He turned to find Frank Roscoe grinning at him, Bracken the dog by his side as usual.
Rob grinned. ‘I keep it sharp enough to cut the hairs off the back of my hand. And never lend it.’
`Good lad.’ Laughing, Frank slapped him on the shoulder. They greeted each other as the old friends they undoubtedly were, Bracken leaping excitedly between the two of them, tongue lolling, barks echoing through the forest, wanting to join in the celebration. But it was not until work was finished for the day that they were able to walk from the forest to the local inn. Here Rob ordered tatie pot and set up a pint of ale for each of them, not forgetting a bowl of water for his old canine friend.
As they ate and drank by a roaring log fire, the smell of damp wool, muddy boots and dogs strong in the overwarm room, they settled to a long and comfortable chat. Frank talked about Olivia, anxiously reassuring the young man that he would take very special care of her.
‘I’m sure you will,’ Rob replied, and the two of them smiled, content with the way things had turned out. Rob noticed Frank made no mention of Alena, any more than Olivia had. It was as if she had ceased to exist.
Rob asked about Kate and the rest of the coppicers, hearing that they still moved about the woodlands, though customers for their products were becoming harder to find.
‘Coppicing will survive. Even if it’s going downhill now, it’ll come back. The forest itself will demand that it does. Trees are living things and need to be maintained.’
This led to their arguing the toss between softwoods and hardwoods; whether the Commission would ever agree that it was possible to blend the two without ruining the economy of either, the ancient forests, or the countryside in the process. Frank thought they should plant only hardwoods in the Lake District.
‘It’s a special area, for leisure and walking, and think of the roads they’ll have to build to get the timber out. This isn’t Canada.’
Rob could see both sides of the argument. ‘They tried mixing hardwoods with the first conifers, but the sheep ate them. In any case, much of the soil on the higher fells is too thin for hardwoods, and oak would never survive in the harsh climate without some sort of protection, so you have to grow that protection first. Planting spruce will prevent loss of soil and put the richness back that’s been lost by over-grazing.’
Frank was unconvinced and thumped a fist on the wooden table to emphasise his point. ‘I doubt the Herdwick sheep farmers fighting to maintain a traditional way of life that goes back centuries would agree. But that’s another story. Aren’t I more concerned with me own patch? How much do they mean to plant here in Grizedale, that’s what I want to know?’
Enjoying the lively debate, Rob swallowed some beer, acknowledging that he wasn’t sure. ‘It isn’t the Commission’s current policy to make forests pretty, only economic. Though I reckon fifty years from now they’ll be able to start planting in some hardwoods, once they’ve had the first crop of soft and the forest has had time to settle. Then a hundred and fifty years after that, they’d have been proved right to plant more forests in Lakeland. Forestry is a long-term project, Frank, as you know. It can’t happen overnight.’
Frank frowned, hating to be defeated but nevertheless admiring the way the lad could hold his ground in an argument. ‘Aye, well, it’s a point of view.’ Even so he continued, ‘I’ve heard they’re to plant in Eskdale next, that they’ve already started on the Cumberland side of the Duddon Valley, right along by Birks Farm and on Harter Fell, aiming to plant as high as Banty Crag. ‘Tis criminal to ruin that lovely landscape. Some of the finest scenery in Lakeland being blanketed with square blocks of dark spruce for all time, despite the protests of notables such as Lord Lonsdale himself.’
‘At least the work will provide much needed employment, which is more than the coppicing industry is doing right now. Sad really, because I don’t mind admitting that’s where my heart truly lies.’
‘I understand that well enough, lad.’ Having reached an agreement of sorts, and the conversation come full circle, both men fell silent, amicably sipping their beer.
‘I dare say you’ve heard your father is doing much the same in your own village? Are you agreeing with that too?’ Frank said finally.
Rob looked aghast. ‘I don’t believe you! There’s no space for massive conifer forests in Ellersgarth. That wouldn’t be right.’
‘Try stopping James Hollinthwaite when he’s set his mind to something.’
