by Jean Stubbs
Then William saw that the lad was wearing his father’s old clothes.
‘And he’s had no schooling like you and me, Mr Howarth,’ said Hannah inexorably. ‘He can’t read nor write. His father died last year, and his master died last month, and his mother wants to die and all. So it’s no good shouting at him, Mr Howarth. He’s not backward, nor lazy, nor disobedient.’ She smiled at William to show she did not blame him for his ignorance, but would enlighten him. And the smile was sweet and quick like a girl’s, and lit her face and warmed her fine grey eyes. She put her hand on Stephen’s cheek lightly. ‘He’s bewildered,’ said Hannah.
She looked each of them fully in the face as if to say, ‘Now make your peace!’ and walked away into the kitchen.
The boy dared glance at William timidly; and William was ashamed, remembering how Aaron had always dealt kindly with him, and made a joke of his errors. So he cleared his throat and resolved to start afresh. It was his father who spoke out of him then, in rough and homely fashion.
‘Nast had thy breakfast, Steve?’
The lad shook his head.
‘Hannah!’ cried William. ‘Lay another place at the table, will you? I’m paying three shillings a week for now!’
Then he began to laugh and shake his head, and to wonder how Bartholomew Scholes would have dealt with this sorry starveling. But the Quaker master had no truck with the poor, except as outside charities. For each of his apprentices must bring a good boxful of clothes and under-linen, and a hundred pounds in gold, which restricted applicants to the ranks of the lesser gentry or the prosperous yeomanry. Nor was the smithy at Flawnes Green comparable to the network of blacksmiths’ shops and small iron industries owned by the Scholeses of Birmingham. So William must learn to be master in his own way.
The boy moved nearer, hearing him laugh, and looked less fearful.
‘We’ll start again, shall us, lad?’ said William. ‘Now tell me what you know. What do you have to do here?’
Thus encouraged, Stephen found his tongue and consulted his memory.
‘Sweep shop out and tidy up, master. Learn names of tools, and sizes of nails. Make the fire hot wi’ bellows. There’s a mort of names for the red and yellow of the fires, for different jobs, but I canna remember which is for what. And there’s another lot of names for the welding fires, like greasy and snow-ball And I have to draw the clinkers out, else they spoil the heat. And there’s stock and dies, but I don’t know them, neither. And dunnot face the horse when you’re shoeing, but set your back to his backside — though I’m just as feared, any road! And tingle the anvil — only I weren’t big enough to swing the sledge, and then Mr Helm was took badly. And’ — his invention failing him — ‘sweep shop out and keep all tidy!’ A pause. ‘Master,’ said Stephen.
‘Aye,’ said William, after another pause. ‘Well, you’ve some way to go yet, haven’t you, lad? We must teach thee to read and write. Where I was ‘pprenticed, in a big town called Birmingham, we had to be able to read and write afore we started.’.
Hannah was in the kitchen doorway.
‘Food’s on table,’ she said, and added, ‘I can learn him to read and write in the evenings, Mr Howarth. Maybe I can get his mother to learn, and all. It’d take her mind off her grief.’
William sat in his big chair on one side of the table, and Stephen slithered into his place on the other.
‘Where did you get your schooling then, Hannah?’ asked William.
‘The Methodists taught me, Mr Howarth. I’m a Methody.’ Stephen placed his salt pork between two thick slices of bread, and munched contentedly, swinging his feet.
‘Are you not joining us, Hannah?’ William asked.
For her food had been one of the arrangements made by Dorcas. A hungry woman does not work as well as a fed woman, and may even be tempted to steal.
‘I can have mine when you’ve done, Mr Howarth.’ Quiet and firm.
He looked at her curiously. She was poor enough to need this job, glad of a full belly and a few shillings, but she held herself proudly and met his eyes like an equal.
‘How long have you been widowed then?’ William asked, spearing another slice of salt pork with his knife.
‘Five months, Mr Howarth.’
‘Have you childer to care for?’
‘No, I thank God. I shouldn’t like to see them clemmed. This is a poor village, and a poor valley from all accounts. Except for Millbridge folk.’
‘What about your family then, Hannah? Do you live with any of them?’
Something in her face and presence forbade him to intrude upon her any further. She answered him flatly, withdrawing from the conversation.
