Margaret Dickinson
The Buffer Girls
MACMILLAN
For
Zoë, Scott, Zachary and Zara
With My Love Always
Contents
Margaret Dickinson Q&A
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
The Clippie Girls
Fairfield Hall
Welcome Home
Acknowledgements
Margaret Dickinson Q&A
1. Have you always wanted to be a writer?
I started writing at the age of fourteen always with the hope of one day being published. My first novel was published in 1968 when I was twenty-five.
2. How long did it take you to write The Buffer Girls?
I write a novel a year, but that doesn’t mean I’m writing all that time. I undertake about six weeks’ promotion when a new book is published and I give talks throughout the year.
3. Do you have a routine as a writer?
When I am writing, I like to be at my desk by 9 a.m. and work for the morning. Often I work in the afternoon for a couple of hours, but it’s more a target of words per week (10,000) rather than the number of hours spent writing.
4. Which books have inspired you?
As a child, Enid Blyton’s books – also The Wind in the Willows. As an adult, the novels of Victoria Holt and Mary Stewart. The one book that has influenced me the most is Pride and Prejudice.
5. How did you come up with the title of the book?
It seemed to be the most appropriate title as the story is about the buffer girls of Sheffield.
6. How much of the book is fact and how much is fiction?
All the characters and events are entirely fictitious, but the background details have been thoroughly researched.
7. What would you like readers to take away from The Buffer Girls?
A sense of how hard-working the women of that time were.
8. Are you writing a new novel at the moment?
I have begun work on a sequel to The Buffer Girls.
9. Do you have any tips for people researching historical events?
A great deal of information is now available on the internet, but it is wise to double-check it if possible. Visit the place being written about; its libraries, museums and archives, and talk to people who have been involved with the subject.
10. What advice would you give to aspiring authors?
Learn as much as possible about the craft of writing, study similar books that have been published and NEVER give up!
One
Ashford-in-the-Water,
Derbyshire, August 1920
‘You’re not serious, Mam.’
Emily Ryan stood with her hands on her hips, her curly blond hair flying free, wild and untamed, and her blue eyes icy with temper. She was tall and slim, with a figure that had all the young men eyeing her longingly as she strode through her young life. Her lovely face, with its perfectly shaped nose and strong chin, was the epitome of determination. Nothing and no one would stop Emily Ryan doing exactly what she wanted with her life, except maybe one person: her mother, Martha.
‘I’m deadly serious,’ Martha said firmly, folding her arms across her ample bosom. She knew she had a battle royal on her hands as she faced her daughter. Emily resembled her mother, but the older woman’s hair was now grey and drawn back into a bun and her once lithe figure had thickened with age and child bearing. Her face was lined with the anxieties life had brought her; her eyes were still bright but they turned cold when she was angry. And she was ready now. Battle lines were being drawn but Martha knew she would win in the end. She always did.
‘But this is our home. You can’t take us away from all this.’ Emily swept her arm in a wide arc to encompass the small, friendly Derbyshire village where they lived, and the surrounding fields and hills. ‘It’s Dad’s life. He was born here in this cottage. His parents and grandparents are buried in the churchyard. You can’t drag him to live in a city.’ She spat out the word. ‘He’d hate it. ’Specially now.’ Her voice dropped as she thought about her beloved father, sitting huddled by the kitchen range where he now sat every day, so cruelly maimed by the Great War that he could no longer work. He’d been the village candle maker, working in the front room of their cottage and supplying the local village shop and several others in the district. And he’d always served those who came knocking on the front door. It had earned him a modest income and the family had been content, until the war had come and taken away the tall, strong man with a ready smile and a gentle manner. Now he was unbearably thin, his shoulders hunched. His hands shook uncontrollably and any exertion left him gasping for breath. His two children – Emily and Josh – had taken on the work and were trying to keep his small cottage industry going, but it wasn’t the same without their talented father at the helm.
‘He’d no need to volunteer,’ Martha said quietly, her thoughts still on the carnage that had robbed her of the man Walter had been. ‘He could at least have waited until he was called up.’ Her mouth curled. ‘He’d no need to be a hero.’
‘Oh really,’ Emily said, her tone laced with sarcasm, ‘and have everyone around here brand him a coward? Handing him a white feather every time he set foot in Bakewell Market?’
‘He could have found work in a reserved occupation and appealed against his call-up whenever it came,’ Martha snapped. ‘But he didn’t even wait to find out if he was to be conscripted. Off he went to answer the country’s call as if Kitchener had been pointing his finger directly at him.’
‘The ones who stayed were lads too young to go or old men,’ Emily argued. ‘The ones like Dad – fit and strong and healthy –’ tears smarted at the back of her eyes as she thought about the proud, upright man her father had been before he’d marched away to fight for his country. But she kept her voice steady, silently vowing not to cry in front of her mother. Later, alone, perhaps she would allow the tears to fall. But not now. This was one battle she had to win, for her father, for her younger brother and for herself too – ‘they all went and such a lot of them never came home. At least, Dad came back.’
