The Blacksmith's Girl

by Rosemary Aitken

  ‘Welcome to the secret war, then. Met the Lieutenant yet? If not you will do!’ He put on a mocking voice. ‘First lesson, learn what silence means!’

  It was obviously a quotation because everybody laughed.

  ‘Old Judd has got a point, though,’ one of the others said. ‘This lot are only here because Sam Golders never learned.’ He mopped his plate with a small crust of bread. ‘Thought he was immortal, but Fritz proved otherwise. Must have heard them working. Sammy and his men – set off a mine and blew them all to smithereens. And destroyed the tunnel we’d been working on for weeks. So you learn that first lesson if you know what’s good for you.’ He gulped the bread and took a swig of something from his mug.

  ‘And second lesson,’ said the man who’d spoken first. ‘Though Old Judd won’t tell you this – if you’re captured, don’t tell Gerry what you do. Tell them you blow up bridges, anything – but they hate us tunnellers. Give you a bad time if you fall into their hands. Better a clean shot between the eyes.’

  This was not an encouraging beginning, Peter thought. He had obtained his plate of food by now (the mess tin he’d been issued with had been curtly waved aside) and sat down at the table, thoughtfully. There were a thousand things that he’d have liked to ask – not least how you could mine without making any noise – but he was too embarrassed to say anything at all, so he ate his food in silence.

  It tasted horrible, but it was warm and he ate it gratefully, washed down with great gulps of sugared tea. When he looked up the previous diners had all left the room.

  But just as he was about to ask Tremean what on earth he thought they were supposed to do next, Lance Corporal Smith returned. ‘Right then, if you’ve finished! Wash your plates and eating irons and turn in for the night. Move then. At the double, you lazy sons of—’

  Peter had never been so harassed in his life. In fact the day had given him so much to think about that, despite his weariness, he was sure he would not sleep, but – notwithstanding the unaccustomed hardness of the ‘bed’ and the thousand worries about what the dawn would bring – he had no sooner put his head down than he was slumbering like a child.

  If Private Tremean had not shaken him awake, he might not have stirred even when the morning bugle blew.

  Two

  ‘Old Judd’ made an appearance at the parade next day, after a swift roll call and inspection of the ranks. To Peter’s surprise he was not really old at all – hardly any older than the rest of them, though he was sporting lieutenant’s epaulettes and had an important barking voice.

  ‘As you were, squad! I want a word with you!’

  There was a Cornish accent in the snapped command – and something about it made Peter look more sharply at the man. The face seemed half-familiar, though that seemed improbable and, if so, he could not think from where.

  ‘All of you miners in civilian life?’

  There was a general murmur of assent.

  ‘The answer is “yes, sir”!’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ came a ragged chorus. Tremean caught Peter’s eye.

  ‘Think he was a general, not a bally double-pip!’ he muttered, out of the corner of his mouth.

  ‘No talking in the ranks!’ The Lieutenant gave an unexpected smile. ‘Do things the proper way, and we shall get along. You’ve been picked to come here, because you were the brightest of the bunch. So I’ll be training you myself and I expect a lot of you. Don’t disappoint me. Any Cornish here?’

  ‘Yes!’ Peter and Tremean replied in unison, and managing to add, ‘sir!’ only just in time.

  Judd nodded. ‘Land round here is not dissimilar to what we get back home, though there’s more clay than granite. Any clay-kickers?’ he added.

  Peter knew what that meant now – they were northern men, who’d found a way to shift wet clay more quickly by working a special shovel with their feet, rather than by hacking at it with a pickaxe, like you did with rock. Along the line a few more hands went up and Judd went to have a word, absently rubbing his left ear as he went.

  It was that little quirk that did it. Of course! Surely this was a boy he’d faintly known at school – one of his eldest brother’s friends, who had gone on to work down Dolcoath Mine? Peter shook his head. Hard to imagine that he could be here. But Judd – that sounded right!

  Caleb Judd – it was coming back to him. That was the fellow’s name. And he’d never been much good at anything but sums, though he’d won the school prize for running once or twice. Years older now, of course – in fact, Peter might not have been sure that it was really the same Judd, except for that crooked scar across the Lieutenant’s cheek, where he’d fallen off the chapel wall and gashed himself, trying to get birds’ eggs off the tree nearby.

