The Girl from the Tanner's Yard

by Diane Allen

  ‘Well, you’ve only yourself to blame for that. You got her the position. I told you I needed her at home, but you wouldn’t listen. You should be proud of her. She’s the bonniest lass in the district, and she could turn many a man’s eye. Don’t you be giving her away to just anybody. And she’s right in what she says about Thomas Farrington – he isn’t right in the head. Alex Braithwaite or one of the Bucks would be suitable. I could see myself, all dressed up on her wedding day and being talked about in society. Nobody would look down their noses at us then.’ Dorothy smiled and thought about a lifestyle that she could only dream of.

  ‘Lucy’s a working-class lass, a maid on a farm. It was all talk on my part, and well you know it. But the sooner she gets wed, the better. It’ll be one less under my roof, and one less noise of a morning. For God’s sake, woman, shut that brat up before I lift my hand to quieten it!’ Bill jumped to his feet and glowered at the baby in Dorothy’s arms. ‘I’m off to work, I get more sense out of the men than I do in this madhouse.’ He pulled on his leather jerkin and slammed the door behind him.

  ‘Nothing’s ever your father’s fault, is it, little ’un? Happen if he kept his todger in his pocket, his house would not be as noisy. But our Lucy has a mind of her own, and she’ll not listen to him and his plotting. The right fella will come along for her one day. And for now, I’m happy that she is still at home.’ Dorothy sighed.

  Lucy walked with intent up the track to her work. She wiped away a tear that was falling down her cheek and breathed in deeply, in order to set aside her fears about her father wanting her to marry. Why Thomas Farrington had been mentioned in the conversation, she didn’t know. She hated him and she was scared of him; he’d be the last person on God’s earth that she would want to spend her life with. She could not understand why her father had not got rid of him, from both his job and the cottage that he rented from them. She longed to be away from the small community on Providence Row and the stench of the flay-pits. She was better than all of that, and she would prove it, if given the chance.

  Her feet carried her, like magic, up the winding moorside and into the yard of Black Moss, her head so full of thoughts that the usual drag up the hillside went unnoticed. It was still early morning and there was dew on the grass and a chill in the air as she opened the gate into the yard. She was taken aback by the sight of a shorthorned roan cow standing in the centre of the yard, with a halter around its head. It looked at her with large, soulful brown eyes and then carried on with the business of eating the docks that grew wild around the edge of the yard.

  ‘Ah, Lucy, so you’ve met my latest buy.’ Adam came from round the back of the house and walked towards the cow, grabbing its halter and leading it with a switch across its back to what used to be the old cowshed. ‘Ted Leeming brought her up for me from Denholme before it was light this morning. I told him last week I was in need of a cow of my own, when I went to buy some milk from him, and he was good enough to sell me Daisy here. She needs milking. Have you ever milked a cow before, or do I have to show you?’ Adam tied up the cow to one of the wooden stalls that used to hold up to three cows when he was a child, then stood back, looking at his latest piece of livestock as Daisy munched contentedly on some hay that Ted Leeming had also brought that morning.

  ‘Me, milk a cow! I’ve never done that in my life. I know where it comes from, but I’ve never been that close to a cow before, let alone milk it.’ Lucy looked at him in horror.

  ‘Oh, well, I’ll have to show you then. I’d hoped that you already knew, but it won’t take long to learn. I’ll expect you to milk her every morning, and make butter from the excess milk we have left over, as we will have plenty of that for a while – that is, until I buy myself a pig or two. They’ll soon drink and eat anything that’s going to waste.’ Adam stood back with his hands on his hips and looked at Lucy’s face. ‘I might as well show you now. Archie hasn’t appeared yet, but once he does, we will be away up the moor to look at what needs doing. Here, grab the stool from that corner, and here’s a bucket. Now, watch me and see how it is done.’

  Lucy passed Adam the three-legged woodworm-eaten milking stool, which had been in the corner of the cowshed since Adam was a lad, and stood back and watched. She hadn’t realized that part of her daily task was going to involve milking a cow, and she didn’t relish the experience.

