BY VERY POPULAR REQUEST! A SAMPLE OF SHORT STORIES

 

Ó Richard John Smith, June 2002. Last Updated Thursday, 10th February 2005

 

Acknowledgements

 

The educational literature mentioned in ‘By Popular Request’ and sources listed in the Bibliography of my Family History at www.geocities.com/smithfamilyhistory/ have done much to stimulate my story writing. (For details of the historical personages mentioned in the stories please refer to the Web Site.) All the below material was first drafted by hand in June 2002, except for ‘Vain Ambitions’ and ‘Little Fred’s First Outing’ which had first been drafted about two years previously.

 

 

Prologue: Millennial Discovery

 

Storm Birth

 

The World Of English Literature

 

Vain Ambitions

 

Little Fred’s First Outing

 

No Sugar

 

The Question ‘Why?’

 

A Toast To Winston

 

The Unquiet Mobile

 

 

He muttered and fretted in sheer frustration, ‘It’s not here! It’s not here! This is the third blasted graveyard I’ve tried this afternoon – not a trace – was supposed to be against a wall – but no wall and no headstone – and it looks as if there’s going to be another downpour. Oh! I would go looking for my Great Grandfather’s grave on a late November afternoon – I’m soaking wet already – falling over that broken headstone and into that bramble bush didn’t help. Everything is so overgrown with trees and weeds I didn’t even see the damn headstone – oh I’ve had enough – I’m off home.’

            The tall forty three year old man with short thinning wavy brown hair trudged across the sodden grass toward the rickety exit gate of the Baptist Cemetery at Sutton in Craven. He was paying a visit to this old Yorkshire mill town (sited near the Lancashire border) to try and locate a particular grave. However, this graveyard, like the two others he’d tried, was also proving unwilling to give up any tangible evidence. He tucked his head well down against the rain, which continued unabated, dashing hard against his thick-rimmed glasses. Would it ever stop? It battered against his grubby blue cagoule, soaking into his tatty bramble torn trousers and into his mud-caked shoes. On his back bobbed a small, rain sodden, navy blue rucksack. It was Monday, November 22^nd 1999, just over a month before the whole world would go delirious at the arrival of the third millennium. The late twentieth century technical wizardry making these planet-wide festivities possible had had its birth in long-forgotten villages like Sutton. From the far away days of steam-powered mills right up to the Internet lay a direct line of technical descent.

            From his earlier reading the researcher knew that one of Sutton’s three mills had been demolished to make way for a Housing Estate. Another had been converted into small Businesses Units and a third now existed as a Private Firm, specialising in selling small engineering products.   Shops had also disappeared, leaving Sutton to survive only as a small dormitory suburb of Bradford. Commercial life of a modest sort had continued in the neighbouring village of Crosshills, with its busy main road to Colne, Lancashire. History, at one gloriously busy industrialised time, had raised Sutton up to enjoy a degree of local importance only then to cast her aside - her former inhabitants long since deposited into graveyards belonging to the Anglican, Wesleyan and Baptist denominations. These denominational differences meant anything now, at the end of the twentieth century, when churches were keen to make a show of unity during this time of millennial celebration.

“I give up – all that hunting around and slipping over gravestones for nothing – Brrrr! It’s so cold – that damn rain has seeped in everywhere - could murder a bag of fish and chips!”

            As he approached the wooden gate an unbidden instinct made him glance back at the muddy graveyard scene. He could see a cluster of tall, grandiose monuments behind which lay a horizontal pathway, dividing them off from a myriad of smaller tombstones. He caught a slight grassy rise where an erect sandstone obelisk stood pointing defiantly into the grey shrouded sky. It looked almost severe, protruding robustly into the gloom. Here was a beacon with a signal from another world – a world with customs far different from those of 1999; here, suddenly Mid-Victorian England was beckoning to Post-Modern England, and a connection was about to be made.

Impetuously, the researcher turned full about and strode up to the obelisk, all the while, screwing up his eyes, trying hard to make out any more details, as the rain continued to dash against his spectacles. He noticed that an off-white congealed mess of bird droppings ran down from the tip of the obelisk. His long strides soon covered the distance and he stood beside it, guessing it to be about twelve feet tall. It rested on a square name plinth where various names were inscribed. Peering downwards he could just make out the name ‘HELEN’ engraved in bold letters. The very starkness seemed to shout at him, as if in rebuke.

‘Could it be? Is it? Have I found…?’  These questions had barely enough time to form in his mind before he shouted out aloud “Yesssss It is! I’ve found it! I’ve found it! It was here after all! Just as I was told! Wayheyyyy!” He threw an excited punch into the air; followed by a jubilant boyish jig, suddenly halted by a sinking feeling in the sodden earth. Here he was, his pains and aches forgotten, enjoying his own private Millennium celebration, (well it was only a month away). He noticed that the rain had suddenly ceased.

‘Better not risk falling into the grave - might be a vault beneath it – don’t fancy meeting my ancestors that way’ he thought, as he smiled wryly to himself.

Crouching down he flung off his rucksack, flipped it open and rummaged around, fetching out a black clipboard to which a pen and slightly damp piece of paper was attached. Instinctively and almost immediately he’d already discerned that, long ago, behind this monument had once lain a very powerful mind – one possessing a stubborn, defiant strength.

 

‘Must get the inscriptions down before there’s another downpour. Lets see what’s written? Good grief, that’s strange! What happened here, then?’ A pause in the rain allowed him to write down the words directly in front of him.

IN MEMORY OF

HELEN

WIFE OF EDMUND SMITH,

OF LEEDS

WHO DIED OCTOBER 4^TH 1866

“SHE DID WHAT SHE COULD”

 

ALSO OF JOHN WILLIAM

THIRD SON OF THE ABOVE WHO DIED APRIL 7^TH 1867

AGED ONE YEAR TEN MONTHS

 

ALSO OF THE ABOVE EDMUND SMITH

BORN JANUARY 21^ST 1832

DIED JULY 25^TH 1915

 “’She did what she could!’ What a sour comment! Something wasn’t right about their marriage. My Great Grandfather appears to have harboured a grudge. There’s been some sort of trouble, that’s for sure. I wonder what went wrong? Still, he lived to a good old age – must have been a tough old boot!” The researcher walked anti-clockwise around the plinth, and peered closer to read a second inscription, which looked a little more eroded: -

IN SACRED

AND LOVING REMEMBRANCE OF

ALDYTH ROSAMOND

DAUGHTER OF ROSAMOND AND EDMUND SMITH OF LEEDS

BORN MAY 14^TH 1874 AND DIED MARCH 1^ST 1875

ALSO HILDA MARION

DAUGHTER OF THE ABOVE

BORN OCTOBER 5^TH 1876 DIED APRIL 26^TH 1879

ALSO SYDNEY EDMUND OF THE ABOVE

BORN OCTOBER 16^TH 1875 DIED APRIL 29^TH 1879

ALSO FLORENCE MAY

DAUGHTER OF THE ABOVE

BORN OCTOBER 28^TH 1880 DIED APRIL 28^TH 1884

‘Oh, how awful! Being middle class didn’t save them from the sorrows common to many Victorian parents. How must my Great Grandparents have felt to face such losses, particularly the two children who died within three days of each other? This certainly helps get my own troubles into perspective. They must have been a tough pair to have  survive. Hmmm! The word Aldyth is almost indecipherable with the sandstone beginning to flake away. I’ve got here just in time, another few years and most of these names will have been lost. I must write them down before it rains – I can already feel a few spots.’

 

The rear of the plinth was blank - as if awaiting extra names to be inscribed. However, he did notice a thin shallow channel on the grass running parallel to the sandstone path.

‘This is where the wall must have been - obviously now long gone. Well it’s hardly surprising since five decades have past since a family member made the last visit and the graveyard was overgrown even then. Clearly, my Great Grandparents’ family vault was situated in Section A, the plots reserved for rich people, judging by the other elaborate monuments. Section B, behind the path, catered for the poorer folk, having the meaner quality headstones with their closer proximity to one another. But what do Victorian class distinctions mean in a neglected graveyard like this? Better move on, another shower has begun’ The researcher moved to the last inscription, which read: -

IN LOVING MEMORY OF

ROSAMOND

SECOND WIFE OF THE SAID

EDMUND

WHO DIED MARCH 30^TH 1891 IN HER

48^TH YEAR

 

ALSO OF BETSEY HASTINGS SMITH

ELDEST DAUGHTER OF EDMUND AND HELEN SMITH

BORN 27^TH FEBRUAY 1860

DIED 18^TH JANUARY 1922

 

‘Hmmm! Edmund appears to have loved his second wife better than his first. The epitaph is a lot warmer. Helen’s girls never married, I wonder why? Did they ever have their chance to marry? The rain is getting heavier – must get these details down quick!’ 

 

After some frantic scribbling, this Great Grandchild of Edmund and Rosamond Smith walked around again to the first inscription – thus coming full circle. He then stood back, scanning the whole of the obelisk; knowing that six feet under him lay the remains of Edmund, Helen and John William Smith. Having watched various television archaeological programmes the researcher guessed that the bones would now be yellowed by the acidic moorland soil. Edmund’s position in the vault, lying above the others, possibly meant that his toothless skull might well have been capable of facial re-construction. However, those of Helen and John William would have disintegrated into an array of splinters long ago. The researcher immediately decided that his Great Grandfather would have liked to have had his face re-constructed before a large television audience. Family legend pointed him out as being that kind of man.

‘The obelisk is double my height. A lot of money has gone into this. Clearly, Edmund wanted to make a point – as if he’d wanted to prove something.  I definitely get the impression he was craving for recognition, but why? Who was he reaching out to? Why the ‘off’ note concerning Helen? What had she done to offend him? He’d certainly taken painstaking care concerning this memorial. Compared to the others, there’s barely any erosion even though it’s so openly exposed. The workmanship, which went into it must have been well above the average. I’ve a feeling that Edmund, will have breathed down a few necks to ensure a good job was done. Well here it is, standing proudly in a prominent place and, in better weather it would have been far easier to spot - again the evidence of wanting to be noticed; if this had been his original intention then Edmund had certainly succeeded – albeit nearly eighty-five years after his death.

