A Family Affair

by Nancy Carson

  ‘I’ve got a daughter meself, you know,’ he said and took a swig from his glass.

  ‘Mother said.’

  ‘Ramona. You’ll like her. There ain’t that much difference in your ages.’

  ‘I’m sure it’ll be very nice having a stepsister,’ Clover said equably. ‘Especially if she’s of an age.’

  ‘Well, she’s a nice lass, though I say so meself…And this is me brother, Elijah…’ Jacob turned to him. Clover shook his hand and said hello. She guessed him to be in his early thirties. He was smart, with dark hair, engaging brown eyes and a confident smile. ‘He’s going to be me best man at the wedding, Clover. I hope you’ve got a nice new frock to wear for it. Has your mother treated you?’

  ‘We’ve been today to order it, Mr Tandy. I’m sure it’ll be very suitable.’

  ‘It’s costing enough,’ Mary Ann commented typically. ‘But the wench has got nothing else.’

  ‘I bought one for our Ramona,’ Jake said. ‘Cost me a fortune, it did. But what’s money? Why worry about it?’

  ‘It’s only them as ain’t got money what worry about it,’ Mary Ann remarked. ‘And you know how we’ve been fixed, Jacob.’

  ‘And all that’s coming to an end, Mary Ann,’ Jake declared with a grin. ‘All that’s coming to an end.’

  Good Friday in 1907, as well as being a holiday, was a perfect day for flying. A light south-westerly breeze was panting warmly as it ran up the side of Rough Hill, where Ned Brisco sat apprehensively in a weird contraption he had built, hoping it would fly. His older brother, Amos, sat crouched beneath the fragile wings on its port side waiting for Ned’s signal.

  Ned gazed into the distance. Distance was his challenge. From these heights he overlooked the Clent Hills to the south, lush and green in their spring finery. In the far distance he could discern Worcestershire’s Malvern Hills, colourless on the hazy south-western horizon. Towards the north-west, beyond the furnaces of Ironbridge and Coalbrookdale, the Wrekin lay like a stone pushing up through Shropshire’s greenery. Ned imagined himself flying effortlessly in his machine over the vast expanse of gently undulating terrain that lay between himself and these yet unvisited outposts. Once beautiful countryside, it was now pockmarked by scores of pit-heads and slag heaps and quarries, and by chimney-stacks that spewed endless palls of filthy smoke into the hazy, white sky that was struggling to turn blue in the spring sunshine. As well as these effigies to the industry and enterprise of man, the inevitable stone structures loomed that were erected to the greater glory of God. The spire of Top Church in the middle distance to the north-west pierced the atmosphere like a tintack, while St John’s and its square grey tower occupied a ledge on Kates Hill to the north. Beyond St John’s stood Dudley Castle, hoary, crumbling, derelict, yet defiantly majestic.

  The girl with him looked striking, despite being plainly dressed in a home-made blouse and skirt. Her eyes were intelligent, as blue as summer cornflowers. Her skin was fair yet her lush hair was as dark and shiny as the coal they mined thereabouts. When she smiled her face lit up and you couldn’t help but smile with her, for she seemed then to throw off the shackles of reserve and shyness that normally confined her. Clover Beckitt was Ned’s soul mate.

  As well as Clover and his brother Amos, both of whom gave Ned much needed encouragement, a smattering of ragged children had attached themselves to the band and their cart. They looked on in incredulous silence and wonder, hoping they would witness the miracle of man and machine in flight.

  ‘All right, Amos,’ Ned called. ‘Let her go.’

  Amos quickly pulled a chunk of wood from under one of the thin, spoked bicycle wheels on which the contraption stood. The ensemble began to roll downhill over the stubbly grass that cloaked that side of Rough Hill between two disused quarries, gathering speed quickly. Ned held his breath as his stomach seemed to rise into his mouth.

  ‘Be careful, Ned!’ Clover called, hearing the creak of struts and wire and stretched canvas. ‘Don’t crash into the pepper-box.’

  ‘Let’s hope he gets that bloody far,’ Amos said dubiously, seeing that the Dudley Tunnel’s air shaft of which Clover spoke was directly in Ned’s path, but unreachable. ‘If he ended up in Warren’s Hall pond, even that would be summat to crow about.’