  ‘She’s a quiet enough lass, so don’t worry – she’s used to being milked.’ Adam rubbed his hands together, warming them, then sat down next to the back-end of the cow, his feet wedging the bucket between them, placed underneath the teats. ‘Look, you get two teats at a time between your thumb and forefinger and gently pull down, squeezing the length of the teat. It takes some strength in your fingers, but you’ll soon get used to it.’ He put his head on the cow’s haunches and pulled gently on the teats, filling the bucket with warm, foaming milk. He carried on for a while, then stopped and stood up. ‘Here, you have a go. Take the two teats I haven’t touched; she’s nearly milked out in the others. You can tell because her udder’s gone all wrinkled on that side. Now, sit down quietly and rest your head on her side and pull as I did – you’ll soon get into a rhythm.’

  Lucy sat down on the small stool, her skirts touching the dirty cowshed floor, as she hesitantly placed the bucket of milk between her legs, ready for squirting the milk into. She looked at the cow’s hind legs and flinched slightly when Daisy lifted one of her legs up, as Lucy’s cold hands felt her warm, smooth teats, nearly knocking over the bucket of milk.

  ‘You forgot to warm your hands. She’s like any woman – she likes warm hands on her and a little coaxing.’ Adam laughed, then concentrated on watching Lucy try to milk her.

  ‘It’s hard work and I’m not getting anything out of her, as you did. My fingers ache,’ Lucy whined as she squeezed and pulled on each teat.

  ‘Just pull and squeeze with one hand and then the other. Get into a rhythm, as I did. It will become easier each time you milk.’ Adam stood back and turned as he heard the footsteps of Archie coming into the cowshed. The lad stood in the doorway and smirked at the sight of Lucy trying to milk the cow, and fell about laughing as the beast whipped her across her face with her tail.

  ‘Bloody animal!’ Lucy swore. ‘And you can shut up, Archie Robinson. I bet you’ve never milked a cow before.’

  ‘I have, and when I did, it wasn’t half as slow as you. It’s going to be evening before she’s milked. Put her tail under your head and on her side, then she can’t swish you with it – that’s what I always do.’ Archie stopped laughing as Adam gave him a look.

  ‘Aye, do that. And I’ll take Archie into the yard while you finish milking, as the last thing you want is an audience.’ Adam patted Archie on the back and led him out of the shadows of the cowshed.

  Lucy hesitantly picked up the tail of the patient cow; it was filthy and smelled of urine, as she wedged it between herself and the cow’s side, then went about trying to do her best milking the poor animal. Her fingers ached along with her back, but eventually – as Adam had said – she got into the swing of it, and sat back with a smile of satisfaction as the last drop of milk was squeezed from the cow’s udder. She’d learned to milk a cow, something she had never done in her life before.

  She got up from her stool and patted the cow on her hindquarters. ‘I promise tomorrow I’ll be better, and I’ll warm my hands,’ Lucy said as she picked up the bucket of frothy milk. At least there was no shortage of milk today and it was fresh; not like the watered-down stuff that was delivered to the townsfolk down in Keighley. She looked around her; she quite liked the smell and warmth of the cow, and the contented noise it made as it digested the hay it had been given. Although her fingers ached, they would get stronger each day, and she could see herself enjoying her time as a milkmaid. It was, after all, a million miles away from being a tannery owner’s daughter who had the threat of an unwanted marriage hanging over her head. For a short while, her thoughts had been on the matter in hand and not on thoug
hts of the marriage that her father seemed to think was for her. How she wished that her home and her father were far away, and that she could spend her life on the moorside as a simple farm girl. But come nightfall, Lucy knew she would have to return home and face her father’s wrath, no matter what the day ahead held.

  ‘So, you managed it then.’ Adam smiled as Lucy made her way across the yard with her bucket of warm milk. ‘I thought you would, once you had got the hang of it.’

  Archie grinned and put his head down. He remembered the first time he had been asked to milk a cow; he’d been only eight or nine years old and had shown no fear or worries, after watching his grandfather do the same job for many a year.