The researcher looked about him and sighed, ‘But what a messy unkempt graveyard! Is this what Edmund would really have wanted? Never mind, he’ll get another memorial in ‘cyberspace’ – alongside his dead wives and children. Fame will come to him at last! Oh damn! The rain, is really coming on again, my notes will get spoilt.’

            There was just enough time for the researcher, the Great Grandson of Edmund Smith to make a gesture of respect to a man who’d helped make the Smith family what it was today. His Great Grandfather, due to his occupation as a Commercial Traveller selling Drapery and Woollen cloth, established links with a people whose recorded history had gone back millennia. The researcher took out a small navy blue hard backed bible from a side pocket of his knapsack and, taking advantage of one last brief pause in the rain, read aloud the following words from Numbers 6:24-26. They were Moses’ blessing to Aaron, and the researcher judged them to be the most apt to those interred under the obelisk at Sutton.

“The LORD bless thee, and keep thee:

The LORD make his face to shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee:
The LORD lift up his countenance upon thee, and give thee peace. Amen”

            The family researcher stood quietly for a moment, before replacing his bible and clipboard in his rucksack. For the second time he headed toward the exit gate, only this time with a lighter step, aware that the long forgotten influence of his Great Grandfather Edmund Smith, had now been re-awakened.

Back To Top

           

 

One last heave and it was out; the scrawny bundle of blood and life, which was Edmund Smith. ‘Snip’ the umbilical cord was cut and Edmund was now a separate entity from his mother, Ann. ‘Slap’ a cry, and air whistled into the baby’s lungs - Edmund had now begun his first struggle with life. The placenta slipped away and with a ‘plop’ was placed into a basin – thankfully with none of that fatal bleeding, which had carried off many a mother in January 1832. Another loud wail and Edmund began the first of his many arguments with the world. As the buxom midwife washed him the wails got louder; and only subsided when he was snugly in a wrapped blanket of locally made wool. Gently, the midwife placed him into the arms of his tired, drawn mother. “It’s a boy,” she announced in a broad Yorkshire dialect, ‘a right strong un, goin by ‘is wail.’ Ann Smith nodded whilst Edmund nestled in her arms. ‘Eee ! ‘e were a fast un; couldn’t wait to get into world quick enough. Like one of ‘em new fangled steam trains, e were.’  By these words the midwife was making an indirect reference to the new Liverpool to Manchester railway, which had been opened with great ceremony in Liverpool on 15^th September 1830. Young Bairstow, the mill owner’s son, had been there ostensibly on business, but in reality to mix with all the grand people who were present. It was he who’d brought back to Sutton the news of the fatal accident, which had killed the Liverpool MP and ex cabinet minister, William Huskisson, who’d been run over by the Rocket Engine just after shaking hands with the Duke of Wellington, (at that time Britain’s hated Prime Minister.) He’d wandered onto the line, oblivious to the dangers of the new age of steam. At the time Sutton, which had just been initiated into the industrial age by the opening of the new Bairstow Mill, was  ‘agog’ with the news, which seemed to symbolise both the glories and dangers of the new era. Some malcontents were rumoured to have muttered ‘Serve that dam’d Tory right’ but in public they wore a look of grief. In those days of strife it didn’t pay to show one’s radical sympathies too openly in a village where the land owning Spencer family was still influential and the magistrate could transport ‘malcontents’ to Australia for life. Sutton was not Manchester, where radicals could ‘slink away’ into the burgeoning slums of Ancoats and wait for a while until the ‘Peelers’ (Police) found other people to chase, unless of course, an informer betrayed them.

‘Ee looks delicate’ muttered Ann, who feared for the life of every child. She knew that too many babies had moved straight from the crib to the open coffin in the parlour. Still, she’d been lucky; there was Samuel born on 1^st November 1826 and Susanna born on 6^th September 1829. Both children had survived, but with each birth Ann appeared to surrender more of her own life. As a daughter of Wilson the Greengrocer she’d not been like those stout and strong farming ‘lasses’ who did nothing but ‘bloom’ with every pregnancy. However, far from ebbing away, Ann would go on to survive many more pregnancies; Daniel would be born on 27^th June 1834, Ann born on 24^th December 1838, Hannah on 3^rd October 1841 and John on July 27^th 1843. Ann was one of those delicate women who were stronger than either she or others supposed. Only her husband, the Corn Miller John Smith guessed that ‘she were really quite a strong ‘un’ – but then he always did see the more cheerful side of things.

The midwife was very ‘particular’ about how she brought ‘bairns’ into the world. She would only ever work with one trusted assistant, a silent pasty-faced woman who aspired to be her successor. The midwife was known not to like other ladies to be present on the grounds that ‘too many womanly hands lead to an early death.’ This in part explained why all but the most sickly children survived with her and why her services were in demand. Unlike other midwives she was never known to be drunk at delivery; indeed she cursed drink as the ‘the devil’s crowning work.’

Ann looked at this stout wrinkled woman whose demeanour betrayed great physical and inner strength. She’d remained good at her trade despite her age.

“Dorn’t fret, ‘a’ll live ter three score years and beyond.”

Ann leaned her head slightly forward and in a quiet but anxious voice asked, “Is John back yet?”

“Is father ‘as gorn out with ‘orse and trap to fetch ‘im.’”  

There was a note of rebuke in the midwife’s voice for John had absconded himself to enjoy dinner with his friends at the Kildwick Parish Friendly Society. Established sometime in the 1790s, most dinners were held on a Thursday or Friday for it wouldn’t do for members to look too bleary eyed at Church or Chapel the next morning. However, this time snow drifts had forced a postponement until the Saturday. Subsequent absence from Church or Chapel could be excused on grounds of bad weather.

“It were so quick, our John wern’t to know. Never ‘ad such a fast labour.”  The midwife glinted a rebuke - she’d known too many wives stick up for their erring men folk. Her own man had been a drunkard but at least he’d had the good sense to trip over and break his neck on the cellar stairs within two years of her marriage. His legacy had been unpaid debts and a daughter who never made it beyond childhood. As a midwife and herbalist she’d acquired a respected role away from men. They were far too much trouble and hard work. She felt at ease with her work – needing only the help of her silent assistant.

Ann drifted into sleep lank brown curls hanging down from her frilly cap, which women wore in those days. With well-worn yet gentle hands the midwife took Edmund and placed him into a handmade wooden crib. Above his now sleeping head was the carved date 1778, the year John’s father William was born.  Another Edmund Smith, an enterprising farmer and weaver (the Great Grandfather of the present Edmund) had made the crib some time after his arrival in the locality, with his wife Elizabeth. It had housed many a Smith child including baby Edmund’s father John, born on March 17^th 1805 (the year of Nelson’s victory at Trafalgar) and his grandfather William, born on November 2^nd 1778 and who’d been the crib’s first resident

The ever-alert midwife could just make out the beginnings of a gathering Pennine storm sweeping like an angry dragon into the valley containing the twin villages of Sutton and Crosshills.  It whined and shook the small bedroom window, as if calling out to Edmund to fulfil some powerful destiny. Before leaving her assistant to clear away the tools of her trade she noticed the candles flicker like incandescent ballet dancers. Edmund’s had indeed been a storm birth.

 

* * *

 

“KILDWICK PARISH FRIENDLY SOCIETY

 

January 1^st 1799

 

Rules

 

1.       Every member to pay 2/- quarterly into the box, besides the allowance for a pint of ale.

2.       Any members sick or lame or otherwise indisposed so as to render him unfit to work shall receive 7/- weekly.

3.       When a member shall depart this life there shall be paid the sum of 5gns (Guineas) out of the box to defray expenses of the funeral

4.       After payment for 12 months to any member, his pay will then be only 5/- per week

5.       Any member refusing to conform to the rules shall forfeit 6d to the box

6.       Any member joining the procession in a state of intoxication or behaving disorderly or absent from Divine Service shall forfeit 1/- to the box

7.       The Master and Stewards to lead the procession, the rest of the members to follow two abreast, each furnished with a sprig of green oak.”

 

Hearty laughter reverberated around the long mahogany table where John was enjoying the Friendly Society Dinner at the Ship Inn in Farnhill, over two miles from his home. The flickering candlelight revealed a smiling man with a long, slightly bulbous nose, flanked by a pair of equally long bushy sideboards in the style of the time. A spotted necktie gave him a slightly rakish air and merriment beamed from his eyes. There was ‘nowt’ he enjoyed so much as a good dinner of the kind he had almost finished and with his stomach replete, he was always most convivial. Manual work in Bairstow’s Corn Mill had kept him very trim, with only the slightest hint of a beer belly. It was a source of grief to his father William that John wouldn’t work on the farm that had its own small corn mill, but the Smiths were known to be an independent lot who often struck out on their own. John had never had the heart to tell William that he could earn far more at Bairstow’s than he ever could on the farm. He wasn’t one to scrape a living by weaving and farming. He’d ignored William’s question of ‘what would ‘appen to thee if t’em Bairstows dint any more take a liking to thy face?’ John had correctly guessed that his father had been jealous of ‘old man’ Bairstow’s success; village gossip had it that he could have gone into partnership with Bairstow when they served on the anti-Napoleonic militia together, back in 1803. Perhaps they’d only been ‘talking into their tankards’ or deeds of partnership may well have been drawn up but either way William Smith now had no real liking for the Bairstows and what he called ‘their grasping ways.’ Like many a dour Yorkshire man he’d the ability to maintain a grudge for years, a lifetime if need be – especially if it involved family. In contrast, it took a lot to rile John; he was one of those men who wanted to get along with everybody. This quality was at once his greatest strength and his greatest weakness. Like the dozen or so others at dinner he tucked into a traditional English fare of Roast Beef and Yorkshire pudding, only occasionally pausing to drink from a tankard of locally brewed beer. Once in a while one or two of the six daughters of William Palfryman, the proprietor, would swish in and out, carrying plates or the odd bottle of spirits.

