by Ann Cliff
‘The Garnetts have had an easy time for years, while we were in India. It’s time they earned their wages, my dear.’ The Major held open the dining room door.
‘And another thing,’ he said as they drank their soup, ‘I intend to ask Garnett to estimate what timber we might have to sell and what the current prices are. Then when we take out mature trees, Garnett can plant replacements, of species that will grow quickly. Some estates make a fortune that way. Timber is in demand, they tell me.’
‘But,’ said Lady Agnes, ‘does Garnett know anything about timber?’
‘I expect so,’ the Major said carelessly. ‘If not, he can learn. I tell you, Agnes, we should be able to live comfortably on an estate of this size. It’s all a matter of getting people to work efficiently.’
‘Well,’ said Lady Agnes, laying down her spoon, ‘We must introduce these ideas very carefully, one at a time. I have begun with cheese. It will only confuse the servants if we tell them all our plans at once.’
‘Very true, my dear,’ said the Major as the maid came in with the next course.
THIRTEEN
The Herald newspaper owners were pleased with the increase in circulation following the reservoir story.
‘We’re going to provide you with a horse, to get around the country,’ said Mr Barton, the chairman. ‘It must pay to get out and meet the people face to face, especially when you’re new to the district.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Alex, feeling pleased. The hacks he hired from the Unicorn stables were not very spirited beasts.
‘And a slightly higher budget, it’s time to launch the new women’s page. We’ve talked about it long enough,’ Mr Barton continued. ‘The details I will leave up to you.’
Alex was given a stylish bay gelding, with the promise of a gig or other vehicle in the future. The horse was bred locally and his name was Ripley, apparently after a famous Ripon Hornblower in the late sixteenth century, an association that pleased Alex, once he worked it out.
On nights when the paper was printed, Alex worked late and from his window he could see the Hornblower sound the curfew on the market square at nine o’clock, an old Ripon ritual that had survived for hundreds of years. The clatter of the printing press drowned the mournful sound of the horn, just as the pace of life was overwhelming the medieval city.
Alex wrote an editorial about the symbolic Hornblower and the need to keep links with the past. At the same time, he was trying to attract younger readers with stories that reflected the current life of the area. A country paper had to be all things to all men – and women.
Ripley was stabled at the Unicorn, where he would be fed, groomed and exercised just across the square from the Herald office. Alex was pleased to think that he could ride out any day when he got a chance to leave his desk. It was important to get to know the local people in all walks of life, so as to understand local affairs. He was due for another visit to the Suttons and he thought Susan would be impressed with the noble-looking Ripley; she loved horses and had made disparaging comments about his hired mounts.
Rodney Dacre, the chief reporter, was given the task of finding a knitter with reliable patterns for the new feature. He was not enthusiastic, but promised to ask his mother. People said that Rodney had inherited his nose for news from his mother, who seemed to know everything there was to know about her neighbours, none of it good.
Rachel, the special correspondent, was the next to be consulted. Alex rode up to Firby to see the Garnetts on a blustery November day, tied Ripley to a rail and found Rachel in the dairy. She was startled to see him looming in the doorway; there was fear in her eyes.
‘Did I surprise you?’ he asked gently, wondering why she would be nervous.
‘I – thought it was someone else,’ she admitted. ‘Let’s go into the kitchen, you must be cold after your ride.’
‘Thank you, but first you must admire my horse. This is Ripley, a great improvement on the hacks from the livery stable.’ Alex led her over the yard to where the horse stood. ‘I came here today in much less time.’
‘He’s beautiful,’ Rachel said sincerely. ‘He must be seventeen hands … but he’s rather warm from coming up the hill from Masham. Let’s put him in the stable, out of the wind.’
The editor’s visit was welcome. Since the affair of the stolen books, Rachel had felt unusually low in spirits. The books had not been mentioned again and she noticed that some of them had reappeared on their shelf. But she felt that the cloud still hung over her. The Potts were even more distant than usual – was it possible that they felt embarrassed? Of course, they couldn’t bring themselves to apologize, not to the lower ranks.
