Contents
Cover
Publication details
About the Author
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Epilogue
Margaret Manchester
A story of life, love and crime
The Lead Miner’s Daughter
First published in the United Kingdom in 2018 by
Mosaic (Teesdale) Ltd, Snaisgill, Middleton-in-Teesdale,
County Durham DL12 0RP
© Margaret Manchester, 2018.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the published and copyright holder.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.
Margaret Manchester has asserted the moral right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
ISBN 978 1 9164327 1 0
Design, layout and typesetting by
Mosaic Design and Print, Middleton-in-Teesdale
About the Author
Margaret Manchester lives in County Durham, England, with her husband and two sons. She was born in Weardale and spent her childhood there.
Research into Margaret’s family history discovered that many branches of her family had lived and worked in the area for centuries, either as lead miners, smelters or farmers. This sparked her interest in local history.
Whilst she studied local history and archaeology, Margaret worked as a guide at Killhope Lead Mining Museum. She was awarded a Masters degree in Archaeology from the University of Durham and went on to teach archaeology, local history and genealogy.
As well as writing, Margaret is currently the managing director of a multiple award-winning business; she is the chair of a charity that supports industrial heritage; and she enjoys spending time in her garden and with her dogs.
Dedication
To the memory of my mother,
Sheila Adamson,
whose stories of her childhood on a Weardale farm inspired me to learn more about the people and the history of the dale.
Acknowledgements
Firstly, I would like to thank my husband, Alec, for his patience and understanding while I was writing this book, and for reading and commenting on my early drafts. I could not have completed it without his support.
I am very grateful to my sister, Linda Brown, my in-laws, Leslie and Annette Manchester, and my friends, Ian and Pam Forbes, for proofreading this book and giving me feedback on it. Their comments on the plots and characters have been invaluable.
The front cover photograph was taken by Gary Lintern, who specialises in night-time and underground photography. His model was Emma Hutchinson, daughter of my friends, Jacky and David. Thanks to Peter Jackson at Nenthead Mines for providing the location for the photograph.
The back cover photograph was taken by Linda Brown. It is a view of Weardale taken from Crawleyside, Stanhope.
Finally, a big thank you to Judith Mashiter at Mosaic Publishing for her advice and for all the work she has done to get this book into print.
Chapter 1
Fell Top, Killhope, Weardale, County Durham
March 1872
The morning was misty as Mary set off for the lead mine at Killhope. As she walked down the steep slope from Fell Top towards the valley bottom, she looked down at the washing floor which was a hive of activity. The master washerman was telling off a young boy. The boy’s head was down, his eyes glued to his feet. All the other lads were working hard, with shovels, buckers and rakes, separating the lead ore from the other minerals that had been hauled out of the mine. As she crossed the bridge over the burn, light rain began to fall.
By the time Mary reached the washing floor, the scolded boy was back to work and the master washerman’s full attention was on her.
‘Sir,’ she said. ‘Are there any jobs going here?’
‘Who for?’
‘For me, sir.’
The master washerman laughed and laughed, as though he’d heard the funniest joke ever. When he eventually stopped, he said, ‘For you lass – no!’
His answer was so resounding that she didn’t even think about arguing her case. She couldn’t see why a girl wanting to work there was so funny. She was stronger than she looked, and she could work hard. Why couldn’t lasses work there as well?
But with his blunt rejection, he had humiliated her in front of the washerboys and all of the men who worked above ground at the mine. They had all heard what had been said and she could feel their eyes on her back. Even the blacksmith had left his hearth to see what all the fuss was about. He stood in the doorway of the smithy staring at her. Mary could hear the master washerman chuckling to himself as she walked away with her head held high, her cheeks red and her eyes glassy with unshed tears. She wanted to run, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
A young, fair-haired man descended the steps from the mine office and their paths crossed beside the stables.
‘Excuse me,’ he said, removing his cap. ‘I heard what he said. Don’t take any notice.’ Shaking his head, he said, ‘I pity the poor lads that have to work for him.’
‘Aye, me too.’
‘So, you’re looking for a job then?’
‘Aye, I need to find something.’
‘Our neighbours down at Westgate are looking for a lass to help in their house. It’s on a farm and they’re decent people. Would that be any good for you?’
‘That would be perfect. Thank you. Who should I contact?’
‘I’ll write down their details for you.’
