Emily stared at Martha. ‘So, you don’t care about tearing them apart? I thought you liked Amy.’
‘I do. She’s a sweet girl, but Josh can do better for himself. If he marries, he needs someone who’ll help him achieve his ambitions.’
‘Your ambitions, Mam. Let’s be honest about this. Josh is quite content to stay here, make candles, marry Amy and raise a family. But that’s not good enough for you, is it? What do you want him to be? The owner of a steel works and live in a mansion?’
Martha shrugged. ‘Maybe one day. If he would only apply himself, work hard and—’
‘Mam, have you taken leave of your senses?’
‘Don’t you talk to me like that, Emily Ryan, else you’ll feel the back of my hand.’ Martha raised her arm as if to carry out her threat.
Emily faced her unflinchingly and smiled grimly. ‘I’ve felt it often enough. One more time won’t make any difference.’ But Martha dropped her hand and turned away, saying over her shoulder, ‘And don’t you go telling Josh. I’ll be the one to tell him tonight.’
Through narrowed eyes, Emily watched her mother go into the cottage by the back door, but even though she knew her father would need attention, the girl made no move to help. Her mind was working feverishly. Not for the first time in her young life, she was about to disobey her mother.
Two
The Ryans lived in the picturesque village of Ashford-in-the-Water in Greaves Lane. Stone cottages and houses lay beside the River Wye as it meandered towards Bakewell, just over a mile away. The village had, in its time, boasted several small industries; the quarrying, cutting and polishing of black marble; lead mining; and cottage industries of stocking making and candle making. A member of the Ryan family had been the village’s chandler for at least four generations. No one was quite sure when the small business had begun, but the Ryans knew that Walter’s grandfather, Luke, had certainly been the first in their family to take it on in the mid-1800s. Since then, each successive generation had continued with the profession. Now it had fallen to a very young Josh to carry it on. And it was what he wanted to do. He loved the work; he even gloried in the strong-smelling tallow, rendered from animal fat, though now he experimented with a refined form called stearin, which gave off a more pleasant odour. Special candles for the church or for the wealthy houses in the district were made from beeswax and Josh still made these too. But the young man was full of other ideas to move the business into the twentieth century. Next door to The Candle House was the village smithy, with its wide door open to the street whenever Bob Clark was working at his anvil with the glowing coals of the forge behind him. And next to that, on the corner of the lane, was the building that had once been a beer house.
After the confrontation with her mother, Emily walked through the cottage, passing her father still sitting in his rocking chair by the kitchen range. She didn’t even glance at him, so afraid was she that he might see the anger in her eyes. She entered the front room, which their great-grandfather had made into a workshop for the candle making, on the right-hand side of the cottage’s front door. In that way, customers could visit the small workshop without disturbing the rest of the family. Emily sat down beside Josh. He glanced up at her with a swift grin before carrying on with the intricate carving of a large, thick candle with a thin-bladed tool.
‘I’m still working on it, Em, but I’ll get it right one day. I’m getting better at it.’ It was something new that Josh was trying and one of several ordered by Mrs Trippet, the lady in the big house near the Sheep Wash Bridge over the River Wye that flowed beside Ashford.
Emily glanced at her brother, resisting the impulse to ruffle his tousled hair. She loved him dearly, even though she’d always been aware that he was their mother’s favourite – a fact Martha had never even tried to hide. He was a good-looking boy, who was swiftly growing into manhood. He was thin, but deceptively strong and would grow taller and broaden out. Soon, he would look very like their father had once done, with light brown hair, hazel eyes and a merry face that always seemed to be smiling. But Emily knew that the news he would receive this day would wipe the smile from his face. The thought brought a lump to her throat and her voice was a little husky as she said softly, ‘Josh, Mam is going to tell you something tonight so you must promise to act all surprised when she does.’
With a sigh, Josh laid aside the tiny knife, stretched his shoulders, yawned and then turned towards her with a wide grin. ‘What is it, Em? Out with it.’
Emily licked her dry lips. ‘She’s planning to move us, lock, stock and barrel, to Sheffield.’