For a long moment, Martha stared at her. Then she glanced away and murmured flatly, ‘Aye, he did.’ The unspoken words lay heavily between them. Perhaps it would have been better for all of them – including Walter himself – if he had not survived to be the broken wreck he now was.
Walter Ryan had been injured on 1 July 1916, the first day of the battle of the Somme, when thousands of his comrades had been mown down by enemy gun
fire and blown to smithereens by their shells. It was a miracle he had not been killed and even more amazing that he had survived his terrible injuries to make it home to Blighty. The shrapnel in his leg had been removed and the wound had healed, but an earlier exposure to a gas attack and the constant pounding of the guns had left him gasping for breath, shell shocked and unable to speak.
Martha and Emily were standing in their small back garden, which Josh and Emily had planted with rows of vegetables. They were well out of Walter’s hearing and Josh was at work in the front room. There was no one to overhear the quarrel.
‘What I don’t understand, Mam, is why? We’re happy here, aren’t we? Josh and I are doing our best with the candle making. I make the wicks –’ the braiding of the fine cotton threads required nimble fingers – ‘and Josh makes the candles. He’s got some exciting ideas. He wants to try making coloured candles and scented ones too. He’s already carving some of the bigger ones and he showed them to Mrs Trippet at the big house. She said they were wonderful and she placed an order there and then. Oh, I know we’re not as good at it as Dad, but we’re getting better. And everyone around here helps us with Dad, if we need it. Mr Clark and Mrs Partridge have been wonderful. They come and sit with him and talk to him, even though he never answers them. Who’s going to be on hand in the city?’
Martha bit her lip; this was where it would get really difficult. ‘It’s for Josh’s sake. I’ve got to think of his future. There’s nothing for him here.’
‘What do you mean? Not many lads of seventeen have their own little business ready made for them.’
‘Josh will be eighteen next month,’ Martha said, ‘and besides, he won’t have much of a business soon. The demand for candles is decreasing with every day. You know yourself it is.’
‘Ah,’ Emily said slowly. ‘Now I understand. It’s always about Josh, isn’t it? You want to uproot the whole family and take us to Sheffield – all for Josh.’
‘Of course it’s all for Josh,’ Martha snapped, not even attempting to be apologetic. ‘He’s a man and he’s got to make his way in the world.’
‘And what about me?’ Emily asked softly. ‘Do I really count so little with you, Mam?’
‘Don’t be silly, Emily. Of course you count. But you’ll get married. You don’t need a career. Not like a man does. Not like Josh does. And you tell me –’ Martha prodded her finger towards her daughter – ‘what else there is around here for him that would make him a good living – that would make him someone – because if you know of something, then I’d like to hear it.’
Emily couldn’t answer her. There was nothing locally that could offer Josh the opportunities he would find in the city. But she was not about to be beaten yet.
‘What about Amy?’ she said, trying a different tack. ‘She and Josh are walking out together now.’
Martha’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are they indeed? And when did that start?’
Emily shrugged, wishing she hadn’t said anything. It was not her secret to tell, but it was done now. ‘They’ve always been friends, but just lately – well, they’ve got closer. Or are you thinking that she’ll come with us?’
Martha shook her head. ‘No, she wouldn’t leave her dad.’
The village blacksmith, Robert Clark, who lived next door, had been a widower since his wife had died shortly after giving birth to Amy. In the early years, Robert had paid a kindly woman, Mrs Grace Partridge, who lived in one of the cottages further up the lane, to care for the infant whilst he worked. But at all other times, father and daughter had been – and still were – inseparable and so it had brought Robert peace of mind when Josh Ryan had begun courting Amy. Whatever happened, he would still have his daughter close by. Perhaps they could even live with him, he had daydreamed, and, in time, maybe another little one would bring joy to his life.
Emily stared at Martha. ‘So, you don’t care about tearing them apart? I thought you liked Amy.’
‘I do. She’s a sweet girl, but Josh can do better for himself. If he marries, he needs someone who’ll help him achieve his ambitions.’
‘Your ambitions, Mam. Let’s be honest about this. Josh is quite content to stay here, make candles, marry Amy and raise a family. But that’s not good enough for you, is it? What do you want him to be? The owner of a steel works and live in a mansion?’
Martha shrugged. ‘Maybe one day. If he would only apply himself, work hard and—’
‘Mam, have you taken leave of your senses?’
‘Don’t you talk to me like that, Emily Ryan, else you’ll feel the back of my hand.’ Martha raised her arm as if to carry out her threat.