  Clover chuckled at the mental image Amos’s words conjured, then remained silent for seconds that seemed like ages while they watched Ned’s progress. The contraption had reached about thirty miles an hour and was almost at the place where the steep hill was levelling out when Clover whooped with excitement.

  ‘Look, Amos, look! He’s flying! He’s flying!’ She turned round to catch Amos’s reaction, a delighted grin on her lovely face. Behind them, the group of ragamuffins cheered boisterously.

  ‘By Christ, he is and all…He’s airborne, Clover…Whoops!…Oh, Jesus Christ…Well, he was airborne.’

  She saw the contraption stall and hit the ground. At once she hitched up her long cotton skirt and ran for all she was worth down the hill in her buttoned-up boots, her dark hair flowing like a mane behind her.

  ‘Ned!’ she called. ‘Are you all right? Are you all right?’

  As she hurtled towards him, she watched with relief as Ned disentangled himself from the wires, broken laths and strips of sailcloth that had come adrift from the wooden frame. Eventually, breathless, she was within hailing distance. Ned slid down from what remained of the lower starboard wing, onto his feet.

  ‘Ned, are you all right?’ she gasped again.

  He watched her as she approached and grinned, his brown eyes alive with exhilaration. ‘I did it, Clover – I did it. I flew – I actually flew.’

  She ran the last few steps towards him and flung her arms around his neck with pride at his brilliant achievement. ‘I know,’ she shrieked, as happy as he was. ‘I saw you.’ Then, self-consciously, she let go of him, for fear he should presume too much. ‘Are you hurt?’ she earnestly asked.

  ‘No, Clover,’ Ned said, pulling his gloves off. ‘I’m as good as new. I think I know what went wrong. As soon as the thing started to lift it climbed gently for about thirty or forty yards then came down again nose first. It stalled, that’s all. I should’ve fixed in some ballast. Ah well – next time, eh?’ Ned stood with his hands on his hips looking thoughtfully at the tangled wreck before him and shook his head.

  ‘How did it feel, Ned, gliding above the ground?’

  ‘I – I can’t describe it, Clover…Smooth…Incredibly smooth. Like being on a magic carpet, if you can imagine that.’

  ‘You’re going to try again, then?’

  ‘’Course I am. If Wilbur and Orville Wright can do it, so can I. And now I’ve got this far…’

  Clover looked at him with admiration in her wide eyes. Although he was not her sweetheart he was…well, he was dear to her. Oh, he wasn’t handsome, nor was he particularly elegant. She didn’t fancy him in that way, yet in a sisterly sort of way she liked him. He was ordinary with reddish hair and gawky looking in his tallness, but he was so clever and such a gentle soul. And so determined. Like other lads that had left school at twelve because their parents could not afford to send them to the Dudley Grammar School, Ned Brisco could have developed into one of the finest engineers of his time. Of that, Clover was certain. As a moulder at the Coneygree Foundry where she also worked, he was wasted and frustrated. Exercising his mind with the seemingly insuperable problems of flight was his only outlet.

  Clover looked back up the hill towards Amos and waved. He was carefully leading the pony and cart down the steep, grassy hill, followed by the posse of assorted youngsters. Earlier, the cart had hauled the flying machine, still in sections, up Oakham Road and past the hangman’s tree to the top of Rough Hill.

  ‘What are you going to do with what’s left of your flying machine, Ned?’ Clover asked.

  Ned inspected it cursorily. ‘Oh, there’ll be some bits I can salvage. Perhaps by Whitsun we can try again. I’ll have built another machine by then. A better one.’<
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  So, Ned started to disassemble his damaged machine. He had unfastened the rigging that secured both pairs of wings to the flimsy frame that was the fuselage by the time Amos heaved to with the borrowed horse and cart. With Clover’s help, Ned stacked the separate assemblies onto the inadequate transport as best he could, considering the wings’ deformed leading edges and the nose that prevented it all sitting squarely. When it was all in place and tied securely, Ned invited Clover to sit alongside him on the cart while Amos led the horse.

  ‘We can get onto the New Rowley Road if we follow that path down,’ Ned claimed, pointing. ‘If we go that way it’ll save trying to lug this lot back up Rough Hill.’

  Amos waved his acknowledgement and the horse blew his lips as if in thanks.

  ‘It’s back to the drawing board, Clover,’ Ned said stoically. He turned and smiled at her, the warm smile of a good friend.