Numbers were smaller than usual because of the weather but those present represented the Friendly Society as a whole. They were a ‘middling sort of folk’ who quite literally stood midway between the labouring classes and those who’d managed to make money through the acquisition of land or the new industries. They were respectable farmers, tradesmen and shopkeepers; the parents of children who would later form the backbone of the Victorian middle classes. They were pious, obsessively hardworking and possessors of solid virtues, which were fast making Britain the ‘workshop of the world.’ Their worst vice was an intransigent narrow mindedness and one of the services of the Kildwick Parish Friendly Society was to moderate this trait by forcing men to defend their opinions before others. This often led to heated arguments, particularly when the beer was flowing freely. Nevertheless, for the farmers in this gathering the Friendly Society represented their only window into the outside world where revolutions in commerce, politics and culture were all simultaneously taking place.

Adding an intellectual air was the village schoolmaster Richard Petty, a wry, thin man whose glasses extenuated his sharp features. This gave him the appearance of a prosecuting lawyer, which was an advantage when it came to dealing with recalcitrant school children. This evening he’d sat directly opposite to John. Village ‘tittle-tattle’ had it that he was a man with radical connections and for some strange reason he would occasionally vanish as far afield as Manchester, Leeds and Bradford on some mysterious business. Yet on Sundays he would show up at Sutton Baptist Chapel with a suitably pious face. He was also active in its Sunday school and in 1830 had been influential in persuading a reluctant eldership to allow for the interment of deceased members around the Chapel. There’d been some grumbling about ‘upkeep’ and the overturning of an earlier resolution made in 1813, but as usual Richard Pettys’ cogent arguments had prevailed, especially when he pointed out that burial fees would represent another source of income during these straitened times. He’d also suggested that sheep should be allowed to graze the new burial ground to keep down both the grass and cost of the upkeep.

Not a naturally ‘clubbable’ man, Richard Petty nevertheless, performed an invaluable service by doing much of the administration.  He’d more than once been offered a place on the Committee (which included John Smith); however, he’d refused on the grounds that ‘one schoolroom was enough to contend with.’ It was Richard Petty who’d established the custom of reading broadsheets and newspapers out aloud to club members whilst they waited for each course to be served. For the illiterate John Smith, who could only sign his name with the mark ‘X’ these readings helped him gain insight into some of the affairs of his time. He would listen intently to Richard reading them aloud.

At the top of the table sat the Chairman, Richard Pierce, president for that year; a shrewd farmer who often remarked that running the society was like trying to herd sheep after they’d been scattered by a mad dog. A thick set, stout Yorkshire man with grey bushy eyebrows, he could control the most disputatious member with a stolid glare and was well known not to stand for any kind of nonsense. He’d even told old man Bairstow a thing or two – all done in private of course!  Usually silent, he would watch over everything, carefully gauging the mood of the meeting before intervening. He could tell that tonight the mood was argumentative, hardly surprising really, given the bad terms of trade and disputations about a possible Reform Bill for Parliament. Richard Pierce knew that in the previous October he’d been elected president because he was known to be a hard man who could keep order. The fact that he possessed the good sense to keep his opinions to himself had also helped. In any dispute he could give an equally withering glance to both parties. On the day of Edmund’s birth a political storm (every bit as vicious as the snowstorm brewing outside the Ship Inn) threatened to convulse the country. It also threatened the harmony of the Kildwick Parish Friendly Society.

“My dear fellow it won’t come to that. They can’t set the King of England packing like they did in France eighteen months ago. This country had its fill of commotion in Cromwell’s time.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that. The King is opposed to reform and won’t let any Bill go through,” responded Richard Petty, looking at Thomas Bairstow, the twenty-three year old son of John Bairstow Senior – (the same man who had fallen out with William Smith.) Thomas was of middle build, with dark curly hair and smart, dandified appearance - dressed in the sporting manner of the time.  However, his dandy attire notwithstanding, his steely face showed him to be a true son of his father. A succession of private tutors had almost murdered his local Yorkshire accent. His barely stifled yawns disclosed that his heart would never lie in the petty affairs of such things as the Friendly Society. He was in attendance because his father had ordered him to ‘get to know’ the people of these parts if he wanted to inherit the new mill and the Friendly Society dinner was one tolerable way of doing this. He would always tag along as someone’s guest and disappear when it came to his turn to buy the drinks. His main ambition was to break into the smart-land-owning ‘county set’ in which the Spencer’s (who were the local gentry) lived and to marry a rich pretty heiress. However, being the son of a ‘common’ manufacturer had so far excluded him from such exalted circles. The Kildwick Parish Friendly dinner would have to do instead. At least it got him away from his father’s all seeing eye.

“Well t’un thing for sure is that there’ll be right trouble, there often is on t’is sort o matter,” interjected John, whose common sense observations revealed a sharp mind buried beneath his illiteracy. “Once trouble brews there’s no’r knoring where it’ll stop. It could be another Boney all orver Europe again.”

“It’ll be you manufacturers who will decide the issue,” observed Richard Petty throwing a pointed look at Thomas Bairstow.

“How? The likes of my ‘Paitre’ are too busy trying to keep the mill running in these difficult times. Two years ago he had the new one built and found there was no interest in wool, not even in the Americas,” sniffed Thomas, who obviously thought that Richard’s comment had no value whatsoever. “And if trade does improve, we’ll be too busy to care who runs this deuce country. Making money…”

“Off ter backs of us poor weavers” interrupted an angry looking man with an unkempt moustache and angry rolling eyes. Not for nothing was he known as ‘wild William’ the slightly older and not so respectable cousin of John Smith.

“My father would pay them better if the conditions of trade weren’t so bad.” Thomas quietly parried.

“Aye, more as like spend it on…”

“That’s enough” intervened the President whilst raising his eyebrows for emphasis.

“What I mean,” said Richard Petty, determined to return to the original point “is that if Parliamentary Reform isn’t granted you manufacturers will throw your lot in with your hands and farm labourers and then even the Duke of Wellington’s army won’t be able to stop you. That’s what happened in France eighteen months ago - the landed aristocracy lost the support of the middling sort of people who then led the artisan and industrial classes in revolt.”

“But surely what matters is the side the soldiery will take, Naah amount o combinations can prevail while t’army is on side o’ the government,” chimed in John Smith, adding his usual note of common sense. Often his voice would display that moaning drawl common to the Pennine area of West Yorkshire.

“And at Peterloo in Manchester they were,” interrupted wild William, his thick lips twisted with anger – only more eyebrows from the chairman prevented him from proceeding further.

“But even the Yeomanry couldn’t stop a combination of manufacturers, factory hands and agricultural labourers, nor will they want to if even they don’t get the pay to have their drink,” argued Richard with the persistence of a natural schoolmaster.

“Well, I agree with Mr Smith that you reckon too highly on the power of us manufacturers. Also, the likes of my father would not want to join in with self-appointed agitators calling themselves ‘the peoples’ friend,” said Thomas, sniffily.

“But if trade continues to be bad and you’re faced with the prospect of losing your station in life, even you Thomas would join ‘Wild William’ on the barricades,” added John, his eyes twinkling with merriment.

Hearty laughter greeted this prospect - the fastidious Thomas Bairstow joining forces with anyone on the barricades – not least the unkempt William Smith on the barricades

“Heaven forbid!” sniffed Thomas whilst throwing a disdainful glance in William’s direction.

“Nay! Nay! Nay! ‘ell would freeze orver first before Thomas would join our William, E’d be worried about getting a musket ball through ‘is new dandy top ‘at or a rip on ‘is fancy cloak before doin’ such a thing,” guffawed John Smith, eyes positively alight with mirth. More hearty laughter as Thomas Bairstow’s face flushed a deep red. The laughter soon ebbed as the chairman coughed to restore order.

“But the real question” persisted Richard Petty, trying to suppress a smirk “is whether reform will get through Parliament. When it didn’t last year the whole country was in uproar. It even looked as if another King’s head would come off.”

“It might yet!” commented William, a note of glee in his voice

“If reform is passed then the manufacturers will have been bought off.”

“Lookin after their orn interests as usual,” interjected William noisily.

“Well, I’d rather have the Duke of Wellington back again as Prime Minister, than jumped up agitators leading a mob to storm the Houses of Parliament and then setting up a guillotine outside,” remarked Thomas, emphasising the point with a very disdainful sniff and chopping notion with his hand.

“Now who are you callin a ‘jumped up agitator? There’s a cryin need for justice and t’er people are bent on getting it with or without our precious manufacturers. They’ll get it, you’ll see,’” snapped William, banging his fist on the table for emphasis.

“Now then Mr Smith, I’ll ‘ave no more of your seditious talk. We attracted ter attention of the magistrates last year and I’ad to explain that the likes of you were only talkig into their beer cups otherwise you would ‘ave found yourself bound on a transport ship to Australia. If you dorn’t wish to respect my authority you can leave this table now ‘an go take all your tub-thumping to Leeds or Manchester. This ain’t the place to rant against His Majesty’s government nor matter ‘ow strong yer feelins.” The look in the President’s face showed that he was not going to be crossed. William responded with a sullen but furious silence.

“At least we would have some peace if Mr Smith were transported to Australia,” remarked Bairstow sharply.

“It’d be as quiet ‘ere as ter new Chapel burial ground,” quipped John

“That’s enough gentlemen,” commanded the President.