As they left the pub to go their separate ways, Frank suggested that Rob visit his old friend Isaac, the charcoal burner. ‘He’s working close by here at the moment. Tell him I sent you. Go early enough and he’ll give you breakfast. He’s the most sociable hermit I know.’
The next morning before dawn, out of curiosity as much as friendship, Rob set out to find the old man before he went on to where he was working that day. Anything to take his mind off the memories of Ellersgarth that Frank had awakened, and this news of his father which he couldn’t quite believe.
Isaac was known as something of a character. Built like an oak, as he himself said, only a bit more grizzled on top, If he had a second name he never used it, perhaps had even forgotten it for he’d no recollection of his age either, except that it was considerable. All that was known of him was that his father had been a clever and influential chemist, his mother a delightful and accomplished lady whom he had adored. He’d come to the Lakes on a climbing expedition as a young man while attending Oxford, and had never returned to finish his degree. Only his voice gave away his upbringing, being clear and well-modulated, while his appearance generally made him look like a tramp.
Today he was dressed in his winter garb of an old army greatcoat worn with a sack over his shoulders, for extra warmth, and a wide-brimmed hat with a pheasant’s feather. Rob doubted he ever took them off, even when he went to bed. The locals called him ‘a well set-up chap’, or ‘a good all round man at his job’, and ‘sharp as a razor’.
He was certainly an expert at poaching and setting traps, trout tickling and any other illegal methods of acquiring food which Isaac thought of as nature’s bounty. When not working on the charcoal burn he still went climbing, usually alone, and knew where he was from the outline of the fell-tops, or even the sound of a beck. And if anyone wanted to know what the weather was likely to be, or what was happening in the world, they would go and ask old Isaac.
He was sitting in his hut, not a drop of the early-morning rain leaking through the turf roof, happily toasting oatcakes in a dry frying pan when Rob stumbled upon him. A few yards away stood the gently smoking dome of the charcoal burn. The stench of it stung Rob’s eyes and caught at the back of his throat, but it didn’t seem to trouble Isaac. It was the thin spiral of smoke, coiling upwards into a pale lemon sky, which had directed Rob to the clearing. There was a damp chill in the air, and he readily accepted the old man’s invitation to share his simple breakfast which, just as Frank had promised, was instantly offered.
‘Good morrow, young man. I have neither coffee nor whisky, but you are welcome to share a hot cup of tea and a gasper with me.’ Rob grinned, accepted the tea brewed in an old tin can, but declined a puff of the Woodbine. They talked of the ways of the forest as they ate the oatcakes, and of the doings of Mosley.
‘The man’s gone too far, of course, with his jackboots and brown shirts. Could’ve had the aristos in the palm of his hand, but he overstepped the mark, don’t you know. Never do it now. He’s finished, praise be.’
‘You don’t agree with his politics then?’
‘Good God, no. I’m with the rebels, the Commies. How about you?’
Rob shook his head. ‘Never really considered the matter.’
‘Then time you did, boy. There’s a war coming and you’ll likely be in it. I’m too old, sad to say. Missed the other shindig too.
Rob frowned, startled by this talk of war yet not quite able to disagree with this wise old man. After that he kept the conversation to more mundane subjects, and was given a few tips o
n how to secrete stolen game under a wood-pile in case the estate owner should walk by.
‘But never forget where you’ve left your prize, that’s the important thing, or on the morrow thou wilst know hunger,’ he finished, as if quoting Shakespeare, and they both laughed. When Rob had eaten his fill he got up and offered to pay for his breakfast.
‘Pay me next time you come by, and make it soon. Any friend of Frank Roscoe’s is a friend of mine.’
Rob realised that for all his hermit’s ways, little escaped the notice of this old man. ‘How did you know I was a friend of his? I should’ve mentioned that fact, but I forgot.’
Isaac grinned, showing a complete set of healthy teeth. ‘People call in. They tell me things. Such as how his son means to marry your girl.’
