The Railway Girls

by Leah Fleming

  ‘That’s for me to know and you to find out, Miss Know-It-All. Hop it or I’ll have that penny back off yer.’ To her relief Mercy shot back to the funfair leaving Ellie marching briskly with a thumping heart.

  Tizzy Widdup saw everything: the glow on Fancy Mac’s face, the look of admiration in his eyes, and for a moment her spirit sank. Why wasn’t she eighteen and pretty like the girl? Then he could look like that at her instead. As she followed him down the path she saw that same farmer, the poxy man who killed Tat, the fat lad, sneaking behind, cunning, glowering in the direction of the ghyll, and watched him from the shadows under the viaduct as he stalked the girl when she shook off a lass who skipped off towards the fair.

  He was going to spoil Fancy’s fun and spy on the lovers; perhaps the girl was going to get in bother from that horrible man. But Tizzy couldn’t stop trouble. One, two, three, she counted to herself but he was a cursed man. She’d done it herself and he didn’t realise who she was so perhaps there was summat she could try. She walked towards him as he passed the boxing booth.

  ‘Here, mister,’ she yelled and stuck her tongue out at him and made the rudest gesture she’d learnt from the navvies with her fingers. ‘If you get any more spots, yer face’ll explode! Spotty Dick!’

  Sunter stared at the cheek of the lad. Something about the eyes reminded him of the navvy brat who caused all the fuss but she were a skinny lass, not a leggy lad. ‘Bugger off, ragabash! Back to yer fleapit.’

  ‘Bet yer can’t beat that fist basher . . . in that ring.’ Tizzy seized the moment, pointing to the boxer waiting with arms crossed for his next opponent. ‘Here, this is a tough one, good at killing things . . . built like a stone wall an’ all.’ By this time a small group of village lads who were hovering for the next bout joined in the taunting.

  ‘Get stuck in, Sunter, lad, show us yer muscles.’ They surrounded him and pulled him further into the ring and the ringmaster stepped in quickly.

  ‘Sixpence a go and a good prize if you win, yer money back if you stay six rounds. Come on, sir, wrestling or fisticuffs.’

  Sunter was trapped in the circle and stripped off his jacket. The Basher circled him and made loud growling noises. Sunter felt like a trapped animal. His legs were trembling but he stood firm on sturdy thick thighs like tree trunks. He was well fed on beef, with round muscles in his arms from farm work.

  He would be no match for a professional boxer but his rage was welling up, anger at being taunted by that slip of a kid into making a fool of himself before the village crowd, thwarted from following that Jock and his cousin. His muscles were pumped up with indignation and fury and he swung out wildly at the boxer to no avail. The boxer jabbed him, laughing with bleary drunken eyes as they circled defensively and the lads roared, ‘Get on with it, Lund, see him off . . .’

  Sunter was feeling dizzier but madder, and holding on to that rage he stabbed again, thrashing out with his fists in a hopeless uncoordinated attack on the bored boxer.

  The laughs of derision stabbed at his pride and he thought of all the humiliation he had suffered in Scarsbeck and most of all at the Bulstrodes’. Suddenly the face of the boxer disappeared to become the face of that stupid teacher and he stepped forward with a look of murder in his eye which made the boxer reel back in shock for a second. Then Sunter was on him like a tiger, screaming, kicking, beating his fists into his jaw, his cheek, knocking the man to the floor, kicking him in a frenzy of rage, his boots into his ribs, stomach, anything he could reach. The boxer curled up to defend his body but Sunter went on kicking, kicking, exhilarated by his success. Someone grabbed him and pulled him back but he went on kicking unawares.

  ‘Here, here. Only a game, son, none of that!’ yelled the ringmaster as his prize fighter lay wounded on the grass, gasping for breath. ‘Take yer bloody prize and get out of here before I call the peeler.’

  Tizzy crept out of sight in horror. She had seen that murderous look once before. One minute he was moonstruck and mad as a roaring tiger, the next he crumpled on the ground limp as a rag doll. ‘Go on, son, out of here, you’ll give us a bad name. ’Twas only a bit of fun, not a fight to the death,’ yelled the ringmaster warily.

