World From Rough Stones

by Malcolm Macdonald

  "It's certainly cold enough for snow," Arabella said.

  "Oh…yes," Walter said. "Snow. A white world for Christmas. It would be good."

  After a little silence Arabella began again. "I think it so quaint the way streets keep changing names here every ten yards. That's Salford Brig we've just come by. Here it's changed to Pavement. In a dozen paces it's Neddy Brig, then it's New Brig, then it's Church Street—and that's all less than a hundred paces along the same street."

  "It's the Lancashire–Yorkshire boundary," John said. "Perhaps that's why it's in such a muddle."

  Nora almost cried out in disappointment: "You mean Pigs Hill's in Lancashire?" But, being on her best behaviour, she held her peace, feeling it would be discourteous to the Thorntons to draw attention to this grave deficiency in their home.

  The joyful strains of music came through the quiet night, and moments later, the car braked before the unpretentious wrought-iron gate of the Hall. Its windows were a blaze of lights—every one uncurtained and several hinged open. The building was one of those rambling Elizabethan stone houses whose exteriors frankly confess the failure of the interior floors to meet on the same level; so much so that three storeys on the left gable became two by the time the eye travelled across to the right gable, and the windows of the three false gables in between showed how the transition took place.

  Though it stood in the centre of Todmorden, the "lawns" that sloped down to the main road were, in fact, a cowpasture; and twice a day the maidservants came down to drive the cows across the road to the river for a drink.

  "Hope they've swept the drive!" Walter said.

  When they reached the door, Bess and Sweeney stooped to replace the two ladies' boots with indoor shoes and then set off for the back of the premises. Nora followed Bess part of the way. Both maids stopped. "You go on, Miss Sweeney," Nora said, and when she was alone with Bess, she continued urgently: "You just listen here, young miss! I don't know what was going on just now and I don't want to, but if you break your ankle with any man, you'll be out of Rough Stones faster than you can pack—and your belongings with you. You know what I mean now?"

  "Yes, madam." Bess barely breathed the words.

  "Enjoy your evening then," Nora said and returned to the others. "I'm sorry," she apologized. "Bess is so young though, I didn't want her getting up to anything reckless tonight." She avoided Thornton's eye.

  "You haven't kept us," Arabella said. "No one's answered yet. Ring again, Walter dear." She alone did not realize the meaning of what Nora had just said.

  A fat silhouette of a man darkened a window to their right. "Just push in!" he shouted with a gruff heartiness.

  "Is that Redmayne?" John asked as they obeyed and shuffled hesitantly into the hallway.

  "I have no idea," Walter answered. "I've never met him. It seems we just pile our clothes here and wander in."

  Arabella invoked the heavens with her eyes and looked at Nora, smiling and shaking her head.

  But John, hearing the players—a catch group of three fiddlers, a bass fiddle, a concertina, and a flute—strike up a tune he knew, began to sing, in a bell-like baritone that startled Nora, who had never heard him sing in any voice: "Now Christmas is come, let us beat up the drum…"

  At that moment the fat man, whose cravat badly needed retying already, opened the door from the large hall, and, hearing John, said: "My dear sir! You mustn't keep such a voice to yourself. Especially if you know the words—which not one man in a hundred does these days!"

  "John Stevenson, sir, contractor at Summit Tunnel," he introduced himself. "And Mr. Walter Thornton, engineer in charge. Er…Mr.…?"

  "Redmayne," the fat man said and then, with a chuckle as they became deferential, added, "but not the squire. Know what you're thinkin'. I'm his uncle. But he tolerates me, don't you see. I make meself useful."

  Since he had joined them he had hardly taken his eyes off the two women. John introduced him to them and he kissed their hands. "Ah!" he sighed heavily. "If there had been such prettiness in the world when I was young! Things would have been very different! This is indeed an age of progress."

  He took them into the brilliantly lighted hall and presented them to his nephew, the squire. Upwards of a hundred people of all ages and conditions were gathered there, from moppets of six years right up to one old lady who later claimed, to Nora, that she remembered as a child hearing of something called Colour Den, which had something to do with soldiers and the colours, and of the escape of someone nicknamed "Pretender." Nora's heart fell at how much there was for Mrs. John Stevenson to learn that plain Miss Nora Telling had done so well without.

  The squire received them affably and invited them to join in the amusements of the hall. His humour seemed a little forced, John thought. And he said afterwards to the uncle: "Something's on his mind."

  "Last year! That's what's on his mind. That's why he was so glad to see you, I'll be bound."

  "What happened last year?" Nora asked.

  "Young Lionel"—that was the squire, who was all of fifty!—"he likes these old-fashioned Christmases. It's all we can do to stop him electin' a Lord of Misrule and waitin' on the servants on Christmas Eve—as it is, you see how we must fend for ourselves, while the servants have high-jinks in the back—well, anyway, last year he had all this open-yer-doors nonsense and every idle vagrant and mendicant in the district…"

  "Oh!" John said. "The railway! Just beginning! I see it. You needn't tell me."

  "So, with yourself here, there'll be none of that."