Sitting a long way of from the president a new voice chimed in, “Now, look ‘ere. I am not an educated man and I canna even put two letters to my name, but I do ask mesen questions and one of ‘em is ‘why does there ‘ave to be all this trouble?’ Parliament dorn’t affect people in these parts, their ‘orizens goer no further than Keighley or Skipton.” Speaking in a mild, hesitant tone was William Laycock a farmer at View Height, near the village of Kildwick, just north of Crosshills and Sutton. A mop of silver hair crowned a kindly if somewhat confused face. He was in his early forties and up to this point had been sitting through the debate worrying about the molehills in his fields. During Friendly Society dinners he rarely spoke but seemed to enjoy the company. Here was a man who’d entered a whole new world and didn’t know what to do about it.

“There’s trouble because trade is so bad,” replied Thomas Bairstow, somewhat languidly.

“There’s trouble because new, radical ideas are stirring people up,” explained Richard Petty, as if he was addressing an exceptionally dim pupil in his schoolroom.

“There’s trouble because the ‘ole system of government is rotten,” retorted ‘Wild William.’

“There’s trouble because people are angry that they canna afford to buy food to feed their little’uns” added John Smith

“There’s trouble because different combinations of people have opposing interests,” summarised the President.

“Oh! But according to ter Parson there’s trouble because of original sin and the evil in men’s hearts that’s to blame and that makes sense to me. Canna we just leave it at that?” The simplicity of his approach stunned the meeting into silence.

As the conversation moved onto the subject of whether a mole catcher should be hired by the parish to deal with the problems of molehills currently plaguing the area, one of the daughters of William Palfryman entered the room and whispered something into Richard Pierce’s ear. He then turned to look at John and said with a note of authority in his voice said, “Mr Smith I am bid to inform you that your wife is about to give birth and your father William is outside waitin to collect thee.”

“What! So’er sudden, it weren’t due for another week or two!”

John gulped down one last roast potato and abruptly left the table, barely hearing the well wishes of fellow members of the Kildwick Parish Friendly Society. Downstairs he tightened a woollen scarf around his neck, before throwing on a heavy overcoat and somewhat battered top hat. Just inside the entrance stood the snow covered form of his father - his face scowling disapproval, ‘Thanks to thy yammering with thou friends thou ‘ast peraps missed the birth of thy baby. Another hour and I wouldn’t ‘ave been able to get thee back. The snow ‘as been comin down right thick, Tis stopped for now, but could soon come down agin wi’ this wind. Wrap yersen up well an get on ter back and let me drive. You’ll be too full of beer as usual.”  In obedience to his father’s request John got up on the back of the cart; a quick crack of the whip and it began to move on, the up and down motion making John feel more than a little queasy.

 

* * *

Leeds Intelligencer, Thursday, January 19^th 1832 (price 7d)

“The Anatomy Bill, on the motion of MR WARBURTON, was

Read a second time; the only dissentient was Mr Hunt. The Irish

Reform Bill was read a first time, and the second reading fixed for

Friday fortnight.”

Leeds

            “SUBSCRIPTIONS FOR PROVIDING

CLOTHING and other charitable ASSISTANCE for

The POOR of Leeds during the ensuing winter.

SUBSCRIPTIONS ADVERTISED, £2676. 6d

ADDITIONAL CONTRIBUTIONS RECEIVED AT THE

DEPOT

Mr. Wm. Holliday, five Shirts.

Mr Hunt, Eighteen women’s bonnets.

Messrs. Saml. Powell & Son, Six Pair Blankets.

JOHN CAWOOD, Treasurer.

The Treasurer will attend at the Depot every Day, next

Week, from 11 to 12 o’ Clock, for the purpose of receiving

Subscriptions.”

 

            “THE VENEREAL DESEASE under its

various appearances and complicated attacks may

be speedily and secretly eradicated from the system by the

 use of DR LEWIS’S VEGETABLE PILLS, Price 2s 9d, or

two boxes in one for 4s 6d, which for their salutary effects in

cleansing the Blood from all impurities, whether venereal

or Scorbutic, are of the utmost importance. They are in

the highest estimation for preventing as well as totally

eradicating, every symptom of this destructive malady, and

producing a safe and salutary cure, without

 the least confinement, or abstemious regimen; effecting its

purpose independent of those common auxiliaries that

generally lead to a discovery. So sovereign a remedy should

ever be in possession of such, as either through juvenile

inclinations, or the habits of gallantry, frequent such places

where danger is inevitable, as no change of climate can alter

their power.”

“These pills are worthy of a place in the cabinets of masters

and captains of ships; the more so, as they will keep good

in all climates any length of time, and they have now

borne the tests above 70 years with increasing credit to themselves

and to honour of the author.

Prepared only by the sole Proprietors, at 23 Park square,

Leeds. Private entrance, first door on the left hand, one

Door from St Paul buildings.

Drs JORDAN are to be consulted, as usual, every day

And on Sundays from Nine to Two o’clock. Patients in the

remotest Parts can be treated successfully on describing

minutely the case and enclosing a remittance for medicine

which can be forwarded to any part of the World. No difficulty

can occur, as the medicines will be securely packed

and carefully protected from observation.

Address Drs R. and L. JORDAN, No. 23, Park

Square, Leeds, Money, Letter, paid double Postage.”

 

“FILL, FILL THE CUP!

 

Fill the cup, the bowl, the glass

With wine and spirits high;

And we will drink, while round they pass,

To – vice and misery!

 

Push quickly round the draught again,

And drain the goblet low;

And drink to revelry’s swelling strain,

To – Reason’s overthrow!

 

Push round, push round in quickest time

The deepest drop be spent

I           n one loud round, to – guilt and Crime,

And Crime’s just punishment!

 

Fill, fill again! Fill to the brim

To – Loss of honest fame!

Quaff, deeper quaff! While now we drink –

Our wives and children’s shame!

 

Push round and round, with loudest cheers

Of mirth and revelry!

We drink to women’s sighs and tears!

And – children’s poverty!

 

Once more! While power shall yet remain,

Even with its latest breath,

Drink – to ourselves Disease and Pain,

And infamy and death!”

* * *

 

The cart got as far as the top of the frozen rutted lane leading from Crosshills to Sutton, which lay a further quarter of a mile away.

“Canna goer any further, snow ‘s coming down agin”

“Art thou comin with me?”

“What! and leave this ‘orse in ter snow! Yer thee master of ter ‘ouse, ye should see thy own child born. I’ll no’er soon enough, whether its lived.”

Slowly, John clambered down from the cart, before asking

“Art thou sure this is ter lane to Sutton?”

“I’ve -driven this way through the snow before,” retorted William who, with an angry pull of the reins, manage to goad the horse into another track leading to the farm at the Township of Glusburn on the North West tip of Crosshills. As the sound of the cart ebbed away, John pulled down his hat and began the quarter mile walk to his cottage, all the while feeling very ill at ease. Would his wife still be alive? A lull in the storm allowed him to travel back quicker than expected but just when he thought he would soon be home, the storm closed in again with the ferocity of a polar bear. He pulled up the scarf to cover his mouth as he battled by the Chapel graveyard with its scattering of graves. ‘Ope Ann worn’t ‘soon end up there,’ he gloomily reflected, recalling how Richard Petty had had to argue to have it opened. ‘Always squabbling, them Chapel Folk, on and on about somethin or t’other.’  John had a vague preference for Saint Andrews, the Parish Church, which he attended more frequently now that he was on the Friendly Society Committee. However, his wife Ann had Chapel leanings, and most of her friends were associated with it. Her family had been closely connected to the Chapel and they had viewed John as something of a godless heathen who only attended Church for worldly reasons. The fact that he’d been known to mimic the more sombre expressions of the chapelgoers hadn’t exactly helped his reputation. Like a true Smith he had no tolerance for religious cant. Moreover, a few old folk still recalled how John’s Grandfather Edmund had had joined the chapel in the 1768 after quarrelling with the parish vicar over his ‘toadying ways with the Spencers.’ In 1780, his first wife Elizabeth had been excluded for some long forgotten offence and Edmund had returned to the Parish Church noisily protesting against that ‘sect of Pharisees.’  A few year later, he had quarrelled with another vicar at Saint Andrew’s and had returned to the chapel for a second time only to leave in high dudgeon when they elders expressed doubts as to whether he should be accepted for membership because of his ‘contrary ways.’  Eventually, this most turbulent of Smith’s made his peace with Saint Andrew’s and accepted communion before his death in 1811. Nevertheless, his reputation had lingered on to create   a feeling of distrust between the Smiths and their local religious providers. Neither vicar nor minister like that the fact that a typical Smith very much had a mind of his own when it came to matters of faith. They would not just accept everything they were told from the pulpit. It was a brave minister who tangled with a stubborn Smith once he’d come to a firm opinion. Few did!

Still, the local chapel members hadn’t stood in John’s way, although it was a pity they’d such long faces when he’d married Ann at the Parish Church on 24^th May 1824. Doubtless, they prayed for his soul, but that didn’t alter the fact that his heart lay in the Friendly Society. There he could be himself and not be too serious. He’d grown up with most of the members since he was a lad and he didn’t have to worry about being so ‘respectable.’

He turned left at the bottom of the lane and trudged through the snow toward the hamlet of Sutton Mill where the Corn Millers’ cottages were situated. They were for skilled workers and were slightly better than the average cottage, even having a cellar. Indeed, through ‘hard graft’ and enterprise the Smiths were always just a little better off when compared to the other families in the locality. None were known to have been on ‘Parish relief’ and they were always active in community affairs. In business they could strike a very hard bargain and by trade they were usually farmers, weavers, craftsmen and shopkeepers. They were respectable and law abiding citizens. Their worst trait was an implacable stubbornness, which manifested itself in an ability to hold grudges and keep up feuds for year after long year. It was said that ‘Ter world would end before a Smith would part with ‘is brass or admit ‘e were wrong.’ Thankfully, John Smith was an amicable exception to such negative traits but they’d been enough ‘mean’ Smiths to make them broadly applicable.

At last John reached his cottage, he lifted the metal doorknocker and wrapped loudly.