It was never completely silent in the forest. Always there was the sound of rain dripping from a branch, the cooing of a wood pigeon or the constant twitter of quarrelling birds. Now, for once, it did indeed seem to grow silent. Rob stared at Isaac for a long time, swamped in misery. He hadn’t heard of Alena for so long, and now to hear this confirmation of his father’s earlier warning about Mickey filled him with despair. Finally he said, ‘She isn’t my girl. Not any more. She can’t ever be.’
Isaac looked at him keenly for a moment, shrugged, then turned his attention to the next oatcake. ‘You should never give up on something - or someone - that is necessary to your survival or happiness. That is my philosophy of life, boy, which is why I am here and not in some London office my father had picked out for me. I’ve never regretted it. Fathers do not know everything. "To thine own self be true." In other words, trust in your own judgement, not his.’
Rob stood nonplussed, unable to think what to say. How could he explain that he was quite unable to disregard James on the question of his relationship with Alena? Not without real proof. It was too difficult, too dangerous - too terrible even to consider. The old man no doubt meant well, but his situation had been rather different from Rob’s own. Not wishing to say as much, he thanked Isaac and hurriedly left.
Would the past never let him go? Alena to marry Mickey. No wonder neither his mother nor Frank had mentioned her. A wave of sickness came over him and a cold sweat broke out between his shoulder blades. He mustn’t think of it, for she wasn’t his. She was his sister, for God’s sake! He must never forget that.
The raw pain in Rob’s chest at this thought was a cruel reminder that he had not stopped loving her despite this indisputable fact. But in view of this new information, he decided he would not wish to run the risk of bumping into the love-birds. To be on the safe side, he decided it was time to leave Grizedale and move to the more remote fells. There was plenty of work to be had in Ennerdale and the Duddon Valley. So it was that he did not get Sandra’s letter, or hear her gently worded version of events.
Chapter Nineteen
January and February were long and cold and bleak. The snow lay thick in the fields, fierce east winds blowing it over the hedges and piling it up in the narrow lanes so that there were days when Alena had to set out an hour earlier in the blackness of night to reach the mill on time. She hated these weeks when she never glimpsed daylight until Sunday came, except through a dusty mill window.
Then she and Mickey would walk out in it, revelling in the crystal clear air and the sight of the distant range of ice-tipped mountains all around them. Icicles would hang from the trees, turning the forest into an enchanted place. Here all was serene and oddly silent, the birds and squirrels, otter and deer, conserving their energy till spring came again.
Working in the mill during these winter weeks was particularly taxing, with all the girls coughing and sneezing and never quite keeping warm. Lizzie did her best to help by making sure there was a good blaze in the old fire range each dinnertime and hot soup available, but rheumatism, chilblains, influenza, red noses and ice-blue fingers and toes were common complaints. Not that there was ever any question of taking time off to nurse themselves better. None of them would have dared. There were too many people waiting to step into their shoes, and James Hollinthwaite did not have a reputation for being a sympathetic employer.
When they weren’t worrying over the continuing depression, the talk was all of the young idealists secretly rushing off to enlist in the Spanish Civil War. Many of them were artists and writers, including George Orwell, and young men quite unfit for war.
Edith said, ‘Our chaps in Ellersgarth have more sense than to get involved in somebody else’s battles. Hollinthwaite is a Fascist - send him. Give us a bit more fresh air round here.’ But for all her black humour, the worry was that the trouble might escalate and concern them all in the end, whether they wanted war or not.
Winter maintained its iron grip throughout March and although Mickey pressed Alena to start preparations for their wedding, planned for the end of May, she continued to put off the moment.
‘There’s plenty of time. Ma can make my dress in five minutes,’ she airily told him.
‘You could at least help me get the house ready.’ He had moved into the cottage he’d found for them at Burmyre Bottoms, but it had damp peeling wallpaper and hadn’t seen a lick of paint in years. ‘I seem to spend my life mixing wallpaper paste, or with a paint brush in hand. Even your mother has done more than you, making curtains for our bedroom.’
Alena clicked her tongue with exasperation. ‘I’m hopeless at sewing, all fingers and thumbs.’ She tried to imagine sharing a bedroom with Mickey. And a bed. But she couldn’t. She’d once tried to imagine her mother and Ray making love, or Dolly and Tom, but had ended up shuddering in disbelief. Perhaps sex was something that couldn’t be imagined but a fact of life that had to be got used to, like growing older. Now if it were Rob ... She closed her mind to this thought.