The man pulled a notebook and pencil from his jacket pocket and started to write. He tore out the page and handed it to her. The note read:
Mr & Mrs Peart
Springbank Farm
Westgate
‘Thank you. That’s very good of you. I’ll write to them as soon as I get home.’
‘Good luck!’ He smiled and walked over to his horse and cart.
Mary watched him stroke the bay horse’s neck and whisper something in his ear before he climbed up onto the cart and drove off towards the bridge. She read the note again, folded the paper and walked briskly back up the hill to Fell Top. She couldn’t wait to tell her sister.
***
As Tom Milburn walked back to his horse, he smiled t
o himself. He couldn’t believe he’d met a bonny lass, and at the mine of all places. He was sure he hadn’t seen her before, but that was hardly surprising because he didn’t get up to Killhope very often. He hoped she would take the job with the Pearts at Westgate because, if they were neighbours, he was more likely to see her again and he would like that very much.
‘That was a nice surprise, wasn’t it, Bobby lad?’ he whispered into his horse’s ear. He smiled to himself as he walked round to the cart and stepped up. Taking hold of the reins, he set off for home feeling much happier than he had for quite some time.
***
Mary and her sister, Annie, had just finished writing a letter to Mr and Mrs Peart when their father, George Watson, burst through the door. He took off his work boots, removed his wet jacket and hat and hung them on the back of the door, and then he turned and looked directly at Mary.
‘What were you thinking, lass?’
Mary stared at him wide-eyed. Her father worked underground and she hadn’t thought he would get to know about her visit to the mine, but obviously he had.
‘A man is supposed to provide for his family. You’ve embarrassed me by turning up at Killhope like that and asking for work behind me back. I’ll tell you something lass, no daughter of mine will ever work on the washing floor while there’s a breath left in my body! That’s no place for a girl down there.’
‘I’m sorry, Father, I should have asked you first.’ She paused before saying, ‘You do know we can’t pay the bills though, don’t you?’
‘Aye, I know that, but the whole world doesn’t need to know. How does that make me look? Like I can’t look after me own, that’s what.’
‘Me and Annie were talking earlier. We think we should bring John home. He can be weaned now. We could look after him here and we won’t have to pay his wet nurse anymore.’
‘John…,’ George murmured as though he had forgotten his youngest son existed. He sat down and his shoulders slumped.
‘It’s time he came home, Father. It’s nearly five months since Mother died.’
‘Aye, if you think so. It’ll be you two that’ll be looking after him anyway. Is our William back from school yet?’
‘No, he must be playing out. He’ll be back when tea’s ready.’
Mary moved to hide the letter that sat on the table behind her, and said, ‘By the way, I heard there’s a job going at Westgate. A farmer called Mr Peart needs somebody to help in the farmhouse. Do you think I should write to him?’
‘Why not?’ said George resignedly. ‘At least that’s better work for a lass than the washing floor.’
Mary turned to Annie and they smiled knowingly at each other.
George Watson borrowed a pony and trap from a neighbour to take his daughter to Westgate. As they set off from Fell Top, Mary looked back at the house she had called home. With only one room downstairs and one upstairs, it had been crowded at times, but she had fond memories of her childhood there. The stone cottage with its small plot of land was nestled on Killhope Moor. The open expanse of fell around the smallholding was pitted with quarries and mines, and sheep grazed on the coarse grasses that grew on the boggy peat soils, along with rushes, mosses and heather. Mary’s favourite time of year was late summer when this upland landscape was transformed into a sea of purple and the gentry came to shoot the grouse, but today the rugged hills were green and peaceful.
They reached the valley bottom and joined the road that meandered down the dale crossing backwards and forwards over the river on its way. Looking across at her father, Mary wondered what he was thinking. He’d hardly said a word since they’d set off.
‘Father, I know you’re not happy about me going out to work, but me wages will help out at home and you’ll need less food with me living-in.’
When George turned to his daughter, she couldn’t read his expression.
‘It just doesn’t feel right sendin’ a lass out to work.’ He shook his head. ‘The Watsons have lived through some hard times before, but we’ve never had to send our women out to work.’
‘Lots of girls work these days, at least until they get married, and there’s not much chance of me meeting a man up at Killhope, is there?’
‘What about Hughie Jackson?’
‘There’s no way I’d marry him - he’s horrible! He used to bully me at school.’