  Sunter lay on the grass panting, sweating, his eyes focused on the dell beyond the viaduct where Ellie Birkett was canoodling up the foss with that Jock. If he told tales it would only be seen as his sour grapes. Now his head was clear again he had a much better plan to spoil their fun and staggered back to the chapel with a smirk on his face as the village lads stepped back in respect at his feat.

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‘I thowt you’d like a bit of a stretch, Mam, in the shade.’ Sunter gently edged his mother out of the tearoom towards the foss path. ‘It’s lovely is this and I could do with a bit of a sit down. And here, Mam, I got you a present.’ Sunter handed her the bright waxed flowers under the glass dome, the prize from the boxing booth. His mother smiled, touched by his thoughtfulness.

  ‘I shall treasure this, lad. I don’t know when I last had summat given to me. Some iron pots at Christmas from yer dad but this is just for my parlour. It’s grand in here, peaceful and cool as slate. Did you see Mercy making a nuisance of herself as usual, pestering me for buns? I don’t know where Ellie was to let her go running wild.’ Blaize peered at her son in surprise at the shift in his mood from the morning. He could change like a Yorkshire summer, fine at dawn, bucketing with rain by noon and a sunset fit for an oil painting. ‘So you had a good time after all? Such a throng, nice to have a bit of life in the place for a change. I’ve had a right good clack with half the dale.

  ‘Poor Annie missed a treat but wise not to mix when yer down, you never know what you might pick up from them navvies. Still, we’re safe enough in here in the shade. Why don’t you dip yer toes in that beck? It looks ice cold.’

  Sunter shook his head and turned to where a tinkle of girlish laughter echoed from further up the dell in the undergrowth, the raucous guffaws of a masculine response breaking the stillness.

  ‘Sounds like someone’s having a good time up there in them bushes,’ said his mother, pricking up her ears.

  ‘Still, what’s a bit of wood for, when yer courting?’ added Sunter slyly. ‘I expect there’s many a village bairn been tupped on these banks if the beck coughed up its secrets, eh, Mother?’

  ‘Sunter Lawson Lund! Don’t you talk smut with yer own mother,’ she laughed but the smile was wiped off her face in an instant as she watched her own niece emerge, arm in arm with the big navvy, the very same who had brayed her son senseless outside the Fleece.

  ‘What the blood and . . . is that our Ellen I see coming out of them bushes like a trollop?’ gasped Blaize, holding her bolstered chest in shock.

  ‘Surely not, Mother?’ replied Sunter, pretending not to notice.

  ‘By heck! It is, the young hussy. Wait till I get back and tell our Annie what she’s up to. It’s a good job I saw it for meself or she’d never believe me. She dotes on that girl far too much. Come on, lad, I’m not standing here like an Aunt Sally.’

  Blaize stormed forward, puffed up with indignation. ‘Just one minute, madam, does yer mam know you’re walking out of Scarsbeck Foss with a navvy on yer arm and bracken on yer skirts?’ Ellie started at the sight of the Lunds and the smirky look of satisfaction on Sunter’s greasy face.

  ‘That’s between me and my mother, Aunt Blaize. I don’t tell you what Sunter gets up to when your back is turned,’ came her defiant reply. She turned to Fancy for support.

  ‘Miss Birkett and me were just enjoying some quiet moments away from the din out there.’

  ‘Oh aye, we all know what you bogtrotters get up to in quiet dells. Shame on you, Ellen. You know what’s become of Ginny Ingomells. Your mam will be heartbroken when I tell her. It was her very last word to me . . . See our Ellie don’t get up to owt at that fair. Sunter and I will escort you home and find Merciful who’s no doubt tearing around the fair like wildfire. I’m surprised at you.’

 
‘Thank you, Aunt Blaize, but we’re quite capable of finding our own way home. Don’t let us hold you up. I’m sure you’ll be stopping off at Middle Butts to give yer sister the glad tidings,’ snapped Ellie, looking daggers at Sunter, who shuffled off, defeated by her calmness.

  ‘Indeed we will. Come on, Sunter, give me yer arm, I feel all of a do,’ Blaize chuntered, storming off back towards the viaduct.

  Tizzy Widdup had counted up to five hundred slowly, knowing it was all her fault. Now Fancy would really be in trouble and there was nothing she could do. Tizzy scampered down from the high banking, scratching her legs on the bramble shoots in a rush to catch them up.