‘Eh?’ Josh dropped his arms, the smile disappearing from his face. ‘What did you say?’
‘She’s planning to move us to Sheffield.’
For a stunned moment, he stared at her. ‘Whatever for?’
‘She doesn’t think there are enough opportunities here for you to go up in the world.’
‘But I don’t want to go up in the world. I’m perfectly happy here. I like making candles and I like the villagers dropping in to buy them and have a natter. And I’ve a regular order for plain candles and tapers from Mr Osborne at the corner shop.’ He nodded his head towards the window to the shop across the road. ‘And besides, there’s Amy. I’m not leaving Amy and she wouldn’t come because she won’t leave her dad. So that’s it.’ He picked up his knife again. ‘We’re not going.’
Emily sighed. There were going to be ructions in this house tonight and no mistake.
‘I’ve made your favourite for tea, Josh,’ Martha smiled at him as she placed a plate of steaming food in front of him, ‘stew and dumplings.’
Josh breathed in deeply. ‘Smells wonderful, Mam.’ He picked up his knife and fork and began to eat hungrily whilst, by the range, Emily gently spooned stew into her father’s mouth. There was nothing she could do to prevent Walter hearing Martha’s plans and, whilst he could not speak, she knew he would understand. Just occasionally, she could see a look of comprehension in his eyes or a faint smile on his lips. She smiled at him tenderly, knowing that in a few moments his whole world, such as it was now, was going to be shattered.
Martha sat down at the table, but she was not eating. She faced her son across the snowy tablecloth and took a deep breath.
‘I’ve been talking to Mr Trippet.’ Martha cleaned at the Trippets’ home, Riversdale House, two days a week. It was unusual – but not unknown – for her to talk to the master.
Josh looked up and Emily, glancing briefly towards him, marvelled at his acting prowess. ‘Oh, he’s home at the moment, is he? Is Trip here too?’
Thomas Trippet – ‘Trip’ to his friends – was the son of Arthur Trippet, who owned a cutlery-manufacturing business in Sheffield but lived the life of a country gentleman in Ashford. At nineteen, nearly twenty, Trip was only a few months older than Emily and almost two years older than Josh. The four children, for they’d always included Amy Clark, had been friends since childhood, running wild and free through the village and roaming the hills and dales close to their home. They loved to stand on Sheep Wash Bridge, near to Trip’s home, watching the farmers, who still used the river to wash the sheep before shearing.
‘Oh, look at the poor lambs,’ tender-hearted, six-year-old Amy had cried the first time the children had seen the old custom. ‘They’re crying for their mothers. Why are they being penned on the opposite bank?’
‘To make the ewes swim across to them,’ Josh, two months older and so much wiser, had laughed. ‘That way they’ll be all nice and clean when they scramble out the other side. Come on, I’ll race you home. Your dad will be watching out for you.’ And then he’d taken her hand and they’d run down the road towards their two homes that stood side by side. Two years older, Trip and Emily had lingered by the bridge until dusk forced them home too.
At other times, the four of them would fish from the bridge with home-made rods and lines or throw sticks into the flowing water and then run to the other side to see whose stick emerged fro
m beneath the bridge first, to be declared the winner. Often, they would beg chopped vegetable scraps from the cook at Riversdale House or birdseed from Mrs Partridge, who kept a bird table in her garden, to feed the ducks that always gathered around the bridge. One of their favourite spots was Monsal Head, where they looked down on the viaduct and watched the trains passing between Rowsley and Buxton. A rare treat for the children had been to catch the train at the little station halfway up the hillside of Monsal Dale and ride to Buxton, the two girls clutching each other as they travelled through the dark tunnels on the journey. One of their favourite times of the year – and one in which the children would all be involved – was the thanksgiving for water celebrated on Trinity Sunday and accompanied by the dressing of five wells dotted about the village.
