by Jean Stubbs
‘Ah, to be sure I shall. Now let me tuck Master Longe in his cradle — the which I found halfway down the bottom stairs to the kitching, and full of old books. And his blessed garments in a box under the dresser, and that kitting asleep on top of them!’
‘I fear,’ said Charlotte meekly, ‘that the house is in some disarray.’
‘Well, I know a servant as would suit, so long as you don’t turn up your nose at the Afflicted. She might not be quick but she’s clean, and having nothing else to think about she gets on with her work — which is more than you can say for Present Company Downstairs!’
‘Since you recommend her, Mrs Coates, I should be glad to have her. Is her affliction … ?’
Her mind wandered through a forest of strawberry marks, rickets, rashes, and downright ugliness, unable to picture this marred treasure.
‘Oh, she won’t frighten the baby,’ said the midwife briskly. ‘Her trouble’s elsewhere!’ And she placed a finger on her forehead and turned it round, like an imaginary key in a lock.
‘Mad?’ Charlotte gasped.
‘Back’ard,’ said Mrs Coates, ‘and all the better for it! Apart from breathing very hard while she polishes and scrubs, and not knowing when to stop — which you’ll have to stop her, else she goes on ‘til she drops — she hasn’t a fault in the world. Only, she needs kindness and a bit of understanding, not to be made merry with and put upon … I brought her into a Vale of Tears, Mrs Longe, thirteen years since. She was backwards way about then, and her mother took agin her in consequence. I’d like to see her settled, and you settled. And from what Mr Longe’s been saying about Society he should be glad to do somebody a good turn! And, talking of Mr Longe, he’s just the sort of gentleman as Polly Slack could take to — in a proper way — and she’d polish his boots until he could see his face in’em!’
‘Send her round as soon as may be, Mrs Coates,’ cried Charlotte. ‘She shall find a home with us.’
So had Dorcas said, many a time, and Betty always grumbled at the flock of red-nosed starvelings brought up from Garth village. But, fed and firmly trained, they had all married well according to their station in life, and left their good places for the doubtful delights of a small cottage and a large brood. And still Kit’s Hill continued to absorb their little sisters and eldest daughters.
‘That is settled,’ said Charlotte, sounding exactly like her mother.
‘Which goes to show,’ Mrs Coates continued, ‘how one good turn begets another. And now, Miss Sluts,’ as the subdued servant entered with lukewarm tea and scraped toast, ‘keep a-moving and do as your mistress tells you. And the next time a kitting does his business in the coal-scuttle, mind you clean it out, not leave it for folks to put on the fire and make a stink!’
‘Yes m’m,’ said the slattern, and those might have been her farewell words, for that afternoon Polly Slack joined the household and she left it, and they moved into a new phase.
Even in the three final days of his visit, William saw the beginning of a transformation which began in Charlotte’s bedroom and crept down as far as the first floor. On the Thursday, he and Toby were requested to close the folding doors between parlour and dining-room. As they had been standing open for above twenty years, with Butler’s Analogy of Religion and Berkeley’s Dialogues acting as present doorstops, this proved to be quite an undertaking. Toby was not even sure whether the books held the doors back or held them up, and the two men moved them gingerly (one at a time) to make sure, while William inspected and oiled the hinges as an extra precaution. Then Toby very kindly presented him with a fine copy of William Griffiths’s A Practical Treatise on Farriery which had been published only the previous year, and begged him to stay on as long as he liked. But the purpose of the visit had been achieved, and William’s mind was now bent on returning to his dying friend and master.
So early one dark morning he rose and dressed and knocked gently on Charlotte’s door, to find her giving suck to the infant while Toby slept soundly.
‘Our mother sent this,’ said William quietly, delivering the final message in the shape of a leather bag full of silver and gold coins. ‘It was to be Betty Ackroyd’s gift to you, upon your wedding day. It is Betty’s savings.’
He wanted to say more and felt he could not, but Charlotte said it for him. One hand moved protectively over the little mound of earned money.