‘I live in one of Farmer Boulton’s cottages. My husband worked for him. I pay my way by doing a bit for Mrs Boulton here and there, and helping at harvest time. I’m a foreigner, you see, Mr Howarth. I come from Charndale, the other side of the valley.’
Then she busied herself with the fire, back turned on them both. So William addressed himself to Stephen, who had been blowing upon his tea like a man and supping it loudly.
‘Halt done then, lad? Come into the shop and let’s put some muscle on thee!’ Then he cried over his shoulder, ‘Thank you for a good meal, Hannah!’ remembering how Bartholomew Scholes always paid this tribute to the woman of the house.
She inclined her head gravely, and began to dear the plates away. As he showed Stephen how to make a dull-red fire into a cherry-red one he pictured her sitting down at the table and taking breakfast. She would not eat hurriedly, apologetically, huddled over her food as poor women did, as though her want was a shameful thing, but with the detached and tidy manner of the more fortunate. So she was a Methodist? Flawnes Green was becoming quite a colony of Methodists. Aaron’s preaching and principles had borne fruit here. William wondered whether Hannah ever preached. He imagined she would be rather good at that.
All morning she busied herself about the house, wearing stout clogs to protect her feet from the wet. She scrubbed out the privy which stood next door to the sty. She fed the brown sow and the four brown hens. She counted William’s personal and household linen, observing how his mother had laid dried lavender between the sheets. She tidied his larder and scoured his cooking pots. From time to time he saw her walk by the front of the smithy, carrying two pails to fill at the village pump on the green. She spoke only once and that briefly, standing in the kitchen doorway, hands folded across her clean checked apron.
‘I’ll be off now, Mr Howarth. There’s boiled beef and dumplings in the pot, and I’ve made you a morsel of oatcake, and a treacle pudding. I’ll be back afore it’s dark to get your supper.’
Then she let herself quietly out at the back door and walked across the fields to Boulton’s farm. Stephen ran home for his dinner, and was back within the stated hour, looking anxiously at his master for praise. And William, having dined like a king, took out his own apprentice’s masterpiece and prepared to show the lad what was expected of him. For his test-work William had made a set of horseshoes, so well fashioned that not a hammer mark could be seen.
‘To show,’ said William wryly, ‘that I was sufficient in cunning and knowledge, as well as of good name and fame, Steve. Do you know what that means?’
‘No, master.’
‘It’s a fancy way of saying that I knew my job and could behave myself; lad. Let’s nail these above the smithy door, shall we? Then they’ll see I know a horseshoe from a ploughshare!’
The lad smiled at the little joke.
‘Do you know what being an apprentice means, Steve? My master told me, the first day in Birmingham. You’re my servant, in a manner of speaking, and that’s your duty to me. But my duty to you is to care for your body and your soul, to treat you as though you were my son. Are you fond of the girls, lad?’
Stephen, after much throat-clearing and mind-searching, said no, he was afeared of them mostly.
‘That’s all to the good,’ said William humorously, ‘because you mustn�
��t go courting until you’re a journeyman. Do you play football? No? That’s good, too, because you’re not allowed to. Nor can you go dancing, nor mumming, nor watching plays at the fair — though I’ll turn a blind eye to that, so long as you don’t get drunk and disgrace the pair of us!’
Stephen said hesitantly, ‘Can’t I go pace-egging, master, at Eastertime?’
‘I reckon we’ll allow that, and all,’ said William, ‘seeing it’s a religious festival. What part do you play then, lad?’
‘Bold Slasher,’ said Stephen, evidently aware that this hardly described his character or appearance.
‘Try to be Saint George if you can,’ said William, grinning, ‘it’d look better, if we ever had to confess to it! And get your hair cut. Here, fetch us a pudding basin and I’ll do it myself. And another thing, lad, you’d best take that silver lace off your hat and those ruffles off your shirt. They’re not allowed. And give up fencing, wilta?’
The boy looked puzzled, then uncertain, scanning William’s solemn face. He lifted his hat and looked at it. He pondered over his bony wrists. And at length a slow smile crept across his face.
‘You’re having me on, aren’t you, master?’ he said.
Then smiled even more broadly, and went for the pudding basin and scissors.
