The Bobbin Girls

by Freda Lightfoot

  When the thudding of her heart had eased a little Alena ventured a quiet question. ‘Where will we go?’

  ‘We’ll find somewhere safe, don’t worry.’ Rob sounded more confident than she’d ever heard him. Perhaps more than he felt.

  They could see that this part of the forest had been coppiced, as each tree had thrown up several new stems from the stool, which showed the results of previous cuts. These stems were now perhaps ten or twelve feet high and would likewise be ready for felling in a year or two. Here and there was a fine standard oak or ash, deliberately left to grow and form the higher canopy of the forest. ‘I can hear a stream. Let’s go and drink, cool our feet and rest.’

  They did so, eating the last of the bread and cheese they had brought with them. The long walk had made them hungry and they could have eaten twice as much. A depressing thought. What would they do tomorrow, and the day after that? Alena thought of the good hot food her mother would even now be placing upon the table at home. Or perhaps Lizzie couldn’t eat at all, for worry. She pushed the uncomfortable thought away.

  Afterwards, refreshed, they sang for a while as they walked on, to break the deafening silence of the woodlands.

  By nightfall they had seen no one all day and were exhausted. They found shelter beneath a fallen ash that arched over the path, pulled bracken and branches over themselves to gather what warmth they could, then fell asleep instantly, wound together like a pair of dormice.

  When they woke it was pitch dark. Alena had never known a blackness so complete. It lay heavy and impenetrable upon her. In the dim strands of light that did manage to filter down through the high branches, she caught a glimpse of bats on their evening search for insects, though there were few about at this time of year. From somewhere in the depths of the undergrowth came unexplained rustlings, squeaks and whispers. She was used to country sounds but not at such close quarters. Once, an owl swooped blackly down, the squeal of its unfortunate victim making her shudder.

  Alena tried again to sleep, but couldn’t. The cold of night seeped into her bones and, stricken with new fears and hunger, she felt a surge of self-pity for the first time in her life.

  ‘If only we’d lit a fire, we could at least have kept warm.’ She’d brought a bag of oatmeal which she’d found in her mother’s pantry but however hungry they were now, she decided it would be more prudent to save it for breakfast. They would need sustenance even more then, to give them the necessary energy to go on.

  ‘I’ll make a trap tomorrow,’ Rob promised, his breath a warm whisper against her cold ear. ‘And we’ll catch a rabbit for supper. We can live off the forest, I’m sure of it. I’ll build us a shelter, make us somewhere cosy to live.’

  It all sounded so wonderfully romantic, and she was so desperately tired that for once Alena didn’t attempt to argue. Looking into his handsome young face, alive with the excitement of these new plans, she truly believed him.

  ‘Sleep, Ally. I’ll keep watch for a while.’ Reassured by his confidence she rested her head against his shoulder and let her eyes close. Within moments she drifted into sleep. Feeling the tickle of her hair against his chin, Rob was afraid to move for fear of waking her, yet his disturbed thoughts, at variance with his brave words, greatly troubled him for some time before he too was overwhelmed by exhaustion and finally slept.

  They woke shivering in a cold clear dawn with hunger sharp in their bellies. Even so Rob insisted they put more miles between them and home before risking a fire to cook the oatmeal. They got to their feet and blundered tiredly on. It was some two hours later that they saw the smoke. And then they saw the man.

  He swung the axe with economical, effortless strokes, taking away chips of wood neither too large nor too small and always in exactly the same place, opening a deep throat in the stem of the tree. Then, with one mighty swing, he cut behind and as the throat closed the tree fell cleanly without damaging itself or knocking against any other. Two or three small boys and a couple of women immediately set about taking off the smaller branches, twigs and leaves at the tops of the tree - the ‘brash’ as it was known locally.

  Without pause he started on the next, nor did he allow his helpers to pause either. When one boy whispered to a companion, the man cuffed his ear, sending him rolling amongst the twigs and leaves. It was perfectly clear that the day was for working and earning a living, with no time to waste in laughter or song.

