by Leah Fleming
Zillah Jane
Outside the house the June sun shone across the meadows which swayed with buttercups, daisies, mayflowers and cow parsley; the stone wall banks were fringed with sweet cicely and its lovely aniseed aroma scented the air. It was good to be out of the gloomy house and Zillah strode briskly across the beck bridge to post her letter, turning off up the lane towards the church where Cleggy, the sexton and erstwhile midwife, was scything the grass around the headstones. Since their adventure in the barn he was fast becoming her only true ally in the village. There were few visitors to the schoolhouse for Cora discouraged casual callers and everyone assumed they would be bosom friends by now.
‘Is his lordship at home?’ laughed Zillah hopefully, pointing in the direction of the picket gate which led to the vicarage.
‘Not a bit of it, ’tis far too good an afternoon to be wasted on church work, he tells me as he takes his bait out of the font. Would you believe it? No wonder there’s no time for christenings with a font full of maggots . . . He’ll be upstream tickling trout for his dinner. If you see a line of blue smoke wafting upwards, that’ll be him. This parson goes his own gait and it’s usually with a rod.’ Isaac Cleghorn mopped his brow and sighed. ‘I’ve dug in three of my parsons in this kirkyard but this one will happen put me away with all his scams.’
‘He was ordained a fisher of men, not a fisher of trout!’ snapped the teacher as she took the footpath towards Scarsbeck falls, along a primrose path edged with dog violets and garlicky ramsons with the last of the bluebells making a carpet under the trees which flanked the stream as it rose upwards through the ghyll to the cascading waterfall in the distance called Scarsbeck Force. Here kingfishers flashed past and dippers dived under the water, sandmartins swooped over her head; but Zillah was lost in her own troubled thoughts.
Enough was enough. I’ve been in the village for over a month and he’s not looked at the road I’m on. Well, Parson Hardy, you are about to be told what I think of your chaplaincy so far!
Chapter Ten
Ralph Hardy stretched out his long limbs and sucked on the stem of his meerschaum pipe. This was the life, watching the telltale bubbles of air making smooth ripples on the surface of the pool. Tucked into a shady backwater, deep and cool where the trout sat out their afternoons undisturbed. He was lying on his stomach; with the grey-green of his tweed breeches, the buff leather waistcoat and white lawn shirt, he merged into the bank like any country poacher.
Bliss! This was why he stayed in Scarsdale, enjoying the scent of tobacco and bluebells, the drone of bees in the may blossom and the plop of a friendly dipper diving into the water from his perch on a boulder. Nothing in the world to disturb his slumbers.
As he peered into the stream, his reflection grinned back at him: the strong weather-beaten complexion of an outdoor man, a firm mouth with a full upper lip and a dark line of moustache, soft eyes, high brows, the right one of which seemed permanently to be arched in a questioning mode. His proud nose gave these strong features definition, or so his mother said. Liddy Braithwaite said it got in the way when she kissed him. He sighed, leaning over the water, but stiffened at the sound of rustling bracken as a shadow clouded his hiding place. He looked round and felt a twist in his back at the sudden jerkiness. ‘Damnation!’ He peered up at a neat pair of calfskin boots, yards of grey sprigged wool and a peculiar woman standing over him in a straw bonnet under which sat a white wimple sort of cap highlighting a heart-shaped face and a fierce disapproving stare.
‘Is that you, Reverend Hardy?’ said Zillah, in no mood to be ignored.
‘Shush! Don’t make another sound, you’ll disturb my old trout. He’s been dodging me for years.’ He resumed his position on his back.
‘I will not shush. I’ve been trying to arrange a meeting with you ever since I arrived,’ she bellowed in his ear.
‘I take it you’re the Mission woman, come to save the dale? This is my day off and as you can see, this is no committee room. If you’d like to leave your card at the vicarage . . .’ Ralph was determined to ignore this intrusion but the air reeked with a pungent odour.
‘I’ve left four cards on your silver tray and every day seems to be your day off. I need you to baptise one of my navvy children. Don’t you ever tend your flock or do they have to be fish to get your attention?’ Zillah settled herself down on the nearest rock, refusing to budge until she got some satisfaction for having the hem of her skirt covered in mud. She was going to have to do something about her hemline.