  ‘It’s a good job you’ve got the patience, Ned,’ she replied, signalling her approval. ‘But what do you hope to do with all this if you’re successful?’

  ‘I’d patent my design,’ he answered at once. ‘I’d start my own factory building flying machines. I reckon there’s a big future in them if you can get them to stay up a decent time and make them controllable. ’Course, I’d need a decent engine and that would cost money. But just think of the possibilities, Clover. Just imagine the possibilities if only I could build flying machines big enough and strong enough to carry freight or passengers.’

  ‘Well don’t ask me to fly in one,’ Clover said. ‘I’d be scared stiff. But at least this is a start. At least you got the thing off the ground, even if you did crash. I’d like to help you, if I could. I’d like to help you build the next one.’

  He turned to her again and she saw the admiration he had for her in his eyes. She was certain he wanted to be her sweetheart, but was thankful he’d never asked. He was her pal and they talked like pals. She enjoyed their friendship. If she became his sweetheart it wouldn’t be the same. She would have to kiss him and somehow, she just didn’t fancy kissing him. Whenever she thought he was about to broach the subject of them courting, she astutely introduced some topic to distract him – like now.

  ‘My mother’s getting married again, Ned.’

  ‘Never!’ He regarded her again, but disconcertedly. ‘Who’s she getting wed to?’

  ‘A man called Jake Tandy.’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘I hardly know him,’ she answered wistfully. ‘It’s funny, when I was a child, most of the kids in my class at school had a father and I didn’t. I always felt a bit jealous, a bit out of it because my father had died when I was so young. I only ever had my mother and Zillah to go back home to and all the time I wondered what it must be like to have a father. My friends at school all used to speak of their fathers with such reverence, yet all I had of mine were a few vague memories. Well, I suppose being faced with the prospect of a new father – one I don’t really know – makes me a bit apprehensive. He’s a widower, by the way.’

  ‘A widower? Does he have any kids then?’

  ‘Just a daughter, she’s seventeen.’

  ‘What’s she like?’ Ned asked. ‘Is she pretty?’

  Clover shrugged. ‘How should I know? I’ve never seen her.’

  They were trundling past the Warren’s Hall pond, which was brimful of frogspawn. To their left sat grim pit banks, the same roan colour as the horse, where any grass feared to prosper. The headgear of pit shafts, some derelict now, stood like gallows in the ravaged landscape, their unturning wheels the halos of their victims.

  ‘She can’t be as pretty as you, Clover,’ Ned said kindly. ‘I bet you any money.’

  Clover shrugged again, but smiled at the compliment.

  ‘When are they getting married, Clover?’

  She sighed. ‘Tomorrow…From tomorrow it’ll be a whole different way of life. A new stepfather, a new stepsister…’

  ‘You sound as if you’re not relishing the prospect.’

  ‘It’s just that…I don’t know what the future holds, Ned.’

  Chapter 2

  Mary Ann Beckitt, née Scriven, and Jacob Tandy were married at noon on Easter Saturday. The Reverend John Mainwaring, the recently installed and increasingly popular vicar of St John’s, Kates Hill, officiated. Outside in the spring sunshine the party posed for photographs with Mary Ann in the centre in her new red velvet dress. Clover looked radiant in her sky-blue satin dress and her blue satin hat with its white lace brim. Jake said he wanted this marriage, unlike his first, to be a proper do and insisted they have a record of the event. So he engaged the services of an enterprising local young photographer called Tom Doubleday who had his own studio and darkrooms in Hall Street near the centre of the town. Tom was about twenty-five, or so Clover Beckitt estimated. With increasing interest, she watched him changing plates in the huge wooden camera that looked top-heavy stuck on its wooden tripod. When he’d finished, Jake asked Tom if he would like to return with the rest of the party to the Jolly Collier, where they were providing a meal and free beer. Clover was secretly delighted.