  ‘Yes, to be honest, I quite enjoyed the task. It was, as you say, soothing. And I don’t mind doing the job every morning, once my fingers get used to the work.’ Lucy put her bucket down. ‘I’d better get on and make you some breakfast. You’ll need it before you go up on the moor to attend to the walling that you have planned.’

  ‘I’ve had mine, Lucy. I got up with the lark this morning, as my leg is not giving me as much pain, and I knew it was going to be a busy day. Archie, have you eaten? You’ll need something in you, for lifting the stones in place as we go along today. Although now I’ve got myself a cow, we will start with repairing the lower pasture wall, and then I can turn her out into it when the frosty nights have ceased.’ Adam looked at the young lad.

  ‘Aye, I’ve had my breakfast. My mother wouldn’t let me out of the house until I’d something in my belly. She’s always fussing over me.’ Archie blushed.

  ‘That’s what mothers do, lad. Don’t be upset with her for it. She’s showing that she loves you. Now if we are all fed and watered, let’s make a start on the day. Lucy, you see to the house. When that milk cools, skim the cream off the top and put it to one side for making into butter; the rest you can do with as you please. Come on then, lad, let’s make a start – there’s a lot of work to be done here before next winter. I aim, with your help, to pipe water into the house from the stream that already feeds the trough here in the yard, so that will be a job and a half for us both.’

  Adam picked up the stone hammer that he’d placed by his side and stepped outside, leaving Lucy to go about her duties in the house. He wanted to make a good start on securing the lower pasture’s boundaries, and he had no idea how fast young Archie could put up the limestone wall, which had been neglected for so many years. ‘I take it that your father learned you to wall?’ Adam talked to Archie as they made their way up the track behind the house that led to the lower pasture.

  ‘Aye. Although he worked in the quarry, we had a few acres of land and I used to help him with all the jobs, even though I was more of a nuisance than a help. He learned me all that I know.’ Archie sighed and went quiet.

  ‘Lucy told me he had died. You must miss him?’ Adam looked at the young lad.

  ‘I do – me and my mother. Times have been hard since he died. We had to sell what land we had, and folk took advantage of knowing that we would be grateful for any money we could raise. We hardly had enough money to bury him, until the Baxters came along with their so-called “good offer”. But they were only taking advantage of our bad luck, and we should have asked for more. I hate that Robert Baxter: he’s trouble, and everyone knows he is.’

  ‘Aye, well, we’ll try and keep away from him and his kin. I try not to fall out with anyone – life’s too short to hold grudges.’ Adam patted Archie on the back and stopped short of the dilapidated drystone wall that was in need of their attention. ‘Just look at it. There are a few yards in need of our attention, and this isn’t as bad as some of the walls up on the tops. We’ve got our work cut out, lad. I hope that your back’s strong and your arms have plenty of muscle.’

  Both men looked at the bleached white stones of the wall, which had more gaps than a colander, and thought that the day was going to be a long one.

  ‘Sooner we start, the better. It is not going to go away and at least the fallen stones are still in place. It’s only a matter of putting them back and making the wall strong again.’ Archie rolled up his sleeves.

  ‘Ah, the optimism of youth. I remember those days, when nothing daunted me. Come on then, lad, let’s make a start. You have this stretch and I’ll begin higher up.’ Adam shook his head and left Archie looking at where to start his part of the wall.

  Archie stood back and decided to take the wall back to its foundations, so that it would be strong, and to make it easier to fill the gap between each side of the wall with the stones that he had. He carefully handled each stone, finding just the right shape and position to make the wall straight and sturdy. And filling the middle of the wall up with smaller stones and rubble, which he called ‘fillers’, and occasionally placing a long, thick, strong piece of limestone the full width of the wall, called a ‘through’, to make all the stones fit and bind together. It was a job that not many people had been taught, and it was a skilled task to build a wall with no mortar, but only the stone and rocks that nature had provided. It was also a slow, back-breaking process, and even a good drystone waller could only be expected to build a yard and a half per day. The size of the gap that he was working on would take him to the end of the week – that was, if the weather held. However, once it was done, with the large top-stones in place, he would be proud of his achievement and so, he hoped, would Adam Brooksbank, because he preferred to be working on a farm rather than down in the flay-pits.