“Eeek! A female voice cried as the door creaked open

            “T’is ornly me, luv” responded John soothingly, unaware that the snowflakes had given him the appearance of an unearthly spectre. At once he saw the downstairs room was full of women. (His own children were absent – thankfully being cared for by his neighbours.) By dim flickering candlelight he could see that their faces were expectant rather than mournful. This was a good sign - Anne was still alive. With some understanding of female ways, John knew that the midwife and her assistant would be upstairs. Downstairs would be the other women waiting to help if the labour was difficult and to get ready spare blankets and hot water. They would also be there to have a good ‘cow’ or to comfort the husband if the worst happened. Amongst their number  would be a suspicious smattering of widows all ‘sizing John up’ as a prospective husband if the worst did happen. He wasn’t a wife beater nor too heavy a drinker - he would indeed be a good catch. In Sutton it was known for bereaved husbands to propose to their second wife on the day of the first wife’s funeral. Such a practice made sense as it helped to keep families together. A child couldn’t be left without a mother.

            A wail upstairs told him that at least the baby had survived. ‘Get yonder upstairs John,’ a female shadow instructed‘ both mother and baby are well.’

            John heaved a sigh of relief as he bounded up the stone clad stairs. The baby’s wails turned into compulsive cries. On entering the bedroom he ignored the midwife’s reproachful looks and proceeded to talk to his exhausted wife as she patted the baby’s back to break wind. As he looked at Ann both the midwife and her helper stood quietly to one side of the bed.

            “Eh, when did it arrive?”

            “An hour ago.”

“And…”

“It’s a boy.”

John smiled; this is just what he’d wanted. He bent over his wife’s forehead and deluged it with a volley of kisses before exclaiming,

“Well done lass, well done. Dint think it would be orver so soon.”

Anne’s face puckered up in disgust, she really didn’t like the smell of ale in John’s breath – not at this time. In her arms the baby stirred restlessly.

“By ‘eck ‘e came down fast.”

His wife responded with a vague nod. She wasn’t sure whether the presence of her husband so soon after giving birth was a blessing or a curse.

“ee’s got a big hooter just like my own,” remarked John pointing to his bulbous red nose.

“Are you going to call him…”

“Aye Edmund, after his Grandpa. ‘Ee used to tell me it were name of t’ Old Kings o England, when I were a boy.”

As if in recognition of his regal authority, the baby coughed, spluttered and gave a loud angry cry.

“There! There! My little button nose,” cooed Anne.

However, before her husband could pick Edmund up, the gnarled hands of the midwife had plucked him away and with a midwife’s magic she was soothing him into a deep sleep just before placing him into the cot. She was determined not to allow any man smelling of drink to lay hands on a child she had just delivered.

“Anyway Edmund will do, it ‘as a right grand ring to it. T’is a good Smith name,” John remarked cheerfully as the wind raged outside.

“Will William approve?”

“What passed between ‘im and grandpa ain’t none o’ my business. Grandpa deserved to ‘ave ‘is name kept in t’er family. I ‘ope this bairn prospers as much as ‘e did.” That was his final word on the matter.

* * *

 

As the bus rattled away from Sutton, it was clear that, over the seven months the researcher had been engaged on this history, the discovery of Edmund’s grave had been a most significant find, the full implications of which would take a great deal of time to work out. Yet, like many historical findings, more questions had been raised rather than answered. Indeed, a tornado of questions now swirled around his mind as the bus continued its journey to Keighley. One question above all others jostled for pre-eminence, “What had gone wrong with Edmund’s marriage with Helen and why that strange epitaph?”

 

* * *

 

The scratching of the slate only emphasised Helen Hastings’ difficulties with words. Her letter ‘a’ was indistinguishable from her letter ‘o’ and letters like ‘i’ or ‘p’ leaned over at crazy angles. Sometimes the letter ‘m’ would end up being a ‘w’ or vice-versa. When exceptionally confused her tongue would loll out over her bottom lip. She was a plump girl, taller than average and still growing rapidly. She was already bursting out of her pinafore dress (identical to those worn her seven year old classmates), which was clean except for a sodden patch on her right sleeve. This was where she would blow her nose. If only she could be back at home on the farm with all those lovely animals – but her mother Elizabeth Hastings, a prosperous yeoman farmer’s wife, had said ‘no’ and so here she was in Dame School. In contrast to Helen, the children of labourers, if they came at all, had only dirty, ragged clothes and would attend only if their parents had a spare penny to pay the school fee, or had little or no work for their children to do. This particular day was a wet, Monday January 23^rd 1832. This meant that work on the farms was scarce so the class was more crowded than usual. However, the children of the very poorest never attended the school. They often had nothing to put on their feet.

Mary Ford’s class was held in the Parish Hall by courtesy of the Parson (who was keen children should ‘learn their letters’ so that they would know the Scriptures).  On this cold wet day Miss Ford sat on a slightly rickety wooden chair, surveying the little fidgeting bodies in front of her. Aged fifty-one, she wore a frilly cap and tortoise shell glasses. Her bulky frame prevented what little heat there was in the ebbing fire from reaching her twenty charges sitting around her on the floor in a semi-circle. Looped around her shoulders was a homemade tartan shawl.  Her husband Thomas would be in the Grocer’s shop busy with customers or teaching his trade to a class of several brighter ten or eleven year old boys in the back room. During quiet periods he would retire upstairs to take a nap, leaving the aforesaid boys to run the shop, ostensibly as part of their education. If items went missing the offending boy would be found, thrashed and sent back to his parents with a letter explaining why he’d been expelled. The result was often another thrashing  - this time from an angry father. Education was brutal in those days – not least because it was regarded as an instrument to ensure survival in a harshly competitive economic environment. Fortunately, such retribution was metered out only rarely; Thomas Ford seemed to have an eye for honest lads and in twelve years he’d been let down only three times and never by a Stamford (who were a prolific family in the locality). Usually, by the age of twelve some of the boys would be ready to be taken on as apprentices by close friends of Thomas or by business acquaintances whom he knew in nearby Hull. Thomas Ford could always be relied upon to know which child had prospects and which didn’t. A quiet word from him could help make or mar a child’s future. His school-cum-shop acted as something of an informal employment agency. He took little interest in girls, regarding their lot in life as pre-ordained, but on the say-so of his wife he was known to recommend the odd girl as a housemaid to one of the yeoman farmers or even to the gentry landowners with whom he took care to be on good terms. Most girls in Burton Pidsea, where the school was situated, would work with their mothers until they married and became mothers themselves. This was how things were in this rural settlement, unaffected by the industrial revolution and some nine miles from the Yorkshire East coast. Compared to a rugged Pennine mill town like Sutton, Burton Pidsea belonged to another world.

As she watched Helen at her work Mary Ford was convinced that this girl had no future prospects whatsoever, other than being a lifelong ‘skivvy’ first to her father and then to whatever man would have the misfortune to marry her – doubtless some farmer or other, possibly one of the less desirable Stamfords (as the Hastings and Stamfords were known frequently to intermarry.) She could see Helen visibly slowing down – the scratching on her slate stopped and her eyes assumed a faraway expression.

“Helen Hastings, stop day-dreaming and pay attention.” Helen sat up quickly, her somewhat uncomprehending eyes focusing on her teacher.

“Remember children, ‘a’ is for apple, ‘b’ is for butter, ‘c’ is for cow, ‘d’ is for Dog and ‘e’ is for egg. Now say after me…”

“ ‘a’ is for apple, ‘b’ is for butter, ‘c’ is for cow, ‘d’ is for Dog and ‘e’ is for egg” the whole class accompanied their teacher in a dirge like tone.

            “You can do better than that. Lets have it again.”

“ ‘a’ is for apple, ‘b’ is for butter, ‘c’ is for cow, ‘d’ is for Dog and ‘e’ is for egg.” This time the class shouted out the words as if they wanted to blow the roof off the Parish Hall.

“There’s no need to make such an unearthly din!”

A boy’s hand shot up; it was one of the labourer’s sons whose head lice had come alive again in the comparative warmth of the hall. He’d the habit of picking them out of his hair and crushing them between his grubby fingers. Boyish mischief beamed from his eyes.

“What is it?”

“Please miss, we doon’t ‘ave any booter in our ‘oose, oonly dripping,”

The class tittered knowingly, Mary Ford’s response was to tip her glasses down her nose and glare over them with a severe look. The titters quickly subsided as they usually did. Mrs Ford again caught sight of Helen.

“Helen, WHAT are you doing? Put your tongue in, you look like an imbecile.”

“Please Miss, I coon’t do me letters.”

“Jane my dear do see to Helen.”

Jane was the school monitor and at thirteen and three-quarters was quite a bit older than her charges. She sullenly moved across to Helen. Her idea of regaining a pupil’s attention was to give them a sharp pinch on the arm as she did now to Helen who threw out a piteous whimper. However, the trick worked and her attention was diverted back to the slate. When Helen had first come to Dame School, she would cry all the time - but all that did was to attract ridicule from the rest of her class. She’d quickly learnt that it was better to suffer in silence. Like others of her age Helen had to ‘learn her letters’ but in her case whenever she did they were soon forgotten again. Poor Helen, neither bright nor beautiful and thankfully unaware that life’s worst tragedies still lay ahead of her.

“Now Helen, let’s see if you’ve learnt your letters this time, stand up and say ‘a’…”

“Is for apple, Miss”

“Good! Prey continue”

“‘b’ is for butter, ‘c’ is for cow, and ‘d’ is for… Eh!’”

“For what, Helen?’

Helen saw her teacher slide her glasses down again. Behind her she heard the labourer’s son whisper, ‘Dripping’

“Dripping Miss.”

The class sniggered with all the cruelty that a class of young children could muster. What tiny spark of confidence Helen may have possessed now melted away.

 “Stand in the corner Helen and don’t come out of it until I say so. I don’t want to hear your wretched blubbering either.” Already enacting the role of passive victim Helen complied, as Jane, with a malicious smile, placed a pointed Dunce’s cap on her head. Poor Helen, neither bright nor beautiful, but as she stood in the corner, choking back her tears it was just as well she didn’t know that far worse humiliations were yet to befall her, both in life and in death.