  The organization, or disposition of forces, in the big hall had slowly become apparent to them, though it seemed chaos itself when they had first entered. Up near the "orchestra" were those who wanted to dance—and they ranged from farmers' sons and daughters up to a smart young ensign from the Kings Own Yorkshire Light Infantry. Nora did not decipher the acronym until the next day—when she sat in church, to be precise—and she wondered why people kept referring to the youth as the "young coyly man," for coy was the very last word she would have applied to his behaviour.

  Around the dancers were groups of mainly young people who, from time to time, joined in, some clapping to the music or whistling or singing, some dancing for brief spells if they knew the steps. But in order to dance, a young man had to leave the company of his fellows with all its jokes, chaff, and buffoonery and cross a gulf to ask a girl to leave the gossip and confidences of her group. It did not often happen; so most of the dancers were youngsters and those already married.

  Between them and the window, looking very territorial, was a dangerous group of young bloods. Sons of the masters and the local gentry, these were clearly only beginning their evening here, waiting for the doors to the inner hall to open and the free drink to flow. Later, they'd be out to terrorize the neighbourhood and strew wild oats in common country—those not robbed of the faculty by liquor. To Walter it was Clod Three and his cronies all over again and he regarded them with special contempt. A little to one side of this group, looking as if he might be part of it and not a part of it at whim, stood a stocky young man with tousled hair, hollow cheeks, and great eyes that stared out at the company through strange, octagonal glasses. He nodded at Walter but made no attempt to come over and gave no further sign of recognition. By his dress he had come straight from a racecourse or a cockfight.

  "Who's that 'slap-up kiddy'?" Arabella asked.

  "The one who just nodded to me?" Walter said.

  "He looks most pale and interesting."

  "That's Brontë. He and I were quite close for a time last spring. But I don't think I'll introduce him to you. He doesn't seem to me to be in a suitable mood. I can't think what he's doing here."

  "He's looking at the door as if he expected a pack of hounds to burst in and chase him out at any minute. And why does he stare at the fire so?"

  "He doesn't care for fire. Always sits away from it. He told me once he burns easily. I'll introduce him sometime when he's in better looks. He's cap
ital company then and a champion for talking."

  "I wish he did not look so black when everyone else is in such good humour."

  "I gather he has a lot to contend with at home. He has three sisters, all a bit strong-willed, like we-know-who."

  She smiled and pinched his arm.

  "That's the Ule Clog, you know," uncle Redmayne said, rejoining them after ushering in a party very familiar to the house and so needing no escorting. "There's not one in a hundred knows the old customs now. But that"—he pointed to a giant tree root burning in the hearth—"is a real Ule Clog, lighted from a brand saved from last year's. Of course, you youngsters think it's all nonsense, you railway folk!"

  They protested that they did not. Nora said. "We've had a Ule Clog every Christmas I've memory for." It pleased the old man inordinately.

  Between fireplace and door were mostly youngsters, children, and a sprinkling of old folk. On the other side of the door, farthest from the dancing, stood the respectable and fashionable elite, toward whom the Stevensons and Thorntons were slowly working their way.

  But they never quite reached it, for the inner doors were thrown open and everyone, voluntarily or not, was swept toward them in a vortex that mingled the careful assortment of grade, age, sex, and inclination in one human tide moved by one appetite toward one goal: the buffets.

  They were long, oaken, and very plainly decorated; but they groaned with Christmas fare. Because of the servants' absence, it was all of the serve-yourself variety: pork pies, every kind of cold meat and cheese, mince tartlets, frumenty cakes in hot milk, and gingerbreads. Milk and punch were kept warm over spirit lamps on a separate table.

  Here gathered the bloods, wanting to cram down as much of the free liquor as they could hold before they began their evening's revels. When John and Walter, who had stood patiently waiting a turn at the bowl and ladle, came near the front, a tall, thin, curly-headed youth leaning against the panelling with a well-studied air of indifference, said to a friend: "Really Rupert, ain't it a blister! One was used to the servant classes holding their revels and neglecting their betters on Christmas Eve, but when they start joining us…"

  And Rupert said: "I blame the railways. They'll soon carry bastards to court, I'll lay."

  Walter, colouring hotly, said, "Stevenson! They mean us."

  But John was not the least bit roused. He looked calmly at the two and, without taking his eyes off them, said: "I think not. I agree they seem to be two very simple whisks—but I doubt they're quite that foolish."

  The one who had spoken first, holding and returning John's gaze, said in a languid voice: "How well we fine apples swim—says the horse dung!"

  There was a sharp intake of breath from the half-dozen bystanders who had heard, and the two young men and their friends dissolved in laughter, guffawing and punching each other's shoulders.

  John took a quick step forward to the serving table and picked up a heavy pewter tankard. From there it needed only two more steps to bring him face to face with the one who had delivered the insult.

  "No!" several voices cried. "Outside!"

  "Stevenson!" Thornton called. "They are not worth it."