‘It shall not be lightly spent,’ she whispered. ‘I shall keep it safe until I need it. Tell my mother I thank her and thank Betty.’
She lifted up her face to be kissed, and he marvelled at the change in her, weak though she still was from the delivery. Her eyes were calm, her face had lost its childish aspect, her mouth was firm and yet tender. She was no longer the victim of her impetuosity, or of the circumstances which had followed upon her choice. She was a survivor. The family might regret her difficulties, rail at them, be sorry for them, but they need not fear for her. Charlotte’s weakness for self-sacrifice had been channelled by this dependent creature at her breast. Though her problems were manifold she would not yield to them lest her child suffer.
‘Tell my mother,’ she whispered, ‘that we shall call him Ambrose, which was her father’s name, and — though I have not been to church of late — he shall be christened.’
‘She will be glad of that.’
‘And tell her that all is pretty well with us, now.’
‘I shall describe Mrs Coates and Polly Slack to her complete satisfaction.’
‘And — though Toby cannot leave his business — in the summer, when London is unhealthy, I shall come home and bring the baby to see them all.’
‘That will please her most.’
‘And — oh, speak well of Toby for me.’
He kissed her cheek again in solemn promise, and she caught his hand, saying, ‘And I am glad you came, Willie. And, Willie, was it not strange when Mrs Coates walked in to save us all? As though Betty had come back when she was needed!’
‘I shall tell Mamma that, too. And now Lottie, dearest Lottie, I must go. For the Mail waits for no man!’
‘Oh, I forgot to ask you, did you get your business done? The business that brought you here?’
Was there a teasing gleam in those velvet eyes? He could not be sure, and Charlotte was not stupid.
The purpose of my visit is accomplished,’ said William with dry humour, ‘and Toby has promised to keep me informed of all future developments in the iron industry, both gossip and fact. He has already given me information about Mr Cort’s puddling process.’
‘I shall remember that, if he forgets!’ Then her eyes filled with tears, her lips trembled, and she held out her infant, crying, ‘Oh, kiss the baby, too, for he is your nephew — and, who knows, he may help you at the forge when he is older, as you helped Aaron Helm. And my father shall teach him to ride. And tell my mother he shall be as learned in Latin and Greek as any scholar … ’
‘God bless and keep you, love,’ said William, giving her a final resolute embrace, then turned to the door so that he should not be riven by her weeping.
Polly Slack made tea and toast for him, and he slipped a shilling into her unexpectant palm and bade her look after her new mistress, and left her staring astonished at the little coin.
He was troubled until he reached St Martin’s-le-Grand, where an insolent fop wearing a sword called him ‘Johnnie Bumpkin’ and bade him step off the pavement to let his betters pass! William’s gorge rose. Heedless of rank or sword or consequence, he set down his bags, dealt the fellow a blow like a sledge-hammer and left him lying in the mud with a little crowd about him.
‘Pox on ‘em all!’ said William to himself, stepping victoriously aboard the Royal Mail.
He found a curious satisfaction in using this London oath against the Londoners, and settled back in his seat like a seasoned traveller.
View from the Smithy
Four
‘I don’t know as I’m man enough, let alone master enough, to fill your clogs!’ Will
iam had said to Aaron Helm.
‘Nay, lad,’ the smith had replied, ‘you might find as they slop about your feet at first, but time’ll come when they’re too rough and too tight for the likes of you. Then you’ll be looking round for a pair of fine leather shoon wi’ silver buckles!’
That fashionable era seemed far off. Aaron died shortly before Christmas, and William spent the festival at Kit’s Hill with his family before opening up the forge officially at Flawnes Green. This was a poignant celebration for him: a harking-back to the past as the Howarths and their servants dined at one table; a vision of the future as his mother superintended his departure.
During Aaron’s last illness Dorcas had employed a widow of good repute to cook and clean for him. Now that careful choice of hers would look after William. She had arranged the cramped living quarters behind his shop to the best advantage, and seen that the big farm wagon was packed with home produce. Ned and young Dick had driven it over, and the three men made a holiday of this removal: rolling the barrel of strong beer into the little larder, heaving in a sack of potatoes and another of Swedish turnips, hanging up a flitch of bacon, taking care that the salt pork was nowhere near the tallow candles, setting out butter and cheese and eggs upon the stone slab, stacking the wheat and barley loaves, fetching in a currant cake and a block of gingerbread.