Grace Partridge would always be the one to dress the well in Greaves Lane and each year she would say to Amy, ‘I need you to help me. Your dad and Uncle Dan –’ Grace referred to her husband, Dan Partridge – ‘have got the bed of clay ready for me and now we must pick the flowers and press the petals into the clay to make a picture. What shall we do this year? A picture of the church, d’you think? We could use seeds to make the walls and cones for the trees. We can use anything we like, Amy, as long as it grows naturally.’
Sadly, since the Great War, the custom had ceased.
‘I reckon folks don’t feel like merrymaking just now,’ Grace had said wisely. ‘But I expect they’ll revive the tradition one day. I do hope so.’
And with the end of the dreadful war that had left so many grieving, those idyllic childhood days were gone and now, since leaving boarding school, Trip had left the village to work in his father’s factory in Sheffield. Arthur Trippet was a strict disciplinarian and had made his son start at the very bottom and work his way up in the business. There were no privileges of position for young Thomas Trippet. He even had to stay in lodgings in the city rather than travel home each night in his father’s grand car.
Trippets’ made penknives and pocketknives. Trip was first put to work as a grinder. It was a dirty job, sitting astride a seat as if he were riding a horse, with the wheel rotating away from him in a trough of water. The cutlery industry had originally developed in Sheffield because of the waterpower available from the city’s fast-flowing rivers for the forges and grinding wheels. The tradition of the ‘little mester’, often working alone with treadle-operated machines, but sometimes employing one or two men and apprentices, has always been an important part of the city’s famous trade. With the coming of steam power, which could operate a line-shaft system to drive several machines at once, large factories were built, although these were still made up of individual workshops rented out. Trippets’ factory, built for one owner by Arthur’s grandfather in the nineteenth century, was a rare phenomenon at that time.
‘I’ll not have you treated any differently from my other employees,’ Arthur had told his son. ‘You’ll work your way up in the firm just like anyone else and, if you prove yourself, one day you’ll take over, but only if you’ve earned it, mind.’
Now, hearing his name mentioned, Emily’s heart skipped a beat. She’d been in love with Trip from the age of twelve. It had been then that she’d realized he meant more to her than the other village lads. As she’d grown up, they’d become even closer. Emily believed they were soulmates and would never be separated. But they had been, for Trip had been sent away, first to boarding school and then to Sheffield. Hearing her mother’s plans now, Emily felt torn. She didn’t want to leave Ashford and she dreaded the thought of what such a move would do to her poor father – and to Josh. But if there was a chance of being nearer to Trip . . .
Her wandering thoughts were brought back to what her mother was saying. ‘Never mind about Thomas just now. This is about you. About your future.’
With a supreme effort, Josh kept a puzzled look on his face. ‘My future, Mam? What has Mr Trippet got to do with my future?’ Then his face brightened and Emily stifled her laughter. Oh, this was better than going to the theatre in Buxton. What a star performer Josh was!
‘You mean,’ her brother was saying with feigned innocence, ‘he’s placed a huge order for candles for Riversdale House?’
‘No, I do not mean that, Josh,’ Martha snapped, her patience wearing thin. ‘Will you just listen to me? I’ve been asking Mr Trippet’s advice and he says that although he has no vacancies in his factory at the moment, he has business colleagues in the city and he’s willing to put in a good word for you.’ As Josh opened his mouth to speak, Martha rushed on. ‘He was the Master Cutler of The Company of Cutlers in Hallamshire for a year, you know, a while back. I expect his name is listed on a brass plaque somewhere in Cutlers’ Hall in the city. Now, wouldn’t that be something if one day your name was up there too?’
Josh blinked. Now, there was no more need to pretend ignorance. ‘You mean you want me to go and work in Sheffield?’
‘We’ll all go. We’ll move there. Emily will soon find a job of some sort.’ Emily was amused to hear how she was brushed aside as if she were of little or no importance. ‘And your dad will be nearer a hospital, so it’d be better for him.’ This was something Emily had not heard before; her mother must have come up with that persuasive argument since they’d spoken in the garden. But it was all designed to bend Josh to her bidding. ‘And I’m sure I could find cleaning work to keep us going until you earn a proper wage. I expect there’ll be some sort of apprenticeship you’ll have to do.’