Guy was vindictive whenever he saw her, spitting out insults, but she managed to keep him at a distance. The sooner he went into the army, the better for everyone at Firby.
Jim seemed preoccupied and his visits were short; she wondered what was worrying him. A frown seemed to have replaced his usual sunny smile. Surely he wasn’t jealous of Roger? He’d warned her once in a light-hearted way about spending time with the engineer. Rachel was beginning to understand Jim a little better; he tended to consider what was to his own advantage and he had little sympathy for others.
Roger was away a great deal, going out early and coming in late because he was working at Woodley Crags. He went to Leeds, coming back with the news that Bromley opposed the new dam site, but that some of the corporation managers believed it was a better option. The dam was still in the balance.
Rachel dreaded the day when Roger would go back to Leeds to live. She tried to suppress her feelings for him – what would an engineer want with a farm girl? They lived in different worlds, and she would have to forget him as soon as possible.
Kit was away at Masham market on the morning that Alex rode into the Garnetts’ yard. Rachel’s mother was crossing the yard as they came out of the stable.
‘Good to see you, Mr Finlay. We’re very proud of Rachel’s reports in the paper! I have to go over to the Hall for half an hour. Rachel will give you a cup of tea.’
Rachel made the tea and sat with Alex at the big table.
‘Thank you for the latest piece on the reservoir,’ he said. ‘It sounds as though Firby could be spared – that’s good news. And now, I would like some ideas for the women’s page. Have you had time to think about it?’
Rachel brought out her notebook and leafed through the pages. ‘Just a suggestion…’ she said diffidently. ‘Why not start with a section on basic recipes, for young women? How to make Yorkshire pudding, and parkin, and Fat Rascals – all the traditional recipes, even apple pie. We serve apple pie with cheese in Yorkshire!’ She paused. ‘My mother taught me to cook, she learned from her mother.’
Alex laughed. ‘I’m going to learn a lot from this! Yorkshire food is new to me. What is parkin?’
Rachel pushed a plate of cake towards him. ‘This is our famous Yorkshire parkin, we bake it during the colder weather. We always have parkin on Bonfire Night. I made it myself a few days ago, we don’t eat it the same day as it’s made. Try a piece, Mr Finlay.’
Hungry after his ride, Alex was not dismayed by the size of the slice of parkin. It was a solid cake, made with oatmeal and treacle.
‘It’s like gingerbread, but heavier. Delicious! Good food for outdoor workers,’ he commented, brushing away crumbs. ‘This proves that you will be writing from practical experience.’
‘You will know that pork pies are very important in Ripon. There’s a great art in “raising a pie”, as it’s called.’ Rachel made a note in her book for another recipe. ‘And,’ she continued, visualizing the page, ‘I imagined a separate section, sort of square instead of a long column, with a border, for a different recipe each week. It would stand out on the page, and people could cut them out and paste them in a scrap book. Some people would find that useful, I think. When I was at school we girls all had scrap books.’
‘Excellent, we’ll do it, lay it out as you suggest.’ Mr Finlay seemed
to be looking at her with respect.
Rachel had thought of a problem and she decided to mention it. ‘But … I’m afraid that some older women might disagree with my recipes, they could be annoyed to see a young woman telling them how it should be done. I can imagine our groom’s wife saying, “I’ve been making parkin for forty years, nobody can tell me how to do it!”’ She imitated Mrs Metcalfe’s rather aggressive tones.
Alex laughed. ‘Some people enjoy getting cross and they love criticizing, you know. I don’t see it as a problem.’ He took a sip of tea.
‘It might start an argument. Some women are very … er, certain that theirs is the best way, the only way. And of course, there are many different ways of making the same thing. I will have to make that clear!’
‘All the better! Controversy sells newspapers, Rachel. You shouldn’t be upset if people disagree. Imagine the Great Yorkshire Pudding Debate! We’ll get sackfuls of letters. We could even run a competition for the best one.’
‘There’s not much room for variation in a batter pudding recipe,’ Rachel said thoughtfully. ‘But I suppose Yorkshire puddings do vary, from soggy ones to light and crisp ones.’