  But they all fell silent when it became clear that John intended no violence. Smiling, he lifted the tankard, dangling it on his little finger like a cup on a hook. When he had roused their curiosity sufficiently he changed grip with a lightning speed, like a juggler; so that one minute the cup swung idly and the next it was firmly in the grip of that huge fist. The young man, still the very picture of arrogance, had not yet looked at the mug; in fact, he had not taken his eyes from John's face, which he examined as a naturalist might look at a specimen.

  For a while John was so motionless that people—even Thornton—began to wonder if he'd lost his nerve. But then someone said "Look!" and the gasps that followed made even the young man tear his eyes from John's face and look at the fist that held the mug. And then his eyes went wide with alarm as John moved his hand to a point uncomfortably close, much as to warn the other not to let his attention wander from it.

  The fist and arm did not tremble. What they were accomplishing seemed no effort. Yet slowly, silently, with a smoothness that was almost graceful, the fingers were folding and rippling and crushing the tankard to a simple ball. After that first gasp of astonishment the entire company of bystanders stood transfixed in silence, hardly breathing. And when the tankard was reduced to as near a ball as it would go, there was only a great collective sigh. The youth, and most of the onlookers, were now certain that he would use the metal ball as some kind of fist strengthener, and his face for the first time registered fear.

  But John, with another of those rapid flicks of the wrist, changed his grip so that he was suddenly holding it as a magician might hold an egg.

  "And now, young whisk," he asked. "Your opinion of this, if you please. Is it an apple would ye say? Is it horse dung would ye say?"

  People began to chuckle, realizing that there was to be no open violence done.

  The youth, alarmed yet stubborn, pursed his lips and shook his head.

  "Come. Ye were so free with your opinions just now. Apple or horse dung?"

  There was such an edge of menace in his voice that the young man, his wit deserting him, was forced to say: "Pewter, sir." He looked to see if John would be satisfied and would let him go.

  But John was by no means finished. "Ye were right in one thing, though," he said, conversationally. "There is a decided odour of horse dung in here. I think it was you brought it in under your shoes. Let us see."

  The youth stared at him blankly.

  "Lift up your foot," John said, and again the menace was there.

  Slowly and reluctantly the other obeyed. Quicker than sight John reached down his other hand and ripped off the young man's spur. The wrench twisted his ankle and he only just prevented himself from crying out in pain. When he looked again at John, he found the hand that had held the pewter ball now waved the spur mockingly before his eyes. All around them people were openly laughing—even, such is loyalty, some of the youth's own crowd. He made a snatch at the spur—but not nearly fast enough; before he had reached the end of his swipe, the spur again danced tantalizingly before him. The action brought only renewed laughter.

  When silence returned John said: "It won't be that easy. I must give you the chance to win it back. Do you box?"

  The other looked in dismay at John's size and at the fist that had mashed the mug to a ball. Not daring to risk the disgrace of a refusal, he simply repeated the word, "Box?"

  "It's that—or an apology," John offered.

  The young man licked his lips. "I apologize," he said, with no grace.

  John sniffed the spur, which, being a dress spur had of course never been near the side of a horse. "Ye were right," he said. "It is horse dung." And he dropped it neatly in the V of the man's embroidered waistcoat.

  And then, bathed in laughter and a scattering of applause, he turned to the serving table and calmly helped himself and Walter to their punch, as though his turn had come and nothing untoward had occurred.

  The whole episode had lasted little over a minute and had happened with such lack of commotion that most of the company, busy talking and helping one another to food, were unaware that anything had taken place. Even the final laughter and applause appeared to indicate no more than that someone had said or done something fairly sharp. The young man, followed by the others of his set, stalked angrily from the room.

  "That was well done, sir," said an eminent looking man in his mid-fifties when John and Walter had returned with the punch for the ladies. He introduced himself as John Fielden of Dawson Weir. Stevenson eagerly presented Walter and the two ladies. This was exactly the sort of luck he had hoped for. Fielden was not only the biggest employer in the district he was also Member of Parliament for Rochdale. To be in with Fielden was to be in. Also, his brother or cousin, Thomas, was a director of the Manchester & Leeds.

  "You're not 'Better Co
mbination' Stevenson!" Fielden said.

  "Is that what they're saying?" John laughed.

  "Oh, it's the talk of Manchester. And seeing you handle those young rips, I now believe every word. You know who that was I suppose?"

  "I've never seen him in my life."

  "Young Dicky Redmayne, our host's son!" He laughed at the shock and dismay in John's face. "I shouldn't worry. His father will thank you. Dick's a thorn in his flesh."

  John and Fielden talked for the best part of an hour—about labour, unions, despotism, unrest, progress in the north and the possible eclipse of London by the new moneymaking centres that reach from Liverpool through Manchester to Leeds and Hull; they talked of people—of Hudson the Railway King, as folk were beginning to call him, of Prendergast, of Brunel, whose Great Britain had that year crossed the Atlantic, of Frost, the Chartist who led the Newport riot, of Metcalfe and the local Chartists, and of the local millowners, whose heartless exploitation of their workers contrasted so strongly with Fielden's and Stevenson's practice as masters. And then, looking at his watch, and saying he had intended merely to cry in for a few minutes, he took his leave, saying that they must meet again.