‘Aye, about seven years, I shouldn’t wonder, and an apprentice lad’s wage would be paltry, Mam. It would be years before I could hope to earn decent money.’
‘But it’d be worth it.’ Martha leaned across the table, pressing home her point. ‘In the end. Don’t you see?’
Josh shook his head. ‘No, I don’t. We’re doing all right here. I’d rather be a big fish in a little pond than a sprat in a river. I’m a country bumpkin, Mam, not a streetwise city lad. I’d be eaten alive.’
Martha sighed and shook her head in exasperation. ‘No ambition, that’s your trouble, Josh.’
‘It’s hard work, Trip was telling me the last time he was home for a weekend.’
Emily wiped her father’s dribbling mouth as she remembered that glorious June Sunday when the four of them had walked from Ashford following the river’s twists and turns until they had come to Monsal Dale and, this time, had walked beneath the viaduct to watch the fast-flowing water tumbling over the weir. They’d laughed and joked and had such fun. That had been a few weeks ago and she hadn’t seen Trip since. But he would come back, she consoled herself. This was his home. He’d always come back to Ashford. But would it be to see her?
Thomas Trippet was a handsome young man in anyone’s eyes, not only in Emily’s. He was tall with black hair and warm brown eyes. His skin was lightly tanned from roaming the hills and dales near his home – he loved the outdoor life – and the lines around his eyes crinkled when he laughed. And he laughed often, for he was forever teasing and joking. Emily knew the friendship between the four of them was strong, but did Trip feel as much for her as she now knew she did for him? It was a question she often asked herself, but one she could not answer. When he’d left that weekend, he’d hugged her and kissed her cheek but there’d been no promise to meet again, not a hint that he wanted her to be ‘his girl’.
Her thoughts were brought back to the present with a jolt. Suddenly, Josh jumped up from the table, sending his chair crashing to the floor behind him, making them all jump and agitating Walter. His shaking was suddenly worse and he clasped Emily’s hand, his eyes wide and pleading. ‘It’s all right, Dad,’ she whispered, trying to reassure him, but she couldn’t make her voice sound convincing.
‘I’m not going, Mam.’ Josh was shouting now. ‘You do what you like, but I’m staying here, making my candles and marrying Amy – if she’ll have me.’
‘She’ll have you right enough,’ his mother snorted. ‘She knows a good catch when she sees it. An
d I expect her father’s pushing for the two of you to get wed, just so’s he can keep her close by and looking after him. He’ll want you moving in there with them, I shouldn’t wonder.’
Josh bit his lip. The matter had already been talked about between them when Josh had asked Amy to marry him on the day when the four of them had walked to the viaduct. Falling behind Emily and Trip, he and Amy had paused beneath the shadow of the arches. He’d kissed her and asked her to be his wife.
‘Oh Josh, yes.’
‘Let’s keep it our secret for a while, shall we?’ he’d whispered. ‘I’ve got to get my mother used to the idea first.’
Amy, a pretty girl with delicate china-doll looks that belied an inner strength, had giggled and shaken back her fair hair. ‘Well, there’s no need to worry about my dad. He can’t wait to walk me down the aisle and he’s already said we can live with him.’
‘That’s settled, then.’ Josh had hugged her again. ‘And how do you feel about a spring wedding in the village church?’
‘It’s what I’ve always dreamed of.’
‘Marrying me, I hope,’ he’d teased her, but Amy had been solemn as she’d said, ‘Of course. There’s never been anyone else for me, Josh.’
He’d kissed her again, his kisses becoming urgent with desire now that they were promised to each other. Since that day, they’d met often, just the two of them. With Trip gone, Emily didn’t seem to want to go with them.
‘I’m not playing gooseberry,’ she’d laughed.
Though nothing had been said, Emily could see the love between her brother and Amy blossoming and she wasn’t going to stand in their way. But now it seemed as if all Josh’s plans lay in ruins as he stood glaring at his mother across the table.
Daughters of Courage Page 37