‘You could ask her to teach you,’ Mickey pointed out.
‘Oh, tosh. Don’t expect me to be what I’m not.’ And, laughing, she kissed him to put an end to his sulks.
She offered the excuse that she was too busy helping Sandra with her campaign. Determined not to let up, and encouraged by their success with the local authority, the campaign seemed to have escalated. The pair sat up long into the night, talking and planning, making endless lists and writing out copies of their protest letter. Even Dolly had been known to come along and help on occasion, sitting all plumply cheerful in long cardigan and short skirt, talking of how much more considerate Tom was to her these days, as she folded letters and licked postage stamps. And there was still much to be done. The battle hadn’t been won yet, only - a small skirmish.
Mickey did not approve.
Why waste time on such things?’ he complained. ‘You’re neglecting yourself badly. Look how rumpled and untidy you are. Ally.’
‘Don’t call me that,’ she snapped at him.
He held up his hand, palm out, to placate her. ‘I’m only saying that dress looks as if it came out of a rag-bag. And red doesn’t suit you.’
Flushing with embarrassment, Alena had to admit the dress with its faded fabric and torn hem had seen better days. She hated dresses in any case, and had only bought it in the first place to please him What with long days spent at the mill and helping Sandra, there’d been little time recently for titivating. She preferred to throw on a sweater and skirt, or better still shirt and slacks like her brothers, shorts in better weather. She hated to fuss about her clothes. ‘I like red,’ she said by way of defence.
‘And your hair is all over the place. Get it cut, for goodness’ sake. I can’t have my wife looking like a bird’s nest when she walks down the aisle.’ She started to protest at his criticism, but Mickey was adamant. ‘I’ll drive you to Kendal on Saturday, then you can get your hair cut and buy satin or something for your wedding dress. Perhaps a box-pleated cream linen suit would be nice as a going-away outfit.’
For a man, Mickey took an inordinate interest in her appearance.
Alena felt a stir of resentment, but even as she searched for excuses to put him off, h
e told her how beautiful she was. ‘Even though there’s an ink stain on your chin and your hair is tousled.’ He smoothed the curls back from her face and started kissing her, one hand easing up her skirt and sliding down the tops of her stockings beneath her suspenders. She gasped at this unexpected onslaught but to appease his sulks after she’d fought him off, Alena agreed to his proposed visit to the shops.
‘That’s my girl,’ he said proudly.
Like the climate, plantation life on the high fells was harsh. Sometimes Rob worked in Ennerdale, other weeks at Whinlatter, in the endless progression of planting and weeding, or hammering in fences with a huge maul hammer, in horizontal sleet or driving rain. His first excitement over the job, and belief in the long-term benefits, became tempered by harsh reality. The fences he helped to erect often trapped sheep on the high fells. They strayed from their own heaf, injured or inadvertently driven there by a dog sent to find them. With their way down the fell blocked, the sheep would become pinned against the high new fences and perish there in the next fall of snow.
Rob, along with some of his colleagues, had a hard job persuading their ganger to allow the occasional break in the fenced blocks for lost sheep to find escape.
The screes on Ennerdale were constantly moving. Stones would crack in the frost, clattering downhill, or a loose boulder would topple and threaten the men who struggled to plant small trees in almost barren, stony soil. Sometimes they even had to carry up sacks of fresh soil in which to plant the young trees.
Nor did the promised number of forestry jobs materialise. Men from West Cumberland would often arrive in the early morning, in the hope of finding work, coming by bus if they were lucky enough to have the fare, otherwise on a bicycle and then by foot. But instead of the anticipated high numbers finding work, there were in fact only two others employed regularly besides Rob.
He lived with Phil Gilson and his family. Like men on the other plantations, Phil was attempting to scrape a living from the thin soil of the fells on the smallholding he’d been granted. The aim of the system was that it should subsidise what he earned as a forester.
The Bobbin Girls Page 27