  Peter could hardly listen to the pep talk afterwards, how there would be a day or two of training now with Judd and then they’d be ‘straight at it’ – he was too busy looking at that scar.

  The sight of it was cheering, though it was hard to say quite why – suddenly Peter felt better than he had felt for days. Not that there was anything special to rejoice about, perhaps, remembering what the diners had said the night before. It was no advantage to have known the Lieutenant slightly years ago.

  ‘Any questions?’ Caleb Judd was asking now, in a tone which suggested that there ought not to be.

  But Tremean was already wading in. ‘Yes … sir,’ he ventured. ‘About this mining school. If we’re supposed to be here because we know the type of ground …?’

  ‘Fair question, Private!’ said the Lieutenant. ‘But if you thought you knew mining, you’ll have to think again. All sorts of things you’ve never come across. Listening devices – any of you ever heard of a geophone before? New techniques of tunnelling and setting dynamite – you might have set charges to bring down a bit of rock, but we’re looking to blow a bloody great crater underneath the Huns. And then there’s other things, first aid, recuscitation, what to do if you encounter gas, how to use a gas mask or – come to that – a gun. Answer your question, Private?’

  Tremean, abashed, murmured that it did.

  Judd rocked back on his heels. ‘But there’s one thing in particular you’ll have to learn. The first lesson in warfare tunnelling, I always say. Know what that is, do you?’

  ‘First lesson of tunnelling – learn what silence is,’ Peter heard himself reply, to his considerable dismay, quoting the diners of the night before. His mind had still been half-thinking of the bird’s nest and the scar, or he would never have dreamed of piping up like that. The whole group, he realized, had turned to stare at him, and then quickly turned their attention to their boots. ‘Sir!’ he added hastily, and decided that he had only made it worse. It sounded insolent. ‘That is …’ he faltered.

  But Caleb Judd was nodding. ‘Quite right, sapper. Work in silence – don’t talk unless you have to, and only whisper then. Don’t cough, if it kills you. Tiptoe down the tunnels and make sure your boots are wrapped in rags before you start. Don’t let so much as a matchbox drop onto the floor. Silence is more than golden, it’s life or death to you and – if you’ve been used to working with others underground, chattering and singing – it’s the hardest thing to learn. But you won’t last long round here unless you do.’

  Peter was chastened, as he was meant to be, and he said nothing further till they were all dismissed and ambling back towards the ‘training room’ so-called, which turned out to be a draughty, disused shed out at the back.

  As he was wandering in to find himself a seat, Caleb Judd came up to him. ‘Well done, sapper. It’s Kellow, isn’t it?’ He gave that unexpected grin again. ‘Saw the name and recognized the hair. Think I knew your brother – many years ago.’ He nodded briefly. ‘You’ve clearly got his brains. This is nasty work we’re doing here, and very dangerous – often less than six feet from the Kraut we’re trying to blow up, and who is trying to do the same to us – but our work could turn the war if the miner knows his stuff. And generally they do. So I expect a lot of them
– especially Cornish ones. Yet they seem to do all right. Charmed lives, I do believe. And look at me, promoted in the field, and given a commission, like a gentleman. So stick with me, Kellow, and we’ll see this war through yet.’

  A moment later he was an important man again – standing out in front, drawing diagrams on a blackboard with a piece of chalk and looking ‘more general than double-pip’ again. But ever after, Peter felt, Judd kept an eye on him – even a few days later when the proper work began and he started for the first time to tunnel through the ground.

  ‘I’m starting you on clay – it’s easier to work on without making any row,’ Judd said at the briefing. ‘You’ll be joining an established team – just do as you see done – but keep your mouths firm shut. We’re laying listening pipes to hear what Fritz is up to overhead and we don’t want him hearing us instead. Form a human chain to send back the spoil, the infantry is standing by to bury it elsewhere – don’t want to advertise the entrance from the air. And keep the caged mouse with you, in case there’s any gas – it’s better than a bird, if it escapes it doesn’t tell the Kraut we’re there.’