Stephen’s hair was not the last pudding-poll cut by William. As village blacksmith he fulfilled many roles: tooth-drawing, toy-mending, pig-ringing at a penny-halfpenny a time, trimming the feet of cows and goats, soldering old pans, and even capping Sailor Pearson’s wooden leg with a new ferrule. Seven years of Quaker common sense had inclined William to look upon country folklore with a sceptical eye. He found it difficult to believe that bad luck, evil spirits and epidemics could be kept at bay by horseshoes, nails, or iron circles drawn upon the air, and was inclined to scoff at such superstitions. But he saw that simple people gained great comfort from them, whether they worked or not, so said nothing and allowed the pagan rituals of Flawnes Green to flow round him: accepting his central role in the mysteries with good humour. While the villagers, unaware that a heretic was in their midst, laid ailing children upon his anvil and asked him to bang his hammer on the other end to drive out sickness; dipped their rickety limbs, their wounds and their warts in his water-trough; begged bits of iron to lay in their infant’s cradle, to prevent an elf-child being put in its place; and once brought a case of goitre to be cured by inhaling smoke from the hoof of a virgin ass which William was shoeing.
There was one old law which he liked to keep. He refused to use iron upon a Good Friday, in memory of the time when Christ’s hands and feet were nailed to the Cross. Otherwise, William worked a six-day week from dawn to dark, and had been called out of church on a Sunday, more than once, to fulfil his duties as a farrier.
Goods and services were still exchanged here, though Bartholomew Scholes was grand enough to need a counting house and rich enough to use a bank. But in Flawnes Green William shoed Farmer Boulton’s oxen, and in return had his sow visited by the farmer’s boar until she became fruitful. He was paid in produce (grown or poached), in manure, in a day’s work at the smithy. The carpenter repaired for him. The baker allowed Hannah to put her weekly batch of bread, or her pies, in his oven; and on Sundays let her roast the meat with onions and potatoes under it.
Dorcas, who loved to be consulted and needed, presented Stephen with a sober suit of fustian, which fitted him, and called it her Christmas box: so bringing the lad into the family, instead of setting him a little apart from them. Life was smaller and closer, warmer than in the town. And now William laid down the rules which Aaron had laid down for him.
‘Build yourself up with boxing and weight-lifting, Steve. A good smith needs good shoulders. Eat your victuals, crust and fat and all. Run and jump and pull and push with all thy might. And never use thy strength against the weak.’
Stephen looked at his master’s great chest and mighty limbs, the hands that could bend a bar of iron, the fists that could smite a nail into a plank, and the handsome head that had sent every maiden in Flawnes Green to the wise woman for a love-potion; and he vowed silently that he would not rest until he could stand side by side with William. Now he began to answer quickly, look sharply, listen carefully. And sometimes, sheepishly, he would bend over the village pond when no one was watching to see if the transformation was apparent.
Fledged
Five
1787
Having neither husband nor child to concern her, Hannah Garside was the good neighbour of Flawnes Green. Folk would not forget that she came from Charndale, and her passionate commitment to Methodism set her apart in another way, but she had gradually become indispensable to the community. When the midwife could not be present, Hannah brought forth the infant. When sickness came, Hannah nursed long and patiently. She sat with the dying, laid out the dead, and brought comfort to the bereaved. She looked after William and Stephen, taking pride in her work. From the kitchen window of her four-roomed cottage she could see straight across the barley field into the back yard of the forge, and unknown to William she kept an unobtrusive and caring watch upon his daily life. As he mounted his horse of a Sunday, handsome and tall in his best suit, bent on visiting his great-aunt in Millbridge or his parents on Garth Fells, she could commend herself on his appearance. It was Hannah who brushed his clothes and shone his top-boots, starched his linen and cooked for him, as well as any woman could. When he had gone she hastened over the field by the hedge path, to make sure that the house was immaculate for his return. She never entered the smithy on these occasions. That was a world apart from her. But she glanced everywhere else, seeking out small disorders and righting them. That done, she would throw the hens an extra handful of corn, give the pig a few dandelions or a couple of rotten apples, peep into the scrubbed privy, examine the donkey-stoned doorstep, and return home satisfied.
But once all the scouring and baking and helping were over, Hannah was alone. And at these times, when her vital force was diminished or spent, it seemed that everyone asked of her and no one replenished her. She scorned to feel sorry for herself, but she knew empty hours and wakeful nights, when even prayers lay in her mouth like stones.