Ralph turned round with a twinging grimace. ‘Look, Miss er . . .’
‘Miss Herbert.’ She held out her hand politely and he found himself staring into a pair of dark eyes, flashing like jet. A pair of pursed lips screwed up with disapproval and he burst out laughing at this fierce little woman who reeked of carbolic.
‘I don’t see that this is any laughing matter,’ she snapped haughtily, her cheeks flushing at his perusal of her face and the intensity of his gaze.
‘Please excuse me, Miss Herbert, you caught me unawares but I have no intention of baptising any navvy bastards who in turn have not the slightest intention of darkening the church doors again until someone carries them back in a box. They are obliging you only out of courtesy for the kindness you did for them. Oh yes, there’s nowt happens in this dale that does not see the light of day, as Mr Cleghorn has no doubt told you. My sexton could have done your horse-doctoring effort blindfold in a tunnel, might I add. So no more on that subject, please.’
‘How can you refuse an innocent child baptism? I have never heard such rudeness or discourtesy from a man of the cloth though having sat through four of your services . . .’
‘Didn’t you like my sermons then?’
‘No I did not. Firstly you read them and secondly you read them out so badly no one could hear and thirdly, the bits I heard were not worth reading, nothing to get your teeth into, no gospel bite or amen moments. It was worth a hallelujah when it was over. You may fool your dozy flock but you don’t fool me. It’s a woolly lamb in the pulpit I see, not a roaring lion, and I have heard the soundest of preaching so I know the power of the spoken word to stir the soul and set the heart to quaking.’ She paused to see the effect of her words. He was actually listening.
‘I think you must dust down your shelves all of a rush on Saturday night and find some ancient homily to fill ten minutes on the Sunday morning.’
‘However did you guess?’ Ralph found himself smiling despite himself.
‘Shame on you, Mr Hardy, to think so light of your calling to have backslidden into lazy ways and erroneous thinking. The Mission wrote to you asking you to give me support as my chaplain. You have not bothered once to step over the doorstep of the school to see how I teach my flock or offered to run a Sunday school in the camp. What on earth do you do all day, lie in bed and go fishing?’ Zillah was so incensed she could feel her face blazing.
‘How well your spies have informed you and it is none of your business how I conduct my parish affairs.’ She had caught Ralph on the hop with her honesty and he was going to have to put this woman in her place, once and for all, before she made a nuisance of herself. ‘We did not invite you to come to Scarsbeck, Miss Herbert; what you do for the Pastoral Aid Mission is your own affair. Don’t interfere with the other missions at the camp either. The Nonconformists run the show and the Irish have their own priest. If any of these creatures do belong to the established church they are welcome to come to St Oswy’s but I’ve not seen anyone so far. They’ve other things to do on a Sunday morning or have you not noticed that is when they sleep off their hangovers and wash their dogs, go poaching and shave their whiskers? We did not ask for a railway to spoil our peace but now it has I intend to ignore it. All things pass, young lady, and hopefully you will too. Is that honest enough for you?’
‘I see. That is how it’s going to be. No support from the church or in the schoolhouse either. It’s not what I expected.’ Zillah bent her head, trying not to look wounded.
&
nbsp; ‘Blessed is the lady who expecteth nothing, ma’am, for she shall not be disappointed.’ The vicar made light of the matter and noticed the water rippling. ‘Shush, look, it’s coming back . . .’
‘Woe to the parson who neglects his flock! He shall also be disappointed.’ Zillah picked up a large stone, dropping it with grim satisfaction into the beck, baptising the vicar with more than a sprinkling. Ralph spluttered in shock at the dousing.
‘What was that for?’ he shouted, shaking the drips off his clothing.
‘I didn’t come halfway across the country to the middle of nowhere to be thwarted in my endeavours. If you can’t be bothered to get off your posterior to help the Mission then I must write a letter of complaint to the bishop. I’m sure he would love to hear about the welcome you’ve given me.’ One look at her pink face told him this crazy lady would do just that and he was in no mood for more lectures.
