mr Crabtree. A condemned water supply is dangerous. Typhoid. The children are in danger every hour.”
“Forbid them to drink the trough water.”
“I do, of course. I’ve covered the trough and put up posters and forbidden them to drink from the trough. Miss Sykes and I do all we can. But you know what children are. The children,” shouted Frank Hollis, beating the desk in front of him with his fist, “are in danger every hour.”
“We all know you care for the children, Frank,” said Greenwood apologetically.
“Then do something about it, for God’s sake.”
Everyone was shocked by this open reference to the deity.
“Yes. We must no longer hesitate,” said Ormerod. “I had not realised how sharp was the necessity.”
“I think we’d better leave it over the summer, and see how we get on,” said Crabtree.
“Nay! We left it last summer and we were all short.”
“You haven’t children, Crabtree,” said Firth. “I have three. Greenwood here has two, and Parker who isn’t here tonight has one. He lost the first one.”
There was an awful pause, and even Crabtree dared not ask how Councillor Parker had lost his eldest son.
“Mr Lumb has children—well, his daughter Margaret’s out of school by now, but there’s another—and Mr Ormerod has grandchildren. Of course they don’t attend the National School here. They go away, like.”
“That makes our responsibility the greater,” said Lumb quickly.
“The responsibility of this Council to the children of Moordale is total,” said Ormerod.
“I understand,” resumed Lumb, firmly business-like, “that Mr Walsh was to approach Lord Mountlace’s agent—Lord Mountlace owns all this land—” he explained to forestall an objection from Mr Crabtree, “about possible services.”
“Yes. I approached Mr Ward, as instructed,” said the clerk. “He felt that the spring near Box Farm was too small and too near the farm for our purpose; to use it for the whole area would deprive Box of water for the cattle.”
“How do you manage for the mill, Lumb?” said Ormerod.
“I draw from lower down the dale, where the two rivers have united.”
“You will want to be in on this scheme, then?” Mr Crabtree as usual.
“Of course. Equally of course, I shall pay Moordale R.D.C. for the water the mill consumes.”
“How is our finance, Mr Walsh?”
“Excellent. We don’t owe a penny and we have no loans outstanding; in fact we have a credit balance. If we implement a water scheme with reasonable economy I don’t think we need put much on the rates.”
“Ah, the rates!” exclaimed Crabtree in tones of anguish. “There will be a row about the rates.”
“There will be a row about the children,” said Frank Hollis in a dangerous tone.
“Mr Chairman,” began Greenwood—he was always so moderate and practical that everyone was willing to listen to him: “May I suggest that we obtain estimates, and further advice from Mr Ward, and then hold another meeting, a special meeting for Water Supply?”
“More delay,” snapped Frank Hollis.
“I support Mr Greenwood. We need full information before we can take a sensible decision,” said Lumb.
“And then we must call a meeting of our ratepayers,” put in Mr Crabtree in a tone of triumph.
All the members groaned.
“A very sensible suggestion, Mr Crabtree,” said Ormerod coldly.
“His lordship’s agent should be present at any such meeting, I think,” put in the clerk.
“And a waterworks engineer,” added Lumb.
“And the Medical Officer of Health,” snapped the schoolmaster.
“Tickets must be sent to ratepayers, and ratepayers alone,” insisted Crabtree.
“I don’t altogether agree,” said Frank Hollis in a hurry. “Surely everyone who lives in Moordale—”
“It’s the ratepayers’ money we shall be spending,” said Lumb.
“Money, money!” grumbled Hollis in a low tone.
Crabtree turned angrily on him. “If you gave more thought to money, Mr Hollis,” he began hotly: “I believe—”
“Well, I think that is all we can usefully do on this question tonight,” said Ormerod firmly. “I declare the meeting closed.”
The meeting broke up. The chairman and clerk settled down to discuss the wording of the advertisements.
“I’ll walk with you a little way if I may, Tom,” said Lumb to Greenwood.
Greenwood, half sorry to miss the chance of a talk with Frank Hollis which might serve to calm him, half glad to miss a duty he rather dreaded—he knew Frank’s temper well and had listened to his angry complaints about the way the world was run often before—of course assented, for Mr Lumb was in fact his boss, Greenwood being the highly respected foreman of the Lumb mill.
“The back door’s the nearest for us both,” said Lumb, and they went out together that way.