It was William’s habit, in his first year as a fully-fledged blacksmith, to visit Kit’s Hill once a month, where he attended morning service at St John the Divine in Garth, dined with his family, exchanged news, and rode back after supper. On this particular Sunday, early in 1787, there came across the Pennines a great gale of snow, and such a high wind that horse and rider must plod along, heads down, for miles. At Coldcote William halted, and hearing that conditions grew worse towards the Fells, relinquished the prospect of a hot dinner and a dry stable with regret, and turned again for Flawnes Green.
On these holidays the house was left to itself, no fire lit, no cooking done, since he was not expected home until bedtime, and food and fuel were too precious to waste. So he walked, as it were, into a domestic mausoleum, and reached for his tinder-box with hands red and stiff from cold. He was used to Hannah planning and catering for him, and endeavoured to light the fire while he wondered how to manage for his mid-day meal. And he reflected that he must be the only man in Flawnes Green who would not enjoy the tastiest food of the week. For even the poor families, their pig killed in December could fry up a black pudding and the fanners ate like kings on Sunday.
The latch lifted and fell with a soft clack, and Hannah was standing in the kitchen with a basin held under her black shawl. They were more easy together these days, though she always held him at a distance. But the first sharpness of her husband’s death had passed, she spoke more freely, smiled more often.
‘I chanced to see you riding back, Mr Howarth,’ said Hannah. ‘I guessed it was the weather as brought you home. I’ve got a bit of dinner here for you. It’s no sort of a day to go cold and hungry.’
He stood up, clumsily for William, and took the basin from her. He could find no adequate words of thanks. She had come when he neede
d her, and he realised for the first time how much he relied upon her, how much he took for granted.
‘Nay, don’t go back just yet, Hannah,’ he said, as she turned towards the door. ‘Sit you down and warm you. The fire’ll blaze up in a minute. I’ve put the kettle to boil.’
‘Well,’ she said, hesitating, ‘just for a minute then.’
Still he stood, awkwardly holding the basin, staring down at her cap, pleated like a pie-crust in starched white cotton, and her brown hair shining in glimpses beneath it.
‘You’d best put that to warm,’ she said, glancing at him and glancing away, and she shook her shawl into the hearth to free it of snow.
‘Have you had yours?’ William asked, immobilised.
‘Aye, I have. Here, eat it out of the basin. Have your dinner on your knees for once, like I do. I’ll brew tea for you, Mr Howarth,’ and she brought him his knife and two-pronged fork.
‘I’ll eat it if you’ll stop for a bit, and have a cup of tea and talk,’ said William, recovering his equilibrium.
She looked at him quickly, and smiled to herself. ‘I’ll stop,’ she said, ‘just you get that hot food inside you, it’ll do you good.’
So he sat by the fire, greatly comforted, and ate while she watched him with absorbed grey eyes. He had needed her ministrations. She had ministered to him. Now she talked, easily, simply, as he forked the meat from his basin.
‘Rabbit stew, that is, and never cost me a farthing. Farmer Boulton give me the rabbit, and his wife give me the potatoes. I dug an onion out of the field, and had a few dried herbs by me. Is it good? That’s right! We had Sunday meeting at my house this morning. We were fair put to it to cram in, I can tell you. Two up and two down, and not enough room to swing a cat. Twelve of us, all told. Aaron Helm started up the Methodys in Flawnes Green, and got my husband Abel to join. That was before we were wed. He used to walk a lot of a Sunday, did Abel. He’d put a bit of bread and cheese in his pocket and think on the Holy Word, and walk. He was a jobbing carpenter, and Fanner Boulton let him have the cottage instead of payment. One Sunday he walked right over the top of Belbrook How and down the other side to Charndale. I was sitting outside our door, shelling peas, and he asked for a drink of water. Then he started coming every Sunday, to see me. My folk went mad when he said he wanted to wed me. A foreigner and a Methody! I’d never thought much of men before. Mother said I was a pussy cat, turning my nose up at this lad and that one, and my sisters married long since! But when I told her I would have Abel she said worse than that. So I up and left Charndale and come here. I turned Methody, along with Abel. We never had no childer, and that broke my heart — until he died. Then I was glad. I’ve seen too many widows’ childer go hungry. They say as the Parish’ll look after you, but the Parish make starvation seem kinder than charity. I’ve done well enough on my own. I’m not feared of hard work. I give Mr Boulton a hand at harvest-time if he needs me, and they’re good to me at the farm — like giving me the rabbit. Have you done, then? I’ll pour us some tea.’