by Diane Allen
Slowly his mind replayed the day.
It had been a warm summer’s day and by his side was his beautiful smiling wife, Mary. She was blossoming, after just giving him the news that they were to become parents and she was carrying their first child. Adam was dressed in his police uniform; even though it was his day off, he’d decided to wear it, as he was proud to be part of the constabulary within Keighley organized by the Borough Council. He enjoyed the position, even though it meant that he witnessed the darker side of life, and still couldn’t quite believe the depths of deprivation within the slum areas of his beat. Although the force had not been formed long, he had built himself a good reputation within it – one of fairness, and of carrying out well the letter of the law, even though sometimes he did it in his own way.
The locals, however, viewed him with suspicion and were not as keen on their protectors since they had agreed to carry out and enforce the local Poor Law. There was rioting in some places to defend the beggars and poor of the area, who they said were being hounded by the constabulary and made to live in the newly built workhouses, in order to keep the streets tidy and ease the government’s conscience. Adam had paid no heed to the situation, ignoring even his mother and father’s sympathies for those less fortunate than themselves, and had gone out dressed, proud as Punch, in his police attire.
Mary and he had enjoyed dinner with his mother and father at Black Moss and were on their way to the Piece Hall at Halifax, excited about the fair that was being held there and about watching Blondin, the renowned tightrope-walker, walk blindfolded the height and width of the Piece Hall. Adam smiled in his sleep as he remembered the hall bustling with visitors from far and wide, and with stallholders, traders and performers competing with one another, shouting their wares within the large, three-tiered high, square building that was still used by the woollen trade. Its name depicted its origins, as a ‘piece’ was the name for a thirty-yard length of woven woollen fabric produced on a hand-loom in a weaver’s home, then brought for sale within the walls of the mighty hall.
The Piece Hall was packed with traders most weeks, but that day was one of gaiety within its old stone walls and everyone was celebrating, as ribbons and banners fluttered in the wind and people cheered and talked along its ancient corridors. Mary had gasped as, far above their heads, a narrow wire was strung from one corner to the other, in readiness for the mighty Blondin to perform his daring feat. Both of them were laughing and giggling as they climbed the four flights of twisting steep stone steps to the very top of the hall, to be as close to the performer as they possibly could be, squeezing their way into the edge of the balcony that overlooked the cobbled market place far below. Once there, Mary regretted not looking around the market as she spotted a chestnut-seller and turned, pleading with Adam to go back down and buy her some chestnuts. In his sleep Adam mouthed the words, ‘Stay there, I’ll be back’, before his dreams took him down the steep stairs to the chestnut-seller and looking up to his beloved Mary, before re-climbing the stairs.
His smile turned to a frown as he remembered hesitating for a moment. Something was wrong; somebody was running amongst the crowd along the floor that Mary was on. There was a murmur being emitted from the crowd, and Adam watched as he saw Mary turn and shout for him as she tugged and argued with a pickpocket who was trying to relieve her of her posy bag. ‘Let him have it,’ Adam shouted, his voice lost in the crowd, but echoing around the kitchen of Black Moss Farm in his dreams. Then Mary disappeared and screams rang out, telling Adam that something terrible had happened.
Every step he took back to where Mary was felt like climbing Everest. The hot chestnuts lay discarded on the ground as he pushed his way through the gathering crowd. Reaching the bottom of the last flight of stairs, he barged his way through the gasping people. There lay Mary, motionless and dead, with blood pouring from her head and the posy bag that she had fought the pickpocket for still attached to her wrist. Bending down, he picked up Mary’s body and nursed her head on his knee, rocking back and forth while tears and sobs erupted into an almighty declaration of grief. ‘No, no. Why, my Mary? Why didn’t you let him take it?’