“Now children I hope the rest of you can remember your letters.”

 

* * *

Ann had a couple of days to herself before she had to return to household duties. She and the ‘new un’ were well, so the worst problem she faced was sleeplessness. Her new baby was a heavy feeder and latched on hard to squeeze out every last drop of milk. John had remarked that the baby was a determined little fellow, who in his opinion looked like Edmund his grandfather. William, who had called in after church along with John’s stepmother had gruffly made the same observation so perhaps there was something in it. Certainly, he’d the loudest wail of all her children and a placid ‘un’ he was not. There would be time later to worry about scarlet fever and the other diseases, which could carry Edmund off to an early grave. For now it was sufficient to enjoy the safe delivery of their child – the latest addition to the Smith household.

Meanwhile, the storm, which had passed over Sutton at the time of Edmund’s birth, was now emptying its contents of sleet and rain onto Burton Pidsea, which lay approximately seventy miles to the East of Sutton. The flat clay fields quickly filled up with water, forming a patchwork of mini-lakes as the last gusts of wind blew out to the North Sea. Helen stood despondently in the corner listening to the wind, her legs aching. She could never have guessed that another storm from Sutton would one day come gusting in to sweep away her own life.

* * *

            It was dark by the time the bus drove into Keighley Bus Station. The tornado of questions spiralling around the researcher’s mind had now settled into an overall feeling of awe and curiosity. An incredible discovery HAD been made but, as was so often the case with historical research, it marked only a beginning rather than an ending. Already he knew that whole vistas of further work needed to be explored. He was also amazed at how easily he’d almost missed the sandstone ‘time capsule’ of Edmund’s monument. If he hadn’t looked back; thankfully, he had and some past influence had been re-awakened, but to what purpose? That was a question the researcher still asked himself as he walked briskly from the bus to the rail station in order to catch the train home to Leeds.

Back To Top

 

 

 

The billowing smoke from clay pipes hung suspended in the taproom, dimming still further the already faint flickers of candlelight. Edmund slowly supped the last remaining beer from his tankard before placing it down on the wooden bench. Just gone sixteen he already looked more of a man than a boy. Carrying bales of wool at Ben Smith’s warehouse had added muscle to his frame and already he was sporting his first beard, though somewhat weak and straggly. (The trim confident man of later years was yet to come.) Edmund knew he wasn’t really needed for this call, but on his sixteenth birthday several weeks previously his Uncle Benjamin had said, “Time for ‘yer to see something o’er ter world, ye’ll see nowt if stuck in ter ware’ouse.” In this case ‘seeing ter world’ amounted to Ben Smith taking his nephew on his round. Although he’d two capable Commercial Travellers to open up new areas, he would visit important customers himself. If he obtained recommendations he would then pass them onto his Travellers. Although he spent much of his time on his premises at Skipton, Ben was not one of those businessmen who loved to stay chained to his accounting books - he’d a clerk to do that for him. In Edmund’s uncle flowed the Smith love of independence. He was never happier than to be out striking a bargain with a new customer.

Normally, a boy would accompany him on his rounds to help carry heavy samples or to open doors, but the aforesaid boy had been ‘carried off’ by pneumonia and until another more robust boy could be found Edmund had been chosen to carry the load. He would see the world of industrial Yorkshire with its drab grey villages and blackened mill towns. Grasping businessmen (for whom trade was always bad) would travel to and fro, eager to strike a deal. Edmund was about to see at first hand, the harsh bleak world of commerce.

“Now then, when we visit our first shop I want yer to keep thy trap shut; say nowt and just watch. Stand beside me, but whatever yer do stay out of ter way of any customers. In t’ unlikely event of shop being full, I might ask thee to wait outside. Ye get ma meanin?”

            Edmund nodded, as he wiped away a thin foam of beer from his lips. Wearing slightly ragged trousers and a checked waistcoat his clothing was indistinguishable from any other moderately respectable workman. Two elbow patches neatly padded the outer arms of his jacket. The time for smarter garb would come only when Ben finally decided that here was a young man with potential – someone fitted to be a Commercial Traveller. At the moment he was unsure of his nephew’s prospects, but for John’s sake he was willing to give him a try. ‘The lad deserved a chance and would get’ un.’

            Even at the tender age of sixteen, Edmund’s most distinguishing feature was his searching eyes. They were cold, blue, penetrating eyes, which bore into one with the force of a canon shot. They gave warning that beneath his surly exterior lay a subterranean ocean of passion. His uncle readily admitted that they could ‘frighten any customer into buying cloth,’ but there was something of a ‘Wild William’ about them. He hoped that John’s boy wouldn’t turn out like that relative, but already his work had shown more self-discipline than Wild William who was never talked about since the commotion at Skipton back in 1842. He was also fastidious like his mother Ann. Perhaps in the end he would make good but at this moment in time he was still an uncertain prospect. Overall, Uncle Ben viewed Edmund as ‘a rum ‘un,” not straightforward like his father. Possibly he was more like his Grandfather who was still a formidable figure in Smith folk-law.

“Learn by observin, my lad. Watch what I do and in ter second visit I’ll let you show ter customer some samples but let me do ter yammering. In ter third shop I’ll allow yer to show some samples – the ones I gave yer at the ware’ouse – but leave me to ‘aggle orver the prices, otherwise they’ll try and dun you. Get ma meanin?”

            Again Edmund responded with a curt nod.

            His Uncle could tell that his nephew was quick-witted and an extremely hard ‘grafter.’ He was never late for his work. He also knew that he’d the discipline to sensibly ignore the envy of the other warehouse lads who believed he was being taken out on rounds mainly because he was the ‘gaffer’s’ boy. All very commendable, but why did he look as if he were fighting the world all the time? He could shatter ice with those eyes. Yet he were John’s lad and Ben knew that John would have wanted him to give Edmund a good start in life. In hard times like these families had to stick together - couldn’t afford to fall out, and after all, his nephew WAS good at his work. He showed great promise as long as he didn’t put people’s noses out of joint. Those eyes would be ‘the makin or breakin of ‘im.’

            While Ben pondered, Edmund had caught sight of a man sitting (or rather slouching) near the entrance of the taproom. He was drinking alone – always a bad sign - and sitting in a wooden chair away from the other customers, empty glass in hand.  Now Edmund enjoyed observing people, guessing what they did, how they lived and what their foibles were. His interest in human nature was similar to that of an anatomist when viewing a dead body – real, but cold and detached.

            Edmund could see the glass trembling in the man's hands - here was an alcoholic if there ever was one. His chequered trousers and well-cut coat denoted a gentleman – someone who once had prospects. His spectacles hung loosely on his beak-like nose and his head was crowned by a knotted clump of what, through the dim light, Edmund guessed to be ginger hair. An unwashed, unkempt appearance added to the air of dereliction. With a palsied movement the man staggered up from his chair and jerked uncertainly toward the bar, where stood a large bosomed landlady, wearing a white apron. Edmund noticed that his clothes were hanging loosely as if they were already draping a skeleton.

            “Another whisky,” he demanded with the desperation of one who had long lost control of a suicidal addiction. Edmund noted the slurred tone of his speech.

            “Avn’t yer ‘ad enough tonight?” responded the landlady sharply.

            “A man has to drown his sorrows, you know,” he peered weakly at her, looking for her sympathy.

            “But you’re ALWAYS drowning your sorrows.” Sympathy was not a commodity she was about to give.

            “I have many to drown.”

            “Alright – but this is the LAST time, I worn’t ‘ave yer makin thyself disagreeable ter the other regulars.”

            “Do I ever make myself…”

Pursed lips and a darting upward movement of her head showed her obvious disagreement with his last remark. She turned her back and poured him a drink before facing him again.

            “Can I pay tomorrow, I don’t even have a farthing”

            “If you like, but there’s nowt more until yer do pay and dorn’t goer crawling to other Inns either, they worn’t ‘ave you after yer run up so many debts.”

            “God bless your GOOD Christian charity Maam.”

The man staggered back to his chair as the landlady proceeded to serve her other customers. She was quietly relieved that at least on this occasion he’d not praised her for being like his “dear departed” mother. Edmund looked at the drunkard and despised him.

Ben had also seen the man, indeed had followed his every move. He quietly remarked to Edmund, “See that fool yonder? Folk say ‘e ‘ad ‘is ‘eart broke by some fine and dandy lady three years back. The story that’s goin the rounds were that she were an older and married; it turned pretty nasty.”

            “’es a gentleman” was Edmund’s reply

“Oh aye – if ‘e were a real’un ‘e wouldn’t be ‘ere wi’ the likes of us. ‘E also would not a sunk as  low as that. Unlike t’em poor ‘ungry weavers, who got nowt better to do e as no excuse. Aye there’s no fool like a drunken fool. You take my word Ed. ‘old your drink and dahnt let it master you”

Edmund at once began to equate the word ‘gentleman’ with ‘sobriety.’ If he was ever to become one he would never allow himself to become inebriated in low drinking dens but would use his money well. His uncle Ben was saying something: -

“Anyway, I’m turning in, ye worna be long, Ed?”

            “Goin’ for a walk, it’ll clear me ‘ead”

 “Alright then, but dorn’t be long, I dorn’t want you to bang around ter room or kick orver the chamber pot like you did t’other night.” He chuckled humorously, “Good job it ‘ad nowt in it. Dorn’t fret about tomorrow, things will work out fine and dandy. Remember you’re a Smith and the Smiths could always sell the rotten leg off a dead Donkey.” A long drawn out yawn ended this word of exhortation. “Must turn in lad and dorna be long in joining me,” he added sharply.

            Following these words Edmund’s Uncle headed up the stairs directly opposite where they’d been sitting. His nephew walked purposefully outside to enjoy the company of a thousand thoughts.