  ‘Fancy Mac! I’m sorry,’ she called as she darted out onto the path. ‘The dog man, the one that killed our Tat, he brought that owd biddy in a hat and they seed you. I tried to stop him afore but he’s been following her all afternoon.’ She stared coldly at Ellen, taking in every detail of her ruffled blouse and striped skirt and red cheeks.

  ‘You did well, Billy Flash. It’s nae your fault. Miss Ellen and me will be sorting it all out with her good folk when she goes home. I’ll see she comes to no harm.’

  ‘No, Mr MacLachlan,’ said Ellie quickly. ‘I think it better if I deal with the mess myself. If my cousin wants trouble, he shall be getting it from me. I want you to be welcome on our front doorstep properly, not shown the back entrance like a hawker.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘As sure as death and thank you, Billy, for guarding over us so faithfully. Am I right in thinking you are the famous Billy Widdup from Miss Herbert’s class? I shall put in a good word about you.’ Ellie shook her hand formally.

  ‘Miss Sherbert’s not bad for a teacher, strict but fair.’ Tizzy preened with pride.

  ‘As lads go, MacLachlan, this one is far too bonny for a boy, with all them curls,’ laughed Ellie with dull eyes and a sinking heart. She must seek out Miss Herbert and prepare her for the coming storm over Middle Butts. There would be tears and tantrums, sulks and stubbornness, but Mother would have to understand that she wanted to walk out with Fancy openly, not all this hiding away. If that meant a miserable evening for herself, confined to her chamber with no supper while the St Oswy’s Feast dancing echoed down the valley until dawn, then so be it. This was one battle she would not be losing.

  Fancy watched the dancing with half an eye. He felt a terrible thirst in his throat, the first for weeks. Damn that Lund and his snooping, making trouble for Ellen. He was hot and irritable as he beat a path to the taproom, shoving his elbows into any ribs in his way, roaring his Highland war cry as a warning. Tonight he would be drowning his sorrows, forgetting the fair Ellen. His throat itched to slake his drooth, pint after glorious pint of nut-brown ale coursing into his veins, but still his thirst raged and burned within. How many more shillings must he spend to find relief?

  He searched out the simpering spotty face of his rival in vain. One night he would corner him in a ginnel and beat him to a pulp. Some wag threw a piece of dynamite onto the coal fire as a joke, to liven up their evening. The explosion crashed around him, sending the taproom into a riot of yells as masonry flew across the room, smoke and coal dust gritted the teeth, plunging the room into darkness.

  ‘Out, out! All of yer. Get out!’ yelled Wally Stackhouse to his best customers, sensing mischief in the thick air. They made enough damage when they went on a randy. Tonight he was giving them no licence to wreck the Fleece. ‘Be reasonable for owd Wally! Out onto the green with yer fun and games, leave the place standing, please!’ He did his best to shoo them out of the door like troublesome wasps.

  They were full of juice tonight and no mistake as he watched them gang up, link arms and rampage down the becksides into the dancing couples, knocking over the last of the stalls and trestle tables, spoiling the dancing in an orgy of silly cavortings, grabbing the women, swinging them in the air so their skirts flew high and the other lads cheered. Some dived down to the viaduct and started to climb up and swing dangerously from the scaffolding, balancing on the beams precariously, yelling out and singing their rough ditties to the audience agog below.

  ‘We’ve met a lot of women and we loved ’em all a spell

  They can drive some men to drink and some to hell!

  But we’ve never met one yet, the woman cute who can

  Teach a trick to old Nick or this bold navvy man!’

  The young Dalesmen regrouped after the disruption of the dancing raised their own head of steam, charging into a pitched battle better than any wrestling bout at the boxing booth, piling all the men into a tangled heap of thrashing bodies.

  ‘Send for the constable!’ went out the alarm but Constable Firth was already grimly holding the man who had knocked off his stovepipe helmet and he marched this token triumph off to his lock-up cage to cool off. He picked up another drunken staggering lad and put them in together to finish off their fight. His key was missing so he tied them in with twine and returned to the fray blowing his whistle in a futile gesture.

  The old guard of village worthies, thoroughly enjoying the night’s free show, wagged their fingers and sighed for their lost youth. ‘Leave’m be to cool off, let the fire burn itself out,’ they shouted to the irate farmers who wanted to follow behind for another skirmish. The randy careered upwards towards Paradise camp, yelling, jumping over stone walls to catch sheep, but they were far too drunk to stand an earthly.