The crowd was staring at the peeler who hadn’t been able to protect his wife from a common pickpocket. Adam would always remember the look on the crowd’s faces as they gazed down upon the sight. He woke up with the scream still on his lips. He wiped his eyes and brushed away the tear that had escaped in his unconsciousness. His body was shaking and a feeling of doom had overcome him. It had been bad enough that he’d lost his wife to a worthless pickpocket, but the reaction of some of the crowd to him had hurt as well. When he heard a voice call him a ‘peeler’ and asking what did he expect, if he was enforcing the unpopular Poor Law, he’d started questioning his role in society. ‘No wonder folk have turned to crime,’ he’d heard a second man jeer at the back of the crowd.
His pride had been the cause of their downfall that day, with his decision to wear his uniform in the struggling mill town of Halifax, where everybody had to fight for every slice of bread they placed on their kitchen table. Had the pickpocket chosen Mary on purpose, being able to spot Adam in his uniform and having a grudge against the newly formed police force? That he’d never know, but the day had set his life in a different direction and had made him turn his back upon his father and mother, who had told him right from the start not to leave the family farm for the sake of the money offered by the constabulary. Adam had scoffed at their concerns, but looking back now, they had been right; he’d learned that people and friendship were more important than anything money could buy. After burying Mary and her unborn child, he had left far behind him his family at Black Moss Farm and the life he knew, and had tried to bury the jeers and cries that haunted him. His parents had been correct, but he’d been too proud to admit it.
‘Damn, damn!’ Adam jumped up from his chair as the smell of burning alerted his nostrils to the fact that the oven worked too well. Smoke filled the room as a blackened mutton pie was rescued from the side-oven. He sighed; that just about summed up his day. He’d go to bed hungry. Tomorrow was another day; and hopefully, in the light of day, his old home would look more welcoming.
3
Adam woke to the sun shining through the bare window and squinted as he rubbed his eyes, before sitting on the edge of the bed on which, the night before, he’d hastily placed his feather mattress, pillows and blankets, before realizing that some of the springs were loose, causing it to squeak every time he moved. That was the first job of the day; he couldn’t endure another night of torture.
He sighed as his left leg started to give him pain. It had never been the same since his injury, and the damp weather of late had made it worse. He reached for his one dependency in life and looked at the near-empty bottle that usually kept the discomfort away and made life more bearable – another hour and the pain would have subsided and he could go about his business. He swallowed back the drop that was left, then ran his hands through his thick mop of dark hair, before going through the motions of his morning ablutions. Looking into his mirror, he stared back at the man fastening a garnet tie-stud into his high collar, and wondered what his Mary would have thought of him now. He had kept himself in good shape; standing six feet two and weighing no more than twelve stone, he looked fit. His hair had kept its colour, being still as jet-black as the day he was born, as were the sideburns and the moustache that adorned his face. It was his eyes that belied his state of mind. Their hazel colour told a story of sadness and regret, if they were gazed into deeply enough. The eyes truly were the windows of the soul, he thought, as he quickly stopped himself from feeling too sorry for himself.
He walked down the bare stairs and made his way into the kitchen, relighting the troublesome fire before placing the kettle over it to boil, and placing a pan of porridge oats and milk on the side of it for his breakfast. Stirring the pan occasionally, he looked round his new home. It wasn’t too bad, given that it had been empty for a number of years. Nothi
ng that a lick of whitewash and a good scrub of the floorboards wouldn’t fix. A week of hard work, with a lass to help him, and he’d have got on top of it; and then he’d tackle the land, just as spring appeared back on the moor.
He looked across at his heap of hurriedly unloaded furniture. He’d tackle that later in the day; it could stay put for now. One of the first jobs that he had to do was to whitewash the walls and fix the glass in the window where the wind was blowing through. He’d visit the flay-pits after his breakfast. They would have a ready supply of lime and, as they were his nearest neighbours, he’d make himself known to them. That was the worst thing about coming back home – if the wind was blowing in a westerly direction, the smell from the pits and vats that the animal hides were initially soaked in, to loosen the hair and soften the hides, was offensive to the senses and tended to cling to the fibres of your clothes. It was a smell he disliked, but thankfully it rarely reached the moorland heights of Black Moss. He was well aware of the flay-pits, but it was of little concern, because coming home was hopefully going to save him: a new way of life, and a home whose security he craved, was worth a few days of unpleasant smells each year.