 

* * *

 

Successive generations of Smiths had found the moorland air to be more than bracing – not least because it blew away the smell of beer and tobacco smoke. The late winter night was cold but dry and Edmund could see regiments of stars shimmering in the almost cloudless sky. A full moon shone clear and bright above the dark, gently undulating horizon – it seemed to hang there like a beacon far removed from the dirt and grime of industrial England. Thankfully, in this part of Yorkshire the mills hadn’t yet left a legacy of haze and Edmund could breathe easily and deeply. He sat down on a low stonewall, musing to himself. He was only too aware that he ‘was not a companionable lad’ – his uncle had often remarked on this. Well, except for business purposes he didn’t have to be. He was more than happy on his own. He didn’t miss the company of others! If he’d been a poet his Mooreland stroll would have provoked a legion of verses to crowd into his mind, but as he was not his mind remained fixed on more prosaic matters such as the manner of conducting the next day’s business. Occasionally, memories of his parents would intrude, but these he took care to stifle. The keen sense of pain and discomfort were too much to dwell upon.

Twenty minutes later Edmund was walking up the steeply sloping High Street back toward the Inn. He was ready for some sleep. A cloud had covered the moon and it was dark.

Suddenly, nearby a desperate voice pleaded, “Excuse me! Excuse me! My good Sir,”

“Oh-aye, what’s this then!” exclaimed Edmund as the slurred voice continued to plea with growing desperation, “Can you help me, Can you please help me?”  Edmund looked down and saw a groping shadow in front of him, crawling on all fours like a wounded, hunted animal. His hands were reaching out toward an open channel of sewerage. “I’ve lost my glasses, I’ve lost my glasses; can you help me good sir?”

Suppressing a mutinous crew of doubts, Edmund knelt down and saw the glasses lying on the very lip of the drainage channel. One of the lenses was cracked but they were still wearable. He deftly he picked them up and slipped them over the man’s nose. The man grabbed at Edmund with both hands, attempting to stand and assume a vague appearance of humanity. Edmund now recognised him as the pathetic drunk he’d seen earlier.

“Thank you, good Sir! May the good Lord bless you for your act of charity.” The man’s voice had assumed that false bonhomie common to many alcoholics.

“Now, young Sir, I wonder if you could help a gentleman make his way back home? It be the big house beyond the Church Yard.”

 Before the words “Find your own way ‘ome you damn fool” could be uttered, the drunkard was leaning on Edmund’s shoulder, giving him incomprehensible directions as to where his house lay. Together, they trudged up the High Street.

‘I might see if I can earn a few pennies for carrying this fool ’ome,” calculated Edmund who was already learning to see the chance of commercial gain in even the most unpromising of circumstances.

“Where’s your ‘ouse?”

“Up beyond the big Church” replied the drunkard, leaning on Edmund who was already inwardly cursing for having got so involved.

“It’s like ‘umpin a big sack o’ wool,” grumbled Edmund

“What did you say my young fellow?”

“Oh, never mind”

As they lumbered on the drunken man began rambling, “She was the Aphrodite of my heart, the ravishing Medusa of my soul, the divinely seductive Venus who plucked all decency from me and left me empty – miserably empty. Thanks to her dishonourable advances I am ruined, utterly and completely ruined.” Uncle Ben’s was right - an older, married woman had been involved in this drunkard’s downfall

“Oh-aye” replied Edmund, having already decided that his leech-like companion had clearly allowed himself to be ruined by the fairer sex; this was apparent, even without any of the classical allusions, which were meaningless to Edmund.

“Has your heart ever been broken by a woman?”

“No” responded Edmund with glacial coldness.

“Too young I suppose?”

Edmund nodded abruptly.

“But YOU look as if you could break a lady’s heart!”

His companion drew his face closer to Edmund, who deftly backed off.

“Ladies dorn’t marry the likes of us, ornly lasses do.”

“And prey young man, what’s the difference between the two?”

“Ladies always spend your brass and lasses ‘elp you save it”

“So, no woman at all in your life?”

Edmund detected a certain degree of eager animation in his voice.

“No, too busy tryin to learn a trade and get a decent livin.”

“Oh, you ARE a strange one”

“If yer say so,” grunted Edmund disliking his unwelcome companion all the more as each moment passed.

Having drawn himself a little taller his companion conspiratorially remarked, placing a knowing finger on his nose. “I bet you will one day break a lady’s heart.”

Edmund threw him a glance of utter contempt, thinking, ‘You utter fool - ‘avin a good station in life and throwin’ it all away because of some foolish ‘arridan.’

After a loud belch the drunkard introduced another subject.“My father’s a good Christian gentleman – prays for my soul every day. Makes me sleep in his room so I won’t come to any harm. Hee! Hee! Hee! What about your father?”

“’E’s dead, killed in a mill accident back in ’43.”

“Oh I am so very VERY sorry. Was he a good Christian gentleman?”

“’E set me on the straight and narrow, so I wouldn’t fall into temptation.”

“My own father tries to do the same with me, Hee! Hee! Hee!”

The note of mockery in the man’s voice only added to Edmund’s heartfelt contempt. Even worse, the directions given by the drunkard were as confusing as his meandering life story. First, they’d taken a wrong turning, leading only to the valley bottom. Then they’d gone up a side street, which had taken them out onto some bleak moors. Finally (and more successfully) they’d ended up in a treeless graveyard.

“Ah! The path to my dear father’s home”  

A small gate in the rear wall of the graveyard opened the way to the large sepulchre-like house. Now sweating under the increasingly inert load he was bearing, Edmund saw the feint gleam of an oil lamp shining from a top window.

“That’s my sister, lighting the way home. She’s an angel, my guardian angel, unlike…” suddenly the man made a violent retching sound, closely followed by an eruption of vomit, which splattered out onto a flat pavement tombstone. Some of the noxious globules caught the bottom of Edmund’s trousers. The retching and heaving subsided amidst a desperate gasping for air. Then came another quieter eruption from the posterior of the drunkard’s, body and a vile-sewerage like stench wafted into the air.

“Oh, I am sorry, so desperately sorry” the drunkard whined. He’d now entered the maudlin and self-pitying stage of intoxication – but Edmund full of anger stood resolute, and pitiless aside.

“I am a ruined man”

“I can see that,” retorted Edmund, who felt sorely tempted to leave him alone in the graveyard.

“The jaws of death have closed around me”

“Humph!”

“I am a man fit only for Hell”

“You’ve made your own Hell.”

“I am beyond redemption.”

“You chose to be.”

By the time this ungainly pair had passed through the gate the drunkard was blubbering incoherently whilst a heavily sweating Edmund was calculating how many pennies he would earn for his good deed – he’d better earn something after all this toil. He could see the drunkard’s right hand begin to shake uncontrollably.

‘’e ain’t got long left in this world’ observed Edmund morosely.

 

* * *

It took an eternal two minutes before a response came to Edmunds angry knocking. The door opened and looming three steps above them was the forbidding presence of a clergyman whose bushy eyebrows were raised in stern disapproval. He held a candle in his right hand. Long side-whiskers hung down to his chin, adding to the severity of his bolt upright demeanour. His expression would have shattered a piece of moorland granite.

‘Oh ‘ell, tis the Parson’s, ‘ouse’ thought Edmund, whose hope of a just reward for his good deed disappeared instantly. Before he could speak he heard someone call out from within the house.

“Is it?” It was an unusually deep and strong female voice.

“Yes it is. He is with a common mill boy.” The last three words were spat out with a venom, which discomfited even Edmund.

“We must get him up QUICKLY, I don’t want father disturbed like he was the other night.”

Meanwhile Edmund continued to carry the weight of this drunkard – he was leaning hard on him all the while. The clergyman had remained motionless, glowering down at both of them.

“Can we come in?” protested Edmund “’umping ‘im about ‘as been like ‘umping a sack o’ coal. Found ‘im rollin in gutter I did – but my good Christian ‘eart took pity and…”

With another contemptuous raising of the eyebrows the clergyman beckoned them into the stone flagged hall, lined with wallpaper that Edmund could dimly see was of a pallid floral design. His host placed the candle on a side table and blew it out, leaving only a dim oil lamp to provide some illumination. From somewhere in the hall, Edmund heard the loud ticking of a grandfather clock.

“Keep him away from that lamp” the clergyman instructed, “he’s more than once almost had this house burnt down.”

The drunkard briefly sprung into life and gasped, “I am sorry, so sorry.”

“You’ve said that before,” retorted the clergyman. Edmund found it difficult to guess whom he resented more, his stinking companion or this ‘hoy poloy’ clergyman.

A swish of wide billowing skirts marked the descent of a female presence from the upstairs landing and down into the hallway. There was something almost masculine about this woman. In the pale light her expression looked grim and businesslike – it reminded him of the sternest of mill owner’s.

“We must undress him quickly and not disturb father who is exhausted.”

“I’ll ‘elp ‘im up” offered Edmund in a tone of mock servility.

“You will do nothing of the sort young man. Just wait down here,” snapped the Clergyman

“But its not fair asking a lady to help you.”

“It is none of your business” came the curt reply.

However, it was a flint-arrow look from the woman, which persuaded Edmund to cease argueing any further. Here was a lady who didn’t wish to be viewed in any way as delicate. She detached the barely conscious drunkard from Edmund’s shoulder, placing him on that of the clergyman. All three receded into the darkness upstairs, with the clergyman muttering, “Falling in with uncouth mill boys, whatever next?”

Edmund stretched and shuffled – relieved at having lost his unwelcome burden.  He waited patiently, though with diminishing expectation of receiving any reward. He began to look about him, curious to see something of the inside of the Parson’s house. As his eyes became accustomed to the dim light could just make out a motionless figure. It was a lady, small in stature and wearing tortoise shell glasses. A brief smile revealed slightly prominent teeth. She looked at him most intently. Her most striking feature was her look of. Surely she was over thirty and seemed like any other Parson’s ‘old maid’ but no, she was something more than that. A woman had never, since his childhood, watched Edmund so intently and he felt uneasy.