  A dog lay some way off. A deep golden tan he was almost indistinguishable from the bracken in which he lay. Of indeterminate breed with perhaps some border collie in him, his long nose rested upon his paws, and not for one moment did he take his eyes off his master save when tiredness weighed his lids almost closed. But only for a snatched moment. If the man’s rhythm changed only slightly, the dog would be instantly aware of it, ready to react.

  The man swung and cut, swung and cut, a ceaseless rhythm that seemed so at one with his surroundings that a robin pecked up the grubs that fell by his feet. Alena and Rob, mesmerised by the scene, crept nearer.

  He must have become aware of their approach, however soft footed, almost at the same instant as the dog, which rushed at them. barking.

  ‘That’ll do, Bracken. Down, boy.’ The dog obediently dropped to its belly and the man wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of one hand, leaned on his axe and confronted them.

  ‘Now then,’ he said. ‘What have we here? Mice, is it’

  The pair stood as if paralysed, petrified by the mere sight of him, for a sight he surely was. He wore a jerkin over his ragged shirt, dark trousers tied with string below the knee, and on his feet a pair of huge black clogs. His face was dark as the bark of a tree, criss-crossed with a thousand lines and topped with thin black hair plastered to his head with sweat.

  Riveted though she was by the man, Alena could not fail to notice that although the children cast curious glances at these strangers in their midst, they barely paused in their labours, the women not at all. It wasn’t hard to guess why. For all the glint of humour in his dark eyes, the powerful build and sheer brutish strength of the man would not encourage waywardness. She reached for Rob’s hand and felt a reassuring squeeze in response.

  Alena realised at once that this would be a group of coppicers. Gangs like these moved about the forest, spending as much as a year in one place cutting and harvesting the timber, at an agreed

  rate with the owner, before moving on to the next. They never returned to the same part of the forest until the trees had had sufficient time to rejuvenate themselves, which could be as much as twelve or fifteen years. This fearsome giant would undoubtedly be their leader.

  She was amazed at how confident and strong Rob sounded, even if he did have to clear his throat before he spoke. Nodding in the direction of the children, all busily breaking and piling twigs onto a hand cart, he said, ‘Good day to you, sir. We’re needing food and would be willing to work for it.’

  ‘Would you indeed?’ The man ran his eye over them both, lingering over Alena the longest.

  Frank Roscoe considered he had an expert eye for women, almost as good as his judgement of horseflesh or a well-bred cur. He believed likewise he could make an infallible assessment of character, and never forgot a face. This lass wasn’t yet full grown but all the more tantalising for being as yet untried. She had about her that mysterious and complex mix of innocence and instinct and, he’d guess, she’d have a fine temper on her as well. That would be a grand sight to see, to be sure, when her dander was up, with that wild copper hair and those brilliant eyes. Didn’t he always admire a bit of spirit in a woman? See how she met his inquiring gaze with defiance. Wore pride like a mantle, she did. A rare beauty indeed. Sure and back home in his native Ireland, they’d say such a colleen had been kissed by the fairies.

  He chuckled on a burst of humour as she stepped closer to the boy, little more than a pup himself. They weren’t mice at all, but children. Babes in the Wood, that’s who they were, and he threw back his head and laughed out
loud, causing everyone to pause in their labours and wait for him to share the joke. But he only shouted at them to stop wasting time, wasn’t he paying them good money to work, and not gawp at folk?

  ‘How old are you, lad?’

  ‘Sixteen,’

  Roscoe smiled at the lie. ‘Have you done such work before?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A fine strong lad like you, yet you’re a nancy boy who’s never used an axe or saw?’

  ‘I have. Once or twice. And I’m a quick learner.’

  ‘This one o’ mine weighs seven pounds. Could you even pick it up?’

  Without a moment’s hesitation Rob stepped forward and did so. For all his confidence the weight of the axe surprised him, and he had to tense every muscle to hold his resolve not to show any sign of weakness. He took up a safe stance, swung back the axe with every ounce of his strength, and cut into the tree very nearly, but not quite, on the right spot. Roscoe smiled but lifted his eyebrows as if acknowledging a good effort.