After mending the squeaking springs on his bed, Adam stepped out across the rutted road in the direction of the tannery and the small line of cottages called Providence Row. The sun lit the surrounding moorsides, giving them a completely different feel from the previous day. Even a flitting skylark was rejoicing as he walked into the tannery yard. The smell hit his senses and his stomach churned as he looked around at the pile of hides waiting to be processed, before being placed in the huge pits of lime and local spring water to be softened. He watched as a rat nearly ran across his feet, unbothered by his presence, as there was an abundance of convenient food in the form of the fat and offal still attached to the piled-high hides. The rat’s life was soon cut short, as a man clad in a leather apron hit it over the head with a spade that he was carrying.
‘Bloody things – the yard’s wick with them; big as cats they are. Easy pickings, you see.’
‘Aye, it was a bit large. I think that was the best end to it.’ Adam looked at the burly man who stood before him, then pulled his handkerchief to his nose.
‘The stench is a bit bad today. It’s always better to come on a wet day, if you want my advice.’ Bill Bancroft, the owner of the yard, grinned at the well-to-do gentleman who stood in front of him. ‘Now then, what can we do for you? You don’t look the kind of man that’s looking for work here.’
‘I’ve just moved back into my old home at Black Moss. I’ve been away too long, but now I’m back. Adam Brooksbank.’ He held out his hand to be shaken, but it was dismissed. ‘I thought you might be able to supply me with some lime. I’m going to limewash the walls, freshen the old place up a bit.’
‘I’ll not shake your hand, else you’ll stink of these hides all day. I’m Bill Bancroft – I own this tannery. I, my missus and five children live in the first cottage of Providence Row. I can supply you with some lime. I’ll send one of my lads up with a bag or two for you. But it’ll be more than lime you’ll want for that place, as it’s not been lived in for some time. You say it’s your old home, but you must have been away a long time, because I can’t remember you. Although now that I think about it, my father did mention you; it’s just that I’ve never met you before.’ Bill waited and looked at the man who was taking in the workings of his tannery, and whom he now remembered being mentioned by his father, because he recalled the day of Adam’s wife’s death.
‘Aye, it’s been a good few years. But the old spot pulled me back. Time to make roots and settle down, as I’m not getting any younger. How much do I owe you for the lime? I’m grateful that you’ll get one of your men to deliver to me.’
‘Nobbut a bob or two; pay me whenever – there’s no rush. We all help one another out around here, it’s the only way to survive on this wild hillside. Wild men and wild weather, that’s what makes Flappit Springs. You’ve got to be tough, so I hope you are prepared.’ Bill grinned.
‘I’ve known worse. I’ve just been discharged after serving in the Crimea. Believe me, I can take care of myself.’ Adam seldom talked about his experience in one of the bloodiest wars England had ever fought, but this time he thought it would do no harm for the men at the tannery to know that he could stand his ground.
‘The Crimea – now you must have been hard to survive that. Flappit Springs will be heaven compared to a winter spent before the Siege of Sebastopol. Is it true that thousands died because of the cold and conditions you had to endure?’
‘Aye, thousands died out there, and not only from the cold, but also because of the inadequacy of the generals in charge, friendly fire, disease and madness. Take your pick. Our soldiers were outnumbered and outmanoeuvred. I was stupid enough to get involved because of a friend. I wasn’t even a military man when I joined. He sweet-talked me into it, assuring me that it would be an adventure – just what I wanted in my life at that time; plus I already knew a little of the Russian language, as my grandmother was originally from Tomsk and I had heard the language spoken by my mother and her since I could toddle. I found the Russian language easy to learn, so I ticked all the boxes to help in the fight for intelligence-gathering over there.’ Adam had felt betrayed by his friend, Captain Linton Simmons, whom he had gone to support, with his detecting and linguistic powers, at Simmons’s request. At the time it had seemed like an escape from death and the grief of losing Mary, so he’d jumped at the chance of becoming a scout for the British military, working for intelligence – until the death of Charles Cattley, head of intelligence, just before the fall of Sebastopol. Adam’s bitterness concerning the war, which Britain was now feeling guilty about, poured out. ‘At Balaclava and Inkerman we were almost slaughtered, as we didn’t know enough about the Russians. But thank heavens, with the help of our Allies, we turned it around to become a victory. However, if I’d known about the loss of men, then I’d never have gone.’ Adam waited while the boss of the tannery took in his words.