  Back on the green, the youths returned to their dancing partners but most had been whisked out of reach by anxious parents fearing mischief for their girls. The farmers reclaimed the Fleece with relief and sat down with satisfaction. A randy at St Oswy’s Feast was run o’ the mill, just as it should be, and tonight they had quite a show. A lone navvy waved in vain for rescue, trapped on the top of the scaffolding. His audience waved back and went on their way. ‘He can stay up there all night. That’ll teach him to spoil our dancing!’

  Once uphill, the cool air hit Fancy’s legs and they buckled, staggering in any direction as if doped. He made for what he thought was his hut and collapsed in relief into his hard bunk, falling into a deep sleep with rasping snores while bemused cattle sniffed at him.

  ‘Mam! Mam! There’s a dead man in the trough. Come and see!’ screamed Mercy Birkett from the farmyard, seeing a pair of stiff legs hanging over the side of the cattle trough as she pumped the water over the body.

  Fancy was rudely woken by the splash of cold water on his face, soaked to the skin, his skull going round and round like a stairhead, a tongue like a bear’s backside. His pockets were empty and his jacket gone. Fancy had not a clue where he was. Faces peered at him anxiously, a little face with pigtails and a familiar rosy fair face, then he was looking down the barrel of a shotgun as a weary woman with grey hair tied in rags shooed him up. ‘Off my land! Off this farm. I know who you are. Keep away from my daughter or I’ll pepper yer backside. Hop it, you drunken sot. And this is the swain she wants for herself?’

  Fancy rose majestically, bowed courteously like a leaking galleon in full sail staggering from side to side, dripping, looking up at the window for sympathy. There was none.

  ‘Serves you right to get a good soaking. Work like a horse and spend like an ass!’ Ellie watched out of the window in fury. How dare that stupid Jock turn up blotto and spoil all her dreams? Mr MacLachlan could drown in the beck for all she cared. She slammed the window in disgust and burst into tears. Now she would have to eat humble pie.

  She did not see her mother fall about laughing at the sight of the young navvy as he staggered disconsolately down the hill.

  For three weeks more the heat haze shimmered, trapping in fumes of dust from the stone quarries in a cloudy plume until the sun burnt through the layers and a breeze scattered the waste further across the dale away from Paradise. Some families camped outside under the stars to stay cool at night, others erected tents over their livestock and the underground springs dried up into a muddy trickle.

  The men worked on, backs tanned l
ike leather hides, but Tizzy wore a thin shirt however hot and sticky she felt running errands, mashing tea, collecting tools to be sharpened and avoiding the school cart whenever she could. She did not want to be moved up, as Sherbert threatened. She would stay only until the long school break for the summer.

  Granda Fettle and the night soil men struggled to dig in the waste in the hard ground. The middens were stinking with rotten food and faeces and were a breeding ground for rats: large brown beasts with beady eyes and ropey tails which leapt out of the soakways and poultry runs when Tizzy scuttled home to the van at dusk. The rats scavenged over the hut roofs like an army on the rampage, terrifying the womenfolk and the navvies, whose shotguns blasted at them. Afterwards the navvies strung up their bodies on ropes like washing.

  Tizzy lay awake each night terrified in case they were lodging rats under their boards. She always inspected under the truckle bed, in the flour bin, behind the closed window nets just in case a beast was lurking to bite her. She would rather stew in the heat than share a van with vermin. Stumper did his best but with three legs his chasing days were over. How she longed to have Tat to guard her now. He would have seen them off.

  The camp stank and Mally complained as she stripped off to her bare skin to cool off in the darkness; the sweat of her canteen clothes reeking of vegetables and greasy dripping made Tizzy dive under the cover to draw breath. There was no water to wash in, unless she trekked down with a bucket to the beck in the morning. ‘Me head aches with this heat, Mally,’ she whinged.

  ‘I hope yer not sickening for summat, I hear there’s a bad sickness down at Batty Green with a pox hospital for the worst cases, with fever beds where you’re not allowed out once yer in. Someone at the canteen said it were smallpox again. Mary Ann said her huts had leaflets telling them to whitewash their huts and drink strong tea. She said some trampers were turned away at the contractor’s hut. They were in a bad way. I think we should have a good clear-out and beat our blankets just in case.’