  A pair of runaways to be sure, he thought. Some poor soul would be hunting high and low for these childer, no doubt, at this very minute. Wouldn’t he be doing everyone a favour if he packed them off home? But then he’d have to make sure they went, wouldn’t he? See they didn’t wander off getting even more lost, and him being held responsible if they died of starvation, or caught double pneumonia with the damp.

  And if the girl stayed? Tempting morsel, aye, but a mite too tempting mebbe. Wouldn’t she only cause trouble when young Mickey got back? Was she even old enough to be allowed out, let alone dally with his son?

  Yet her virtue and this lad’s lies were none of his concern. He must consider his own interests. He did need more help and the boy showed promise, no doubt about that. Roscoe returned to his chopping. ‘I’ll take you on. The girl is no use to me. Women and bairns I have in plenty.’

  Rob stepped quickly forward. ‘It’s both of us or neither.’

  Dark brows raised in surprise, the axe poised for a moment in mid-air he examined Rob as if he’d grown a second head. Frank Roscoe was not accustomed to having his decisions challenged. Then he set it down with a shout of laughter, though since this added not a touch of warmth to the wizened face it brought no lessening of the tension. ‘Are you in a position to make terms, laddie, on a hungry belly? Where is it you’re going? Where have you sprung from, eh?’

  Alena felt herself go hot and cold all over. The man was far too shrewd for comfort. Before the thought had properly formed in her head, she burst out, ‘I can learn to use an axe too.’

  ‘Can you indeed?’

  ‘Yes. 1 can do anything Rob can do.’

  This seemed to add to his amusement. ‘I doubt you can,’ he said. ‘Rob is it? And what is your name, pretty maid?’

  Alena quaked and felt a cold shiver down her spine, making her feel slightly sick. If he discovered their names, all would be lost. They would be sent home, she was sure of it. But before she could reply, Rob continued with his bargaining.

  ‘I’d say you look to be in need of a strong pair of hands to help you. Alena won’t get in the way, I promise. She’s a good worker.’

  Oh, now you’ve done it, she thought. Now he’s got both our names. And the sickness grew worse.

  Once again the man curved his lips into what seemed like a parody of a smile, though it might have been genuine amusement, she supposed, if somewhat sardonic. He was playing with them, entertained by this diversion they had created. Not an unhandsome man his dark eyes glinted speculatively from beneath narrowed lids as he considered her. Alena worried over what he might be planning.

  ‘Plunged into the forest on a whim, have you? Like many before you. And now you don’t know how to get out of it.’ He fell silent again, rubbing one hand over the rasping bristles of his chin. Who would want to know where they were? he wondered. Somebody must. And mebbe pay for the information?

  ‘You’d say your hands were strong, would you? Well, for your interest, I’ve a boy a year or two older than yourself who helps me here in the forest, though only at the weekends admittedly. He works at the local bobbin mill during the week.’ Frank Roscoe did not miss the quick glance that flashed between them. ‘Cobham Bridge. D’you know it?’

  They shook their heads, saying nothing. But was it relief that had flickered over the girl’s face? They knew of a bobbin mill then. With thirty or more in the Furness district, it was hardly surprising. But which?

  ‘Fine strong lad is Mickey. But you’re right, we could always use a bit more muscle.’ He held out a hand. It was stained a dark blue which Alena later discovered came from the sap of the oak trees. ‘Roscoe is the name. At your service, as they say.’ He sketched a mockery of a salute which neither of them dared to return. ‘Give us a taste of what you can do then. Show me your worth and happen I’ll feed you. But she goes.’

  ‘Let ‘em be, Frank. They’re nobbut childer. Let her stay for a day or two at least.’ One of the women had come to stand beside him and, wiping her own blue-stained hands on the skirt of her dress, spoke kindly to Alena. ‘Take no notice. So long as you do as he says and don’t come up on him sudden like, he’s harmless enough.’