‘It seems like you didn’t escape without injury yourself, by the look of the limp you’ve got.’ Bill stared at the man, who had obviously been through hell.
‘Sword wound, top of my leg at Sebastopol – ensured my discharge, thank God.’ Adam smiled.
‘My thanks go out to you for risking your life for our country. We could do with more men like you. I’ll make sure you don’t get any bother from any of my men here at Flappit Springs. They might be a rough lot, rowdy and outspoken, with a few dimwits amongst them, but they’ll give you the respect you deserve.’ Bill watched as Adam glanced at the hard-looking men of the tannery going about their business. ‘Now, is there anything else I can do for you?’ Bill asked.
‘Not unless you know of a likely young lass to become my housemaid?’ Adam joked.
‘Well, if you’re asking, my eldest – Lucy – would be your person. She’s twenty and she’s got the cheek of the devil, and she could do with something to keep her out of mischief. She’s at an age when she turns men’s heads and doesn’t know what she does to them. Get her working for you and it’ll get her away from here. She’d be ideal for you. You look after her, mind; I’ll not have her being abused by you, else you’ll have me to answer to. It’ll do her good working for an older man, and not flirting with half the empty-headed ones that work in my yard. She’ll get herself into bother yet.’
Adam leaned on his stick. ‘Send her up to visit me and we’ll see if we are right for one another. She might hate the sight of me.’ He grinned.
‘Nay, I don’t think she’ll do that, especially when there’s some money involved. She’s beginning to like the finer things in life and, with five children, we haven’t that much brass to spend, even though the tannery is mine. Talking of which, what would you be willing to pay her?’
‘Haven’t had time to think about it. Let her come and see me, and we’ll take it from there. I promise she’ll get paid what she’s worth, and I’
ll look after her. You have my word.’ Adam liked the straight-talking tannery owner, and at least he looked after his family.
‘I’ll send her up with Archie Robinson, when I send him with your lime. It’ll be this afternoon, will that be alright?’ Bill waited for a reply while he shouted at a worker to ‘Put your back into it!’
‘Aye, that will be fine. I look forward to meeting her.’ Adam watched as one of the tanners lifted hides out of the flay-pit and took them into one of the large sheds that stood within the tannery. He could see, through the partially open doors, that a tanner had spread one of the soaked hides across a smooth, curved beam and, with a sharp knife, was scraping away the hair to make the hide smooth and ready for the next stage in the process. ‘It’s interesting to see how you all work,’ Adam commented.
‘Aye, it’s not the most pleasant of jobs. But the world would be lost without leather. It makes your shoes, sharpens knives, keeps your horse in harness and even helps rock babies asleep within their cradles, while they are suspended on leather straps. There will always be a need for leather. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll have to sort this bugger out. Look at him, it’ll take him all day to shift that pile of skins.’ Bill walked off and shouted again at his worker, who was making hard work of moving a pile of hides into an empty lime-filled pit.
Bill Bancroft was a hard worker, proud of his job and family, and he’d make a good neighbour – somebody Adam felt he could count upon, if need be.
Adam watched through the farm’s window as Archie Robinson unloaded into his outhouse the two sacks of lime that Bill had sent him. A stunning, giggling Lucy Bancroft was sitting on the edge of his cart, chattering away while swinging her legs freely under her long skirts and watching the good-looking young man do his job. She jumped down suddenly as Archie closed the outhouse door and made his way over to knock on the farmhouse door. Adam watched as the young woman teased the lad who was trying to get his job done, and smiled as Archie asked her to stop tempting him and behave, else her father would have his hide tanned. So, Lucy was a flirt – a flirt who would have to be taken in hand, if she was to work for him. Adam straightened his face as he opened the back door to the knock of Archie and his temptress.