  ‘Are you alright, lad?’ Archie heard Adam shout, as he stood back and looked at the work he had done so far.

  ‘Aye, I’m fine. It’s a grand day and I’m doing something I enjoy. What more can I ask for?’ Archie nodded his head and reached for another stone. Not only that, he thought, but he had Lucy Bancroft out of the reach of her father and the leering Thomas Farrington, and she was near him and would be for two days a week from now on. Now was the time to pick up the courage and ask her to walk out with him on a Sunday, if he dared do so. The trouble was, he knew he wasn’t good enough for Lucy, and that she simply teased and flirted with him because she could. Besides, her father hated him, and he’d never agree to Lucy walking out with him. So, for now Archie would just have to be content with Lucy flirting, and himself looking at her like a love-struck fool. His hard life since his father died had worn him down, and gone was the optimism of his youth; he’d no money, and nobody with any sense would look twice at him. He looked down at the white sharp-edged stones and decided to get on with the job in hand. At least it gave him satisfaction, and some money to take home to his mother. She loved him, if no one else did.

  8

  It was Sunday, and Adam sat back in his chair by the fire, content with his lot in life. Things were going to plan, he thought, as he listened to the sound of the church bells being carried up from the church at Denholme upon the wind. He had no time in his world for religion, but realized that some people needed its comfort and the hope of everlasting life, and that there was something much greater that they yearned for than the miserable lives they had on earth.

  He leaned forward and stoked the fire. There was no Lucy to keep him in order today, as he had arranged that each Sunday she would stay with her family and not bother seeing to his needs. He smiled as he remembered the shocked look on her face when she had been asked to milk the cow, and how angry she had got with herself when she tried the first time or two to squeeze the teats, only for no milk to appear. Now, a few days on, she was managing well and had made her first batch of butter, which he had enjoyed spreading on the toast that he had made himself, by placing a slice of bread on a brass toasting fork and holding it close to the fire’s embers until it turned a golden brown. It was something his mother had done many a morning, and he still loved the smell and taste of newly toasted bread with creamy butter on it. Sunday he still respected as a day of rest, a day to write letters, sit and contemplate the week just gone and the week ahead of him, or to visit friends and neighbours, and that was
what he planned to do with his day. He’d milked the cow and there was nothing more to do, so he had decided as he banked the fire up to visit Haworth and spend a little time with the elderly parson at the parsonage, and now made to saddle his newly acquired horse.

  The cobbled streets of Haworth were quiet as he rode up the slight incline to the parsonage and church, where he knew he could find the ageing parson. An abundance of shops, selling anything from sweets to everyday essentials, lined the street sides, and Adam noted the sight of new water pumps and drinking troughs. The village was more pleasant than Keighley, set on the moorside with the view over the other side of the valley clear to see, and the houses were more of a cottage style than some of the slum-like dwellings in neighbouring Keighley, although the soot and smoke from nearby woollen mills and forges had blackened their stone exteriors, giving them an aged, dirty look.

  Adam made his way up to the church and churchyard, tethering his horse outside the wall that surrounded the long Georgian parsonage. It was one of the grandest houses in Haworth, showing how much respect was shown to the clergy of the area. He looked across to the church of St Michael and thought about the family of his dear friend, all buried there in the vault deep below: the rector’s wife, Maria, and his four daughters, along with their wild and wilful brother. Only the youngest daughter had chosen to die and be buried in a place she loved, by the sea in Scarborough, when the family curse of consumption had taken her. How could anyone still keep their faith, after losing so many loved ones, Adam wondered. He himself struggled most days with the thought of the death of his beloved Mary, but the parson had lost everyone dear to him. His family had been struck down one by one – the death of his five daughters being the cruellest blow, as three of them had just found fame in the literary world before their individual deaths, brought about by the dreaded consumption.