To this bachelor bounty the ladies of Thornton House had contributed an exotic array of gifts. Besides the hundred gold guineas from Miss Wilde to mark the end of William’s apprenticeship, there were a dozen bottles of fine old crusty port and his great-grandfather’s silver-headed cane. Aunt Phoebe, not to be outdone, had bestowed upon him the last of her late father’s claret and a little heap of pen-wipers, most beautifully stitched. And Agnes and Sally had presented him with red and white marmalades from their store-cupboard.
That late December evening, alone in his humble kingdom, William savoured the rare delight of independence and solitude. The kitchen beams, blackened by age and years of smoke, were low enough to brush the top of his head. In its deep recess, a fire glowed on the hearth. On the mantelshelf above stood a pair of iron candlesticks, a couple of blue and white china plates, and two pottery figurines such as farmers’ wives buy from the packman when they have egg money to spare. Aaron’s ingenuity was apparent in the wrought-iron chimney crane, by means of which pots and pans could be moved into different positions over the fire, and raised or lowered accordingly. There was a mechanical spit which turned by use of iron weights on a pulley, and even an iron fire-dog with a toasting-fork welded to his head. An iron kettle simmered on its hook. His chops were cooking in a hanging grill. Potatoes were baking in hot ashes. His table in one corner of the room was laid and waiting. William Wilde Howarth, blacksmith of Flawnes Green, was a happy man.
As well as the forge William had inherited Aaron Helm’s last apprentice, Stephen Turner. He was a slight lad for this kind of craft, just fifteen years old, shy and withdrawn. William wondered why Aaron had accepted him, but did not wish to seem critical, though Aaron himself remarked that a shout, a clout, and a kick up the backside were all the boy was worth.
But in the three months of Aaron’s dying William had contented himself with winning back old customers and setting the business on its feet again. So the shortcomings of Stephen were no more than a minor irritant, a brief disturbance in the routine, until the time when William was made responsible for the smithy and a human being he neither knew nor cared for. According to ancient law the apprentice must be provided for in the event of a master’s death, so Stephen was duly transferred to William, with his first year’s training already gone to waste. A study of his half of the indentures caused the new blacksmith further disgust. For the privilege of teaching Stephen the mystery of smithing Aaron had charged a mere ten sovereigns. Moreover, since the lad lived out with his mother, she must be paid three shillings a week for his keep, rising by easy stages to six shillings and sixpence in the seventh and final year. Calculating his expenses, William found that he was training the lad at a financial loss, with nothing but the doubtful prospect of Stephen’s usefulness to compensate him.
‘We are given nothing without return,’ Dorcas had said, when he complained to her. ‘You have the smithy. Look upon Stephen as your payment for it.’
Winter was in its depths, heavy with the rains which had dogged the previous harvest. But on his first morning as master, William rose at half past five o’clock, washed in icy water, donned a coarse shirt and breeches, raked the fire together in the grate, and took a swallow of beer to start the day. Beyond the kitchen, in which warmth still lingered, the shop was dosed and dark and cold.
From mid-September to mid-March, apprentices worked from daybreak to twilight a short day compared to the other half of the year, when they laboured from five in the morning until eight at night. Yet Bartholomew Scholes had his apprentices up and about by six of a winter’s morning, cleaning premises by candlelight. For as he said, ‘This is not work, but making ready for work, my friends. When it grows light thou shalt learn what labour means!’
The silver watch proclaimed six o’clock precisely. William concealed it beneath one of the hollow figurines and marched into the shop. He unbarred the double doors with a flourish, letting in a bitter gust of rain, and took down the shutters. A metallic grey had taken the place of night’s black. He tied his leather apron about him, put on his woollen skull-cap, and stood arms akimbo, waiting for Stephen. The rain beat in upon him with no more effect than it would have had upon a marble statue. He was master here. He would not fulfil the duties of his apprentice. So much had he learned of Quaker training.