“How do you think this water business will be dealt with, Tom?” said Lumb.
“We shall need a lot of trenches cut hither and yon across the hillsides, just below the brows, like,” said Greenwood. “To catch the water as it flows. Leastways, that’s what Duckersfield has.”
Lumb would like to have exclaimed: “Damn Duckersfield!” but considering their relative positions he thought it would be unbecoming, so he merely said: “And then, pipes, I suppose.”
“Aye, pipes. That’s where the money’ll go,” said Greenwood mournfully.
Meanwhile Frank Hollis, having had a violent confrontation with Mr Crabtree in the front hall, had slammed out into the bare little playground. Mr Crabtree waddled ahead. It was drizzling slightly. Firth, smiling with real amusement—his farm had a spring—was at his side.
“Water, water everywhere” said Frank.
“Well, we need it,” said Firth.
They came to the gate.
“I’ll just catch Crabtree and butter him up a bit,” said Firth.
“You do that,” said Frank, laughing.
“Well, you ruffled him, you know,” said Firth, walking off.
They parted.
Under the lamp at the gate stood a girl. Everyone in Moordale knew who everyone else was, even if they were not on speaking terms. Hollis therefore at once recognised Lumb’s older daughter, Margaret. He noted before that she was rather a pretty girl, with wavy fair hair and blue eyes, not too plump, and tallish. He raised his hat—everyone wore a hat or cap in those days—and murmured with cold politeness: “Miss Lumb”. He had taken a couple of strides away when he remembered, turned and strode back to her.
“Oh, Miss Lumb,” he said apologetically: “I’m sorry, excuse me, but your father has left, you know. He went out by the other gate with Tom Greenwood.”
“Oh,” said Margaret, rather taken aback. “Well. Thank you. I’ve been to Hudley for my First Aid class and come back on the Moorfoot tram. I just thought I might as well call for him. It doesn’t matter.”
She looked at him with some interest, for she found his voice attractive and his manner courteous. He was tall, very tall, too tall, she observed, so tall and so thin that he seemed to bend over in the middle; his face was pale and haggard, his forehead high; his eyes were large and brown even seen through the hideous steel-rimmed spectacles then in vogue. She also noticed that the navy blue suit he wore was ill-cut—probably “off the peg”—and shabby, thin at the elbows and in any case of poor cloth. She herself was also wearing a navy blue suit—“costume” was the word then—but the cloth had come from her father’s mill and been cut by a good tailor.
“Shall
you be all right alone? It’s very dark under the trees in the Dene,” suggested Hollis, his strong protective instinct overcoming his shyness.
“Oh, yes. Moordale’s my home, you know, after all,” said Margaret, smiling. But at this moment the rain, hitherto slight, decided to pour down heavily. The wind abruptly blew a strong gust round the corner. Huge heavy drops plopped into the water of the trough by the gate. Good heavens, she would get wet, she would get soaked, reflected Hollis in anguish; it was a good mile and a half to Moordale Lodge from here and though there would be shelter under the trees in the Dene the rest of the road lay open to the moorland. What could he do? Ah, of course!
“My deputy head, Miss Sykes,” he began, breathless, “always keeps an umbrella here—this building is my school, you know—”
“I know,” agreed Margaret.
“—if you could wait a minute, just a minute, I could fetch it. Rather shabby, no doubt, but still an umbrella—after all.”
“Thank you. That would be most kind. I’ll just shelter by the wall.”
“Yes, yes, by the wall,” agreed Hollis, overjoyed. “I’ll run.”
He suited the action to the word, and was back in a very short time carrying a brown umbrella with a long handle.
“It’s what they call an en-tout-cas, really, I believe,” he said, getting the umbrella up after one or two efforts. “A sort of parasol, you know. You observe the pink flowery border. Very dashing. Made to use both in sun and rain.”
“I hope Miss Sykes won’t mind,” began Margaret.
“Oh, she’ll be delighted,” said Frank with enthusiasm. “Miss Sykes is a very good person—truly good, you know. She taught in Moordale for many years. She hoped to be principal here, I’m sure, and was saddened when I was appointed, but she has been so good to me, so helpful and loyal. A truly good person. Splendid with the children, especially the difficult ones. I shall be back at school tomorrow morning before she arrives, you know, and the umbrella will be with me. So no harm done.”
More Tales of the West Riding Page 10