‘I haven’t been here very long, but I’ve noticed that my landlady makes soggy ones! Perhaps it depends on the oven temperature,’ Alex suggested.
‘Are you interested in cooking, Mr Finlay?’ Rachel looked at him curiously.
‘Of course. I’m interested in food, and journalists are interested in everything. In my job, you get to know just a little about a wide range of subjects. Yes, I’d thought of recipes, but your idea for regional dishes is better. There will be more passion generated!’
Rachel laughed; his enthusiasm made her feel much more cheerful. ‘We won’t run out of Yorkshire recipes, not for a long time.’
‘Another idea was to find a children’s nurse who could write about bringing up children, there’s a lot to be said on that subject and once more, people will disagree. I think we’ll be able to find someone in Ripon to supply the information.’ Alex looked at Rachel for confirmation and smiled when she nodded. ‘I thought you would like that one, of course we’re not expecting you to supply all the material yourself.’
‘Thank goodness! And then,’ Rachel turned another page, ‘I could write out some home remedies that you can make for yourself, just as Mother and I do here. We use garden plants and weeds to make tonics and salves … some say that every plant on earth has a use, if we only can find out what it is. We sell packets of dried herbs, and salves too.’ She moved the parkin out of the way and waited for his reaction.
‘We could call it “Country Cures,”’ Alex suggested. They looked at each other, pleased with the shape that the project was forming.
Alex scribbled some notes. ‘What about local news of interest to women? We could have a small news column from time to time. I imagine you could visit a local show, for example, and report on who wins prizes for produce. People like to see their names in print—’ he broke off as they heard a rap on the door and Jim walked into the kitchen.
‘Good day, Rachel, I want to borrow your father’s big saw…’ He broke off and the frown deepened when he saw Alex. ‘Who is this? What is going on?’
Alex rose to his feet. ‘Alex Finlay, editor of the Herald,’ he said pleasantly, holding out his hand.
Jim ignored the outstretched hand as Rachel introduced him: ‘This is Jim Angram, a neighbour.’
‘And what is the editor of the Herald doing here, alone with you in the kitchen?” he demanded, his blue eyes angry. ‘Where’s your mother? She should be here!’
‘I’m old enough not to need constant supervision, Jim,’ Rachel told him with a touch of acid in her tone. ‘Mother’s gone over to the Hall, she’ll be back soon,’ she said, more patiently. She was rarely impatient with Jim Angram, but his views on a woman’s place had always irked her.
‘And you’re sitting side by side, almost holding hands!’ Jim was getting angrier. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself, Rachel. Why did you let him in?’
Alex was looking embarrassed, as well he might.
‘We are discussing a women’s page for the Ripon Herald and I am making a few suggestions.’ Rachel realized that she should have told Jim before now of her work with the Herald.
‘You? You’re just a farm girl! What would a dairymaid know about newspapers? I don’t believe you. I’m going to tell your father about this.’ He went to the door and then turned to face them. ‘I can see that you’ve deceived me, Rachel. You can’t be trusted, you obviously know this man well. I never thought that my girl, a shy country lass, would turn out to be a loose woman. First it was the boarder, and now this. I don’t want to see you again and I will tell the whole village!’
‘Go away, Jim. I will not forget that you called me a loose woman.’ Rachel was aware that she was breathing quickly. She almost threw the plate of parkin at Jim, but managed to restrain herself. What would Mr Finlay think of this exhibition?
There was silence for a while after Jim had gone out, banging the door.
‘I am so sorry, if I’ve made things difficult for you.’ Alex looked worried as he sat down.
Curiously, Rachel felt no emotion. ‘I should have told him about the reporting, but somehow it never came up,’ she admitted. ‘Jim and I are supposed to be … courting, but we’ve never been very close.’ She smiled. ‘He wants to marry a good worker, you see, the person doesn’t matter much, I’ve come to realize. Clearly he doesn’t know me at all.’
The editor took off his glasses and polished them, and then looked again at Rachel’s notebook.
‘You’d be wasted on a man like that,’ he said with a smile. ‘The poor man must be very limited… . I suppose it’s not conventional for us to sit together without a chaperone, but things are changing, I believe. Women are taking a more active role in society, which means that men and women have to work together.’