He gave a polite cough before asking, “Is there anything more I can do, maam?”

“You’ve shown enough charity already.”

“I were ‘ornly doin’ my ‘umble duty.”

“I know,” she remarked sympathetically.

“That man messed my trousers ‘e did” continued Edmund, determined to make at least one attempt at monetary gain. He pointed down to the stains, only barely visible in the dim light.

“I do apologise”

“Will cost me to ‘ave ‘em cleaned”

“You will be recompensed.”

A silence followed as she continued to gaze, making Edmund feel so uncomfortable that the return of the Clergyman was something of a relief. He addressed the small woman, “He’s down for the night; at least he didn’t make the same commotion as last time. Oh you’re still here,” he said, turning to face Edmund. The woman quickly gave details about Edmund’s trousers.

“Yes, I suppose he must be compensated. He did get him safely back after all, I suppose. Here, take a penny!”

Edmund was quick to exclaim. “These were new trousers, I must look smart for my RESPECTABLE trade. Need them cleaned – sixpence for damages done.”

“Here, take three pence and that is all!”

A grudging “Ta-thank yer” was Edmund’s only response.

The lady again fired him with a look, “I am grateful for what you did. It was MOST charitable”

“Thank yer maam” replied Edmund, with a curt but respectable nod in her direction.

As the door closed behind him Edmund again breathed in the cool night air. He made his way through the gate leading out of the graveyard, muttering, “3d – ornly 3d, - wanted a shillinn at least and I’ve got to me trousers to clean. Weren’t worth the effort. Should ‘ave left ‘im in ter gutter where ‘e belonged.” All he could do was to console himself with the hope that one day he would gain such a position in society that no one would ever dismiss Edmund Smith as being ‘common.’  He would show those fine ladies and stuck up Clergymen a thing or two. That night his fervent desire to rise higher in the world was born. He would set no limits on what he would try to achieve.

 

* * *

 

Whilst Edmund was finding his way back to the Inn, grumbling all the while about his meagre recompense, the lady who’d observed him had returned to her seat next to an oval writing table. Neatly arranged papers lay around an oil lamp. The crossings out over minutely small handwriting showed she’d been re-drafting an almost completed document.

She sat pondering, ‘that boy did have a wild look about him and a most striking face. If we’d met earlier I could have fitted him in, but not now, it’s nearly finished – best leave things as they are.’ Beneath her hand, lay the manuscript of Jane Eyre.

 

* * *

 Edmund Smith would have to wait over one hundred and fifty years before he could make his contribution to the world of English Literature. The man he’d carried home that night in Haworth had been Branwell Brontё, the dissipated brother of the Brontё sisters. In just over six months following this meeting with Edmund he would be dead from a combination of tuberculosis, opium addiction and alcohol abuse.

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The slam of the door said everything. From its noise, the children knew that father would be in one of his ‘black humours.’ Quickly, they scurried upstairs, with one of the maids admonishing, “Hush, you’ll waken the dead.” “Soon our Sydney will be among the dead,” muttered young Frank as he joined the exodus upstairs. In-between his ninth and tenth years, Frank was a portly boy who was easily out of breath. Like the other children he was wearing a white night gown and had been surprised by his father’s early return from work. It was not yet dark, but father was back with urgent family business to attend to. “’Ee worn’t be pleased to have ornly cold meat for ‘is tea. Always likes ‘a three square meal ‘ee does,’ thought Frank as he dashed breathless toward the bedroom door, a roaring from the scullery quickly confirming his prediction. “Down to workhouse slops now are we? What are servants coming to, the country is going to the dogs!” This roar of protest could be heard from one end of 16 Vernon Road to the other. In contrast, Edmund Smith ~ the very man feeling so badly done to, would have heard his second daughter Ann say, “Hush father, there’s the Doctor in the house, try not to create a scene.” Instantly, his ‘roaring’ subsided into a cantankerous grumble.  This was made in a broad Yorkshire accent - ‘the gentleman’s voice’ was something he reserved for important customers who expected Commercial Travellers in the wool trade to show a bit of breeding.

            Angered by this rebuke from ‘a mere girl,’ Edmund bounded out of the scullery and rushed up the stairs. Some forty-seven years of age he was still a vigorous man, in the prime of life despite having a mane of grey hair and matching beard. When having one of ‘his roaring fits’ he would remind the children of a lion they had once seen at a circus. That too had displayed a terrible energy in its ferocity but then there had been a lion tamer who could crack the whip to bring it to order. There was no one to crack a whip at Edmund for he was a person who liked to be in command of everything. “Orderly livin” was what he called it.

            With the speed of a man who wanted to know exactly what was going on he reached the top of the stairs. The day had been hard but the night promised to be even harder. As he stood outside the bedroom door his thoughts were still on his business, ‘Aye, I would ‘ave a fussy customer to ‘andle the day after the funeral’. He had often called the customer in question ‘the bless’d un.’ This was something of a witty remark for Edmund but in reality this gentleman was a sore trial to his patience. Edmund had tried hard to catch up on some work after yesterday’s interment of Hilda, but all he had done was to run into yet more difficulties. Muddy shoes in the scullery were proof that only the previous day he had stood beside an open grave. Yet today, on Tuesday April 29^th 1879, he had been forced to endure the living. He had suffered another bad day and there was one further sick child to attend to. The last one, a girl called Hilda Marion Smith had died only three days ago and now, after a fortnights struggle with scarlet fever, Sydney looked set to follow. With Hilda the disease had been shorter, but she had been two and a half years old, less than a year younger than Sydney. Edmund’s life at present seemed to consist of work and funerals. He had left the nursing of his sick child to the women, after all that was their duty. His responsibility was to bring in enough money to ensure that expensive funeral bills would not ruin the family.        

He brusquely opened the bedroom door with the air of a man in authority, determined to see to his daily business rather than allow for the luxury of fatigue. Family bereavement would not provoke him to blow his brains out ~ unlike the accountant he had heard about. Only weak men did that sort of thing. In contrast he, Edmund Smith had survived many a family tragedy and he would go on surviving until the Smiths had attained their rightful place in the world. He knew his ambition in life and he would achieve it. One day his descendants would thank him for it even if half his children died and more than half who remained were useless. Oh yes, he knew what he wanted out of life and he would get it. No doubt about that!

            Slowly his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the sick room. The curtains were drawn and the oil lamp burned dimly. He made out the shadowy forms of his older daughter Betsey and one of the two maids. Clad in black, Betsey already had the prim look of a Victorian spinster even though she was only nineteen years old. All her life she had been minding her father’s business and she would go on minding it until his demise in July 1915.

            “’ows Sydney?” Edmund asked gruffly.

            “‘Ee’s taken bad father.”

            “Not surprised. Knew it would go’r this way.”

            “Where’s Rosamond?”

            “She’s resting ~ last night nearly killed ‘er.”

“The screams kept me awake as well and I ‘ad important business to do the next day.”

He then looked down at the prostrate form of Sydney. Garish red blotches told him that it was a fever not going to be cured. Around these blotches there lay a pallor of death. Edmund’s expression resembled that of a wool merchant looking at a poor cut of cloth. There was a mixture of disdain and sadness in his face. Like Hilda before, having Sydney had proved to be ‘a rum bargain.’ No point in crying over spilt milk ~ there would be urgent business to attend to. Nevertheless, for Edmund, the death of a boy always came harder than the death of a girl. Girls after all were an expense but boys could sometimes pay their way. If not, they could always be cast out into the world to sink or swim.

Wagging an accusing finger at his dying son he said “The boy worn’t last the night.”

“I know father.”

“What’s your sister been doin?”

“I asked her to look after the little uns with the other maid”.

            In response to this display of efficiency he threw his daughter a look that almost amounted to affection ~ after all she was so very capable ~ not like Helen her mother. Edmund Smith was not a demonstrative man but sometimes a flicker of warmth would temporarily melt the cold hardness in his eyes. His wife and eldest daughter were the only people who could produce that effect. No one else moved him, for Edmund was indeed a hard man who said little but did much. Only when he had an opinion to offer or was somehow crossed would the words start to flow and when they did the family would quail in terror. The whole household had long learnt to dread his ‘black humours.’ A pall of misery would hang in the air for hours ~ or all day if it was a Sunday. His long days working as a Commercial Traveller for the Clothing Manufacturer Stewart Macdonald often came as a relief.

            “I’ve seen that the Doctor ‘as been”

            “Yes father. He gave the potion that he gave 'ilda.”

            “That’s just some opiate to quieten ‘im,” he retorted.        

The tone of his voice confirmed that he had seen rather too much of the Doctor of late. At least with the undertaker he had managed to gain some custom. Only last year he had arranged for him to receive a large supply of drapery just before the winter ‘dying season.’ As a consequence the undertaker had knocked something off from the bill for ‘doing’ Hilda ~ unlikely to do the same for Sydney though. Death was such an expense ~ couldn’t there be a more economical way to enter the next world?

            “Father! Doctor Robson’s waiting downstairs, he wants to settle the bill now!” She said this in a slightly vexed voice ~ wanting to get a distracted parent out of the way.

            “I left ‘im the fee.”

            “Yes, but he said something about needing to see the ‘ead of the ‘ouse and that things needed to be done properly. Was most particular about it, ‘e was”

            ‘Confound the Doctor’ he thought as he abruptly turned round, opened the door and noisily thundered down the stairs. As the door closed behind him Betsey threw the maid a knowing look ~ as if to say ‘men are such a bother at a time like this.’ She then resumed mopping Sydney’s brow with a damp cloth, softly saying “By the morning you will have joined your little sister over the yonder.”

 

            As the noise of their father’s steps receded, the door of the boy’s room creaked quietly open. A young face looked out across the landing to where Sydney was. From inside the room a voice whispered “Ernest, Ernest do you see anything? What’s goin ‘on Ernest?”

            “Papa has gone down the stairs in a frightful stew, he has to see the Doctor. Betsey has been left