‘I do not punish honest ignorance, William Howarth,’ Bartholomew had said, taking off his heavy leather belt. ‘But neglect of duty and tardiness I cure with a whipping, my friend.’ And so he had, upon William’s bared backside, though merciful enough not to use the buckle-end as some masters did.
Now the sky became dull pearl, and a hurst of trees was visible on the hill beyond the river, opposite. He could glimpse the road running down to Millbridge, partly screened by hawthorn. From the cottages tucked round the Green smoke lifted to heaven. A door opened, a voice called and was answered. Women were astir, blowing on the ashes, kindling the fires, cooking oatmeal porridge. A cock crowed guiltily. A robin trilled question. Flawnes Green was awake.
Still William stood, in the majesty of his calling, damping down his temper that it might flame more freely later on.
At half past six a little lad scurried round the corner of the smithy, holding a man’s tricorne hat on his head to prevent its slipping into his eyes. His clothes, too, seemed to have belonged to a larger person. The breeches were held up with string and bellied over his knees. His clogs gaped. His shirt and coat overpowered him. William quelled a smile and remained grim and silent at the door of the forge, until the lad came to an uncertain halt and looked fearfully up at him.
‘Morning, master!’ said Stephen, whipping off the battered hat.
William waited an exquisite half minute before he replied.
‘Morning?’ he said sarcastically. ‘I should have called it afternoon, Stephen. I have been waiting since morning.’
The boy rubbed his head and then his eyes, endeavouring to find words out of an inadequate vocabulary.
‘Day’s just breaking, master,’ he said finally, pointing vaguely at a watery sun. ‘Just broke.’
William caught him by one outstanding ear and pulled him inside the shop.
‘Aye, and next time it will be your head that is broke!’ he cried, in fair imitation of Bartholomew’s manner. Severe but controlled. ‘Now I will have you here as soon as the first light comes to the sky, not the last. Do you hear me? You rise in the dark, and breakfast in the dark, to get here in time. I’ll have no gentlemanly dawdling, sir. This smithy is open and working at six o’clock.’
The lad nodded vigorously to prevent his teeth from chattering, and held his big hat to his chest. They stood by the cold
forge together, one of them gloriously at war, the other ignominiously cringing. William folded his arms.
‘Tell me your duties, Stephen,’ he said.
The boy stared at him dumbly, afraid.
‘Duties, duties!’ cried William. ‘What are your first duties here?’
A quiet voice from the doorway said, ‘It’s no use shouting at the lad like that, Mr Howarth. He don’t know what you mean,’ and Hannah Garside stepped in out of the rain.
William’s housekeeper was no more than five and twenty, but sorrow and an air of authority made her seem older. Her figure was slight, and she wore her working clothes with grace. They were shabby but very clean, and she had bought a new black shawl in honour of her husband’s funeral, which covered up the deficiencies of her wardrobe.
William stopped short, as though she had caught him out in an offence.
‘Stephen’s mother is a widow-woman, like me,’ Hannah continued in her low pleasant voice, ‘but she takes her grief harder. She’s not a woman that can stand alone, like I can. Stephen tries to take his father’s place, but he’s o’er-young for that.’
She was unwinding her shawl, shaking the wet from it, touching her white cotton cap to make sure it was in place. Now she came beside the boy, and smoothed the hair out of his eyes, and rested her hand upon his shoulder.
‘You won’t know, perhaps, how a woman can grieve, Mr Howarth,’ said Hannah, and there was no reproof in her tone, yet she intended that he should understand. ‘Bess Turner cries in her sleep, and not wanting what the day will bring she don’t like waking to it. The lad gets up first, and lights the fire for her and brews tea. He sits with her, listens to her, does what he can afore he leaves. Which is little enough, for what can anyone do? Farmer Boulton lets her keep the cottage, out of charity. She’s got nothing but what she earns, cleaning, and the three shilling a week you give her.’