Emily faced her unflinchingly and smiled grimly. ‘I’ve felt it often enough. One more time won’t make any difference.’ But Martha dropped her hand and turned away, saying over her shoulder, ‘And don’t you go telling Josh. I’ll be the one to tell him tonight.’
Through narrowed eyes, Emily watched her mother go into the cottage by the back door, but even though she knew her father would need attention, the girl made no move to help. Her mind was working feverishly. Not for the first time in her young life, she was about to disobey her mother.
Two
The Ryans lived in the picturesque village of Ashford-in-the-Water in Greaves Lane. Stone cottages and houses lay beside the River Wye as it meandered towards Bakewell, just over a mile away. The village had, in its time, boasted several small industries; the quarrying, cutting and polishing of black marble; lead mining; and cottage industries of stocking making and candle making. A member of the Ryan family had been the village’s chandler for at least four generations. No one was quite sure when the small business had begun, but the Ryans knew that Walter’s grandfather, Luke, had certainly been the first in their family to take it on in the mid-1800s. Since then, each successive generation had continued with the profession. Now it had fallen to a very young Josh to carry it on. And it was what he wanted to do. He loved the work; he even gloried in the strong-smelling tallow, rendered from animal fat, though now he experimented with a refined form called stearin, which gave off a more pleasant odour. Special candles for the church or for the wealthy houses in the district were made from beeswax and Josh still made these too. But the young man was full of other ideas to move the business into the twentieth century. Next door to The Candle House was the village smithy, with its wide door open to the street whenever Bob Clark was working at his anvil with the glowing coals of the forge behind him. And next to that, on the corner of the lane, was the building that had once been a beer house.
After the confrontation with her mother, Emily walked through the cottage, passing her father still sitting in his rocking chair by the kitchen range. She didn’t even glance at him, so afraid was she that he might see the anger in her eyes. She entered the front room, which their great-grandfather had made into a workshop for the candle making, on the right-hand side of the cottage’s front door. In that way, customers could visit the small workshop without disturbing the rest of the family. Emily sat down beside Josh. He glanced up at her with a swift grin before carrying on with the intricate carving of a large, thick candle with a thin-bladed tool.
‘I’m still working on it, Em, but I’ll get it right one day. I’m getting better at it.’ It was something new that Josh was trying and one of several ordered by Mrs Trippet, the lady in the big house near the Sheep Wash Bridge over the River Wye that flowed beside Ashford.
Emily glanced at her brother, resisting the impulse to ruffle his tousled hair. She loved him dearly, even though she’d always been aware that he was their mother’s favourite – a fact Martha had never even tried to hide. He was a good-looking boy, who was swiftly growing into manhood. He was thin, but deceptively strong and would grow taller and broaden out. Soon, he would look very like their father had once done, with light brown hair, hazel eyes and a merry face that always seemed to be smiling. But Emily knew that the news he would receive this day would wipe the smile from his face. The thought brought a lu
mp to her throat and her voice was a little husky as she said softly, ‘Josh, Mam is going to tell you something tonight so you must promise to act all surprised when she does.’
With a sigh, Josh laid aside the tiny knife, stretched his shoulders, yawned and then turned towards her with a wide grin. ‘What is it, Em? Out with it.’
Emily licked her dry lips. ‘She’s planning to move us, lock, stock and barrel, to Sheffield.’
‘Eh?’ Josh dropped his arms, the smile disappearing from his face. ‘What did you say?’
‘She’s planning to move us to Sheffield.’
For a stunned moment, he stared at her. ‘Whatever for?’
‘She doesn’t think there are enough opportunities here for you to go up in the world.’
‘But I don’t want to go up in the world. I’m perfectly happy here. I like making candles and I like the villagers dropping in to buy them and have a natter. And I’ve a regular order for plain candles and tapers from Mr Osborne at the corner shop.’ He nodded his head towards the window to the shop across the road. ‘And besides, there’s Amy. I’m not leaving Amy and she wouldn’t come because she won’t leave her dad. So that’s it.’ He picked up his knife again. ‘We’re not going.’
Emily sighed. There were going to be ructions in this house tonight and no mistake.
‘I’ve made your favourite for tea, Josh,’ Martha smiled at him as she placed a plate of steaming food in front of him, ‘stew and dumplings.’
Josh breathed in deeply. ‘Smells wonderful, Mam.’ He picked up his knife and fork and began to eat hungrily whilst, by the range, Emily gently spooned stew into her father’s mouth. There was nothing she could do to prevent Walter hearing Martha’s plans and, whilst he could not speak, she knew he would understand. Just occasionally, she could see a look of comprehension in his eyes or a faint smile on his lips. She smiled at him tenderly, knowing that in a few moments his whole world, such as it was now, was going to be shattered.
Martha sat down at the table, but she was not eating. She faced her son across the snowy tablecloth and took a deep breath.
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