  It was wet, cold, lonely work, working in water that came half-way up your legs – but it used Peter’s skills. Even knowing that he was only feet from death, it was good to feel that he was being useful to the war and part of a proper mining team again.

  There is always a deal to do, with a husband and nine girls to look after, and with a wedding day in view there were a thousand extra things to see about. Flour bags to wash and hem and turn into soft new knickers for the bride, knitted vests to launder and petticoats to trim with little bows of ribbon or tiny scraps of lace. That was the task that Martha had set herself today. A bride – even a Strict Adherent bride – must have a bottom drawer of decent underwear, though she wouldn’t have a special outfit for the wedding.

  ‘Vanity,’ Ephraim had called the fashion for special wedding clothes, in one of his more thundering sermons a month or two ago, and perhaps he was right – though it would have been nice to think of Patience in a good new coat, at least, instead of her usual going-to-chapel best.

  And that might have been managed, she thought ruefully. Mrs Chegwidden, next door, had a lovely one she couldn’t use, blue wool (sent to her by her sister in America who had tired of it) but it was far too tight – it wouldn’t meet and there was not enough material for letting out to fit. She would gladly have swapped it for one of Toby’s pails, and with a bit of nip and tuck it would have done Pattie fine.

  But Toby had put his foot down. ‘I’m not spending time and effort making pails for Pattie’s sake. Better off making one that I can sell, earn a bit of money for a pair of boots for Hope, she’s only got Mercy’s pass-me-downs and she hasn’t done anything to deserve rubbed feet. Besides,’ he went on bitterly, ‘darn coat wouldn’t fit Patience more’n a week or two and there’s no telling she’d ever be that size again.’ Strong words from Toby, but he had a point, of course. Patience would be needing bigger, baggy clothes quite soon.

  The important thing was to get her wed before that happened and there was anything to see. Only three more weeks now – Ephraim had managed to get the license organized and the banns published (at the Methodists) in time, so the marriage could take place before the start of Lent. No Strict Adherent would ever wed during the Remembrance of Christ in the Wilderness, so otherwise it would have been delayed after Easter – and that was far too late.

  Martha put down her stitching with a sigh. If only she knew exactly how far on Pattie was. Three or four months? It was hard to tell. The girl didn’t seem to have the least idea, herself (though it was important to keep that from Toby, and from Ephraim most of all. They both thought there had only been the once!) And, if the mother didn’t know, there was no way of finding out.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the girl herself, coming downstairs in that listless way she had developed recently, carrying a long pink flannel nightdress in her hand. ‘This the one you mean? I found it where you said, in your bedroom under-drawer.’

  Martha nodded. ‘It’s the one I had when I was wed myself. I’d like for you to have it.’ She took it in her hands and looked it over carefully. ‘It’s got the moth in it a bit, here just above the hem, but if you look in that pewter jug up on the mantelpiece, you’ll find a piece of ribbon I’ve been saving purposely. Take a bit of thread and sew that right around the gown, an inch above the edge. That will cover it, nobody will notice and it will look a treat. I believe there’s even a bit of sewing-silk to match.’

  There was, in among the darning needles and the cards of mending wool. Pattie fetched it, then suddenly bent down and kissed her mother’s hair. ‘Ma, you’re some good, you were saving that nightdress specially, I know. Are you sure?’

  Martha was embarrassed. ‘My dear, I haven’t worn the thing in years. Really kept it to be buried in – but I’d ten times sooner you had use of it. If I come to need it, you can give it back!’

  Pattie actually smiled (the first time Martha had seen her do so since the day this all began) and went to sit beside the window – in the light – to sew.

  Martha cast an appraising glance at her outline as she moved. The girl looked quite normal – at the moment, anyway – and once she was married it would not matter quite so much. When she was in seclusion (you couldn’t go out in public once the bump began to show) she’d be living in that farmhouse, miles away from town, so no one would be looking at her and calculating things. Then when the child arrived, you could hint that it was early (as both Hope and Mercy had genuinely been) – though without actually saying so, of course. That would be telling lies and lying was a sin.