‘I never thought about it,’ Rachel confessed. ‘You are just doing your job and I’m trying to help. It was just coincidence that Mother wasn’t here.’
‘I’m very glad of your help. I like your ideas for the women’s page, we’ll get on with it as soon as we can.’
Before he left, Alex suggested that Rachel’s name should appear on the women’s articles.
‘We’ll keep the reservoir reports anonymous, but you should take credit for other work,’ he said firmly. ‘Let them know that you’re not “just a farm girl”.’
‘But they’ll know that I’m young, some of them. They might prefer to believe an older woman with more experience, don’t you think?’
Alex shook his head. ‘Mrs Beeton was very young when she wrote her monumental cookery book – did you know that? Everybody quotes Mrs Beeton.’
Ruth came back then and she agreed with the editor that it wouldn’t hurt for people to know that Rachel wrote for the Herald. ‘Plenty of us know how to cook, but not many folks could write about it,’ she said. ‘It’s good to share what you know.’
‘That is exactly my point of view,’ said Alex. ‘A good writer can gather facts from other people as well, remember. Not to steal them, but to quote them. Now, Rachel, can you send me a recipe in the next few days?’
When the visitor had gone, Ruth asked to know what had been decided. About Jim’s visit, she sympathized. ‘It was bad luck that I wasn’t here, love, but you weren’t to blame. He’s been a bit quiet lately, hasn’t he? Jim seems to have a jealous streak, you know,’ she said. ‘He asked me the other day whether I thought you were too friendly with Roger. I told him that Mr Beckwith is a friend of the whole family.’
‘I really wonder whether he’s angry because he wants to be,’ Rachel suggested. ‘He will have to apologize, it was a dreadful scene. He called me a loose woman, Mother.’
‘Jim is not turning out as well as I’d hoped,’ was Ruth’s comment.
When Kit came in that afternoon he was surprised to hear of Jim’s outburst.
‘Mind
you, I can see how it looked to him,’ he conceded, ‘especially as he had no idea you were sending off reports to the paper. You need to talk to him more, Rachel, tell him what you’re doing.’
‘I’m not going to get the chance, Father. He said he won’t see me again and I must admit, I don’t really care.’
Kit looked at his daughter. ‘I wasn’t going to mention it, but Jim seemed very taken with the new teacher, when we went to fell the tree,’ he said. ‘But it’ll be a pity if you disagree, you two. You’ll make good farmers, one day.’
‘That’s it, then. He’s fallen in love,’ Rachel laughed. ‘I thought at the meeting that he seemed to talk to her for a long time.’ It was strange to think that her future was not as certain as she had thought, but to her surprise there was no misery.
‘He’ll get over it,’ Kit decided. ‘Miss Ward seemed to be rather – childlike, I suppose you could say.’
‘Too much time spent with children, maybe,’ Ruth suggested. ‘She’s a very pretty girl.’
Six months ago I would have been heartbroken, but not now. Jim and I have been growing apart. Rachel remembered, too, what Mr Finlay had said. He’d only met him for a few minutes, but that was enough to decide that Rachel and Jim were not suited. Sometimes an outsider could see things more clearly, perhaps?
Then there was Roger, a warm and courteous lad … a very dear man. Without meaning to, Roger had shown up Jim’s limitations. But Roger was out of reach, she must remember that.
Over the next few evenings, Rachel worked on her recipe for Yorkshire pudding and how to make the lightest, crispest puddings, adding what little she knew of pudding history. By Saturday, it was ready and she walked down to the post office to send it off to the Herald, together with a short article on making various kinds of herb tea for the ‘Country Cures’ section.
The wind was cold, blowing grey clouds across the pale sun. As she passed the school, Rachel saw that Jim was working on the fallen tree, chopping it up for firewood. Beside him was a small figure wrapped in a long cloak, watching with great interest. Her anger with him had evaporated; she felt indifferent, but perhaps she should go up to him, try to patch up the quarrel. They were neighbours, the families would have to work together to a certain extent in this small community. She hesitated, then went through the school gate.