‘So just what have I to do, Miss Herbert, to make you go away and leave me alone?’ replied Ralph as he stretched up and finally abandoned his expedition.
‘You can change your hymn tunes, for a start,’ Zillah said as she smiled.
‘I can’t do that, Ezra Bulstrode would have an apoplectic fit. He likes things as near to Rome as we can get away with. He calls me Father Hardy. Where else would I find such a good organist?’ Ralph answered.
‘I have witnessed glorious services with only a tambourine and cymbals for accompaniment. Where the spirit of the Lord is, there will be rejoicing and sweet music-making.’ Zillah gestured wildly.
‘This is the Yorkshire Dales and if you want that sort of thing you go to the chapel and the Methodists or the Baptist “dippers”. We prefer a dignified service and no tub-thumping.’
‘Write your own sermons, then. Visit Paradise camp for yourself. They won’t send you to the lion’s den just for being a parson.’
‘I’ve told you that is not my patch. There are missioners from Batty Green paid to see to the men’s souls. And don’t look at me like that, all prissy missy,’ he snapped, seeing those black eyes glinting.
‘Why not? Are you a man or a milksop? What on earth are you doing in the Church if not to serve?’ she snapped back.
‘To be honest, I wonder myself.’
‘What you need is a dose of salvation.’
‘Oh, really! And what do you know about that, Miss Herbert?’
‘Enough to know that there’s only one true path in life. The road to heavenly bliss. All other paths lead to perdition and death. It is so simple. I can’t see why everyone’s so blind to the truth.’ Ralph gulped in horror at her words.
‘And you, I presume, are on the right path. How do you know?’ She looked at him with amazement.
‘Because it says so in the Bible,’ she prompted.
‘Which bit of the Bible?’ he quizzed.
‘All of it.’
‘Scholarship tells us the Bible is a collection of historical books, written in different times by different people, so be specific, Miss Herbert.’
‘It is the word of God, inspired by the Holy Ghost, and must therefore all be true. There is only one way.’ The woman was tiring of this argument but Ralph persisted.
‘So anyone of any other persuasion than your own is therefore doomed and lost?’ he argued.
‘Exactly, and that is why the missions go out into the world to rescue the misguided and convert the heathen and save souls. It is our duty,’ she replied.
‘Who says so?’
‘The Mission says.’
‘Why, Miss Herbert?’ Ralph saw her confusion. ‘Could it possibly be that the more they convert, the more heads they count, the more the pennies drop into their coffers? Surely you feel safer the more those around you think as you do, like sheep keeping in a tight bunch when there’s danger. Now you are on your own here, don’t you feel the slightest bit of doubt creeping in?’ Ralph smiled patronisingly. The silly girl had not thought through her arguments.
‘It says in Scripture: “All we like sheep have gone astray, everyone to his own way.” Who are you to contradict holy writ?’ answered the teacher.
‘Have you ever read from cover to cover? Do you believe the world was made in seven days?’ Ralph argued.
‘Of course, and I read a portion every day.’
‘What about Mr Charles Darwin?’ Ralph saw her jump back.
‘What about him? His views are known to be unscientific and against the teachings of Scripture. The Mission says . . .’
‘There you go again, quoting other people. You’ve just accused me of not thinking for myself. I fear ’tis the kettle calling the pot black, Miss Herbert.’ Ralph was beginning to enjoy their spat and saw confusion spreading across her cheeks, her eyes widening to show their pearly whites. She had the deepest, most soulful eyes he’d ever met.
‘When I venture deep underground into the caverns and caves to explore, I find walls lined with fossils, frozen in time for thousands of years. I see man as only the tiniest drop in the oceans of time, a speck of dust in the universe. How dare we claim to have all the answers just because some men put their thoughts on paper?
‘You should read your Bible with a critical eye or are you one of those dippers who fling open a page at random, for the thought of the day, picking out verses out of context like a lucky dip?’ He could see her wince at this challenge. He had her running now, running scared. ‘Go away, young lady, and don’t bother me until you’ve something useful for me to do. Get some Dales air on your cheeks, walk over these hills and build up your stamina, for believe me you will need it when winter comes.’