  She sighed. There were so many not-quite-truths already, she would be anxious for her soul – if she had the time to think about such things. She’d just have to go on praying that things would be all right and the reputation of the family – and of the Strict Adherents – would be safe. In a little village like Rosvene, rumours spread like furze-fire if the slightest hint got out.

  She was in the act of picking up the petticoat again, and rethreading the needle which she had allowed to fall, when a rattle at the latch on the door made her pause. The sound was followed by a gentle tap and – in the same instant – the door was pushed open and Edna Chegwidden from next door came in.

  She was a stout, plain, cheery woman, dressed without vanity in a shapeless frock with a clean apron over it. Her hair was pulled back in a no-nonsense bun, and her plump face was wrinkled with perpetual smiles. ‘Mornin’ Martha,’ she was saying heartily, but her eye fell on Patience and she stopped, confused. ‘Oh, I’m some sorry, my lovers. Didn’t realize there was illness in the house. Your Patience poorly and stopping home today?’

  Martha put her sewing down, got slowly to her feet and hung the kettle on the fire to boil. Act naturally, she told herself. ‘No, Edna, you’re quite welcome. And you needn’t fear for germs. Pattie was peaky a week or two ago, but she’s recovered now. Though she isn’t going back down that factory again – it don’t agree with her. Besides, there’s news. She’s getting wed quite soon.’ It was encouraging to see her neighbour look surprised. If there were rumours they clearly hadn’t reached next door.

  ‘Well, my dear life! How didn’t you come in and tell me straight away!’

  Martha shook her head. ‘Ephraim Tull came up here to ask for her again – and this time she said yes. We haven’t said a lot to anyone as yet, but I’d sooner that you heard the news from me.’ It was no real answer to the question, but it was the best that she could do.

  Edna could have been affronted, but she was a friendly soul and she turned to Patience with a beaming smile. ‘Well, I’m delighted for you, Patience – though folks will say Ephraim don’t deserve his luck. But you won’t regret it. He’s a decent man at heart and he’ll never give you a minute’s worry all your life’ She glanced at the sewing task. ‘That’s pretty, what you’re doing. For your bottom drawer, I suppose?’

  T
here was an awkward silence, then Pattie forced a smile and managed to say, ‘Yes. And thank you for your good wishes, Mrs Chegwidden,’ with a semblance of good grace.

  Martha got new tea leaves and put them in the pot, as a token of special friendliness. (The used ones that were drying would do for supper, later on.) ‘Sit down, Edna, and have a cup of tea and a bite of something, do. I made some jam tarts earlier, will you try one of those?’

  Edna shook her head. ‘You’ve got your hands full, by the sound of it and you made those tarts for your family, not me. But I won’t say no to a cup of tea, if you are making one.’

  Martha nodded, fetching down the cups and saucers from the shelf. ‘Anyway, what brought you here today? Just come to say hello, or were you wanting Sam? I’m afraid he’s gone out with Toby, somewhere, fetching back a cart.’

  Edna Chegwidden shook her head. ‘No. Truth is, I wanted somebody to have a look at this. Had a postcard letter this morning from our Ned.’ She produced the missive, smiling now so broadly it seemed her face would burst. ‘He’s coming back to England. I’m sure that’s what it says – though I’m no great hand at reading, specially when the handwriting’s not clear. I wondered maybe if you could read it out to me, just to make quite sure I got it right – or perhaps your Vee could come and do it, when she gets home from work?’

  Martha was puzzled. Edna was no great scholar, but she could cipher well enough – unless it was some official letter full of great long words. But perhaps she just wanted an excuse to share her news.

  So she took the card and flattened it – it had only come that day but it was already creased with constant reading – and took it to the other window, to the light, to see. ‘“I should be in England in a day or two, though I won’t be back to see you straight away. I’ve got to go to a convalescent place, but when the board decides I’m fit enough to go back to my unit, I should be able to come home for a few days before I leave.”’ She folded up the card and gave it back. ‘I think that’s what it says – except he sends his love, of course.’ She didn’t add what Edna clearly knew, and did not want to say aloud with Patience sitting there, that the last words that he’d written were: ‘Tell Verity for me.’