  It was not a comforting thought. Alena kept silent. ‘Have you eaten yet today?’ the woman asked, and when she shook her head, turned and called to the other children: ‘Come on. Breakfast. It’s time we all stopped for a bite, I reckon.’

  Without demur Frank Roscoe laid down his axe and followed her. The matter seemed to have been settled, for the moment at least.

  The smoke they had noticed earlier, they now discovered, spiralled upwards from a small stone building, hardly worthy of the name cottage, being more in the nature of a rough hut. One of several exactly the same it comprised three rectangular walls topped by branches, sods of grass and bracken, the end wall consisting of a circular stone chimney which clearly kept the hut warm, if somewhat smoky, and where food was perhaps cooked in bad weather. This was evidently the coppicers’ camp.

  Today was cold but sunny and fine, with only a whispering breeze hushing through the treetops. A huge iron pot straddled a small fire in the clearing and the gang gathered round, patiently waiting for the porridge to be ladled out and handed round. A group of women who had been sitting making swill baskets and besoms, set aside their work for a moment to share in the meal.

  The breakfast of oatmeal was hot, filling and reasonably plentiful, more than welcome to Rob and Alena, for all it was somewhat thin and watery. But something about the man alarmed her and she pleaded with Rob in urgent whispers between spoonfuls to move on. He stubbornly insisted they’d be safe enough here and should stay, for a day or two at least.

  ‘He doesn’t want me around.’

  ‘He’ll change his mind if you impress him with your hard work.’

  ‘One day only then, to give us time to rest. Then we go on. ‘We’ll talk about it tomorrow.’

  So they stayed, and one day stretched into two and then into three. Each of them was allotted a space in one of the coppicers’ huts. They were given a blanket and told to gather their own bracken to make up into a bed each evening.

  ‘And see you roll it up each day. We don’t want no vermin in the house,’ the woman, Kate, informed them. ‘Any more’n you want folks tramping their wet feet all over your bedding.’ This seemed a sensible precaution which they dutifully followed.

  ‘This is more fun than any old school. A real adventure,’ Rob said, face shining as if it were all something out of a Boy’s Own magazine.

  Alena sighed, wishing she could share his enthusiasm, but much as she loved the woodlands, she worried about the wisdom of staying with the coppicers. It seemed too near to home for comfort. And what would they do when winter came?

  The fire was damped down at night, which gave some relief from the smoke, but fortunately there was never any danger of anyone feeling the cold. Bodies were too closely packed together for that. It was at these times that Alena suffered odd little pangs of guil
t and sorrowful longings. She thought about her brothers, and the fun they’d had together. She pictured her mother worrying and looking everywhere for her, and began to wonder if they’d been wrong to run away.

  But her mother hadn’t been interested in her troubles, had she? Only in Tom’s. Her father had been hard-hearted and callous, as usual. As had James Hollinthwaite with Rob. Nobody understood how they felt. Even so she longed for the warmth of Ma’s arms about her right now. She’d always smelled of baking, of floor polish and soap, and Ma. It made Alena homesick to remember all of that now.

  But then she didn’t like to think what her parents’ reaction would be when they heard the full story of the swim that the entire village was gossiping about. It was all too shaming. At least this way she and Rob could be together. So Alena slept with a glimmer of excitement in her heart and tears on her cheek.

  For all his blunt and sardonic manner, Roscoe turned out to be not half so fearsome as he had at first appeared. He was willing enough to pass on his skills to Rob, teaching him how to hold the axe correctly, how to use the saw without damaging it, which trees were marked for cutting, and which needed to be left as standards to grow on. It was explained to him how coppicing kept the woodlands alive, how regular cropping prevented overcrowding, and brought light to the woodland floor to encourage new growth and wildlife. And if Rob, in his eagerness to acquire these special skills, talked more of himself than he should, encouraged by Roscoe’s offer of friendship, the boy saw no harm in that. He surely told him little of any value? Besides, home and its problems seemed very far away. Of what possible interest could they be to this man?