‘Jim Simpson?’
‘Jim’s nice enough but he’s too old. He must be thirty-five at least, and he hardly has any teeth left. No, I wouldn’t want to marry him. Maybe I’ll find my future husband at Westgate,’ she said.
‘Don’t you be gettin’ too close to any young lads down there.’
Mary laughed.
‘I mean it. There’s a few decent lads about, but there’s plenty that’ll take advantage of a bonny, young lass like you. Just be careful.’
Her father had called her bonny. Was she bonny? Nobody had ever said so before. She had always felt plain next to her younger sister Annie, who had golden hair, green eyes and a lovely smile. Mary’s dark auburn hair framed a pale face with hazel eyes that seemed to change colour depending on her mood. Everyone said she looked like her mother. She missed her mother.
Hannah Watson had died from an infection shortly after John’s birth. When the doctor had come to see her, he had said that there was nothing anyone could do but pray, but the prayers hadn’t worked and her mother had died anyway. Mary felt a lump form in her throat.
‘What’s the matter, lass? It’s not too late to turn back if you’ve changed your mind.’
‘I was thinking about Mother.’
After a brief pause, he swallowed and said, ‘Aye, it was hard when she went, but it was God’s will so we have to accept it.’
George and Mary continued their journey down the dale passing through several villages on the way to Westgate. Both were lost in their thoughts until, up ahead, they saw a horse and cart standing sideways in the road completely blocking their path. George pulled up the pony. Mary thought it looked like the horse she had seen at Killhope, the one belonging to the man from Westgate who had told her about the job at Springbank Farm.
She saw a young man sauntering towards them. His walk was self-assured, and he whistled a jolly tune. As he got closer, she could see him more clearly and was disappointed to see that it wasn’t the man from Killhope after all. She hoped to be able to tell him that she had got the job and that she was on her way there now.
Mary noticed that this man was tall, and he had dark brown hair, with large brown eyes to match. He wore a striped shirt that was open at the neck, moleskin trousers and leather clogs. As he approached, he said, ‘I’m sorry, we won’t be long. I’ve just blocked the road off while we move the sheep into this field.’
George nodded and sat patiently as he watched the sheep move like a wave up the road towards them. A woman and a collie dog herded them towards the gate.
The man turned towards Mary, surveying her with those beautiful eyes, and then he smiled. He had a lovely smile. Mary’s cheeks flushed. He winked at her and went back to guide the sheep through the gate. Wondering who he was, Mary sat and watched him until the sheep were safely secured in the field.
Shortly after they set off again, George turned the pony onto a farm track. A newly-painted sign read ‘Springbank Farm’. They were almost there. Mary could see a chimney over the brow of the hill and, as they climbed higher, the house gradually came into view. The farmhouse was a large, double-fronted Georgian building, two storeys high, and Mary considered it to be very grand indeed.
As they pulled up in the yard, George said, ‘Well, this is it lass. This is goin’ to be your home for a bit. You know where we are though, if things don’t work out.’
Mary nodded and stepped down from the trap saying, ‘I’ll be alright. I’ll come back up to see you as soon as I can.’ As she reached for her small bundle, he leaned forward, and, in a rare show of affection, he kissed her cheek.
She turned towards the house and s
aw a middle-aged couple, who she presumed to be Mr and Mr Peart, coming towards them. Nervously brushing the dust off her skirt, she waited for them with her father by her side. They all took it in turns to shake hands while Mr Peart made the introductions.
‘Would you like a cup of tea before you head home, Mr Watson?’ asked Mrs Peart.
‘No, thank you. I’d better be goin’. It’ll be dark by the time I get back. Thank you for takin’ her on.’ Looking at his daughter, he said, ‘She’s a good lass, our Mary.’
Mary blushed at the compliment. George tipped his cap to them all and climbed onto the trap. He turned the pony around and set off for home.
Watching her father leave, Mary suddenly felt very alone. The Pearts seemed to be nice enough people but they were strangers. She hoped she had made the right decision to come and work for them.
‘Come on in lass and I’ll show you where your room is,’ said Mrs Peart, leading the way towards the back door of the house. Mary followed her through the kitchen and into a hallway where a wide staircase led up to a dark passage. There were lots of doors on each side and, opening one of them, Mrs Peart said, ‘This will be your room while you’re with us. It’s nothing fancy but you should find everything you need.’
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