  In addition to Clover and her mother, there were nine Scrivens in the form of the bride’s brothers and an unmarried sister. On Jake’s side, there were only four relatives in addition to himself and his daughter Ramona; his elderly mother and father, and younger brother, Elijah with his betrothed, Dorcas Downing, who was the daughter of a wealthy local industrialist. Old Man Tandy hacked in a corner and expectorated the product of his miner’s cough into the fireplace where it bubbled and hissed, only to be castigated by Elijah for making Dorcas, who was sensitive to such vulgar mannerisms, feel sick. Old Mrs Tandy unfastened her boots, slipped them off and presented her bunions, which were killing her, to anybody that was interested in inspecting them. Tables had been laid in a line down the middle of the taproom and trestles spanned the lot. When everybody had supped their first glass or two of free beer, this is where they sat. Zillah Bache, who was generally sober but not quite today, unsteadily served up the roast beef, Yorkshire pudding and vegetables. Job Smith, shifty-eyed, served the beer.

  Clover sat next to her new stepsister, Ramona, who, to Clover’s relief, was neat and tidy. She was also exceptionally pretty with an mop of fair curls, which remained unruly despite her determined attempts to tame. Her eyes were big and the colour of the sherry she was drinking. She seemed friendly and made conversation easily. Maybe Ned Brisco would like her. They talked, comparing their lives, likes and dislikes, interspersing their verbal explorations with comments to Tom Doubleday, the young photographer, who sat opposite. Tom’s blue eyes creased into the most pleasing smiles and, as his participation in their conversation increased, Clover was torn between his charm and the certain knowledge that she must get to know and befriend Ramona.

  ‘How long have you been a photographer, Mr Doubleday?’ she asked politely, placing her knife and fork together on her plate, for she had just finished her dinner.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he replied, pleased with the interest he was getting from this lovely dark-haired girl with the smiling blue eyes and beautiful nose that looked so appealing in profile. ‘It’s something I drifted into. Even as a small boy I was interested in photography.’

  ‘Is it fiddly?’ Ramona chipped in, not about to be excluded. ‘It looks fiddly to me.’

  ‘Yes, it is a bit, Miss Tandy—’

  ‘Oh, please call me Ramona, Mr Doubleday.’

  ‘Yes, er…Ramona.’ He smiled into her alluring brown eyes. ‘It’s even more fiddly in the darkroom.’

  ‘In the darkroom?’ Ramona’s voice had an appealing, girlish croakiness about it. ‘I don’t know if I’d like it in a darkroom. Would I be scared, do you think?’

  ‘Not if you’re with somebody else.’

  ‘Would I need to be scared with somebody like you?’ Her eyes darted knowingly from Clover to Tom and Clover thought her new stepsister was maybe trying to be just a little provocative.

&
nbsp; ‘Do you have to work in complete darkness?’ Clover interjected, seizing the opportunity to get back into the conversation before Ramona completely hijacked it.

  ‘Yes, otherwise you’d fog the latent image on the plate,’ Tom explained. ‘It’s light-sensitive, you see, Miss Tandy.’

  ‘Miss Beckitt, but you can call me Clover,’ Clover corrected with a broad smile. ‘Ramona and I are stepsisters. That’s why we have different surnames.’

  ‘Oh, I beg your pardon. But Clover…Mmm, what a lovely name that is.’

  ‘Well, thank you, Mr Doubleday.’

  Tom Doubleday nodded his acknowledgement. ‘Well now – with all this informality, I’d be obliged if you’d call me Tom.’

  ‘All right.’ Clover smiled delectably. ‘So, to get back to my question – Tom – does all this working in darkness mean you have to go through the whole process of developing your plate without even knowing your photo’s come out all right?’

  ‘Not just developing, Miss…er, Clover. To make the image so it’s not sensitive to light any more, you have to thoroughly wash off any developer – after a given time – then fix it in another solution we call hypo. But listen, forgive me. The last thing I want to do is bore you.’

  ‘I’d like to see it done,’ Ramona said. ‘It sounds ever so interesting.’

  ‘Well, it’s more frustrating than anything, Ramona,’ Tom said pleasantly. ‘Especially when you enlarge or make prints. You’re never quite sure how long to expose the paper to the negative. You waste a lot getting it right, and it’s expensive stuff.’

  Zillah Bache served the pudding, hot apple pie and custard, and the girls’ conversation with Tom Doubleday continued. Clover was drawn to him inexorably. He was clean-shaven and his teeth were beautiful and even. As he spoke, she watched his lips and imagined how his kisses might feel. But she would dearly have preferred it if Ramona had not been there. She felt Ramona was a rival when she wanted her as a friend. Trouble was, she did not know the girl well enough to tell her to keep her pretty nose out of it.