He watched her mouth open and shut like a fish gasping for air, a rosebud mouth of blush pink, juicy and moist. Underneath the plain clothing was a strikingly intense lady, a single woman of virtue looking to him for spiritual guidance indeed! If only she knew how expertly he could guide her in other matters. Enough, he was not going to break a habit of a lifetime and seduce a single woman. Ralph lay on his back with his straw hat tipped over his face, nonchalantly lifting his arms behind his head in the most arrogant of male postures. He sucked his pipe with satisfaction, seeing her discomfiture.
‘It seems we have had our first chaplaincy meeting after all, Mr Hardy, and I suppose I must log it in my work journal as one of my spiritual conversations but not a very profitable one in my opinion. Good day . . .’ Her words trailed away as she walked back down the path, her stupid skirts snagging on the blackberry twigs, and she stopped to yank them away without a backward glance.
Peace at last, he sighed, as he watched her disappear into the undergrowth, but strangely his triumph brought no comfort at all, only the aching of a stiff back.
Chapter Eleven
Fancy heard the thunder of wheels rumbling down the embankment. Instinctively he roared out ‘Danger!’ to his line of men and they jumped well clear, bodies diving out of the path of the runaway wagon in all directions as it careered down the gangway, slipping backwards laden with rubble. It happened so quickly; one minute they were clearing the gullet watching the spoil being dragged up the slope, the next it was running amok.
Now he watched the scene before him in slow motion as one of the grease boys tripped in its path, too small to avoid the wheels as they rattled down over his back; the piercing scream of agony echoed in their ears, as did the crash of the wagon as it toppled on its side hitting the incline on the other side. Then there was silence.
The other boys stood horror-stricken, frozen in shock at the remains of the child in front of them.
‘Get the laddies away out of there,’ he yelled to his gang, taking off his jacket as he ran to see if the poor bairn was still alive.
He felt sick as he approached the track, knowing that no child could survive under that weight and dreading the thought of carrying the body back to some unsuspecting mother in the hutments. He could hardly bear to look at the mangled mess of flesh in front of him. As long as he lived he would never get used to the sight of bloody entrails scattered like
a carcass on a butcher’s slab. His worst fear was that it was Billy Flash underneath the sacking, unrecognisable, the wee boy whose dog he buried, but he remembered with relief that he had sent him off to the school cart with a clip round the ear for his cheekiness.
His men gathered like a shield around the body, quickly covering the sight from the other boys who hung back to see who the unlucky one was. Then Georgie Hunt was laid on a cart to be taken to the woodyard and sawmills where a line of coffins was stacked in the warehouse.
Fancy wanted to throw up his lunch. What a waste of a young life. This was no living for bairns, sprogging the wheels of loaded wagons with wooden sticks, at the mercy of heavy metal and faulty brakes. Fancy flung down his jacket in disgust and walked off the site. He had done his duty, followed procedures, informed the site engineer and the ambulance cart, seen to his gang and tea boys. Now he would see to himself and gather his thoughts.
How could the June sky be so blue and cloudless or the sun flash like a brass ball on emerald pastures? Skylarks trilled above him and peewits darted and dived around him in their summer dance. He just wanted to walk right off the earth, to get away by himself to make sense of such a happening. Fancy found himself taking the path down the moorside to the shade of the ghyll below, towards the coolness of the stream, to clear his head of the images which kept flashing before him in slow motion.
If only Georgie had noticed sooner, jumped faster, but he was a dull lumpen child. Guilt and relief that it was not Billy Flash did not make Fancy feel any better. Now you see me, now you don’t! Thank God that toe rag was not yet a witness to that sort of death. There would always be danger on the track.
Life at the camp was settling down into a routine of sorts but the recent fine weather had made them work on late into the evening to clear out the first gullets and cuttings, transporting the spoils to bankings and preparing the land ahead for the viaduct scaffolding. They were making up for the lost time and for once the camp was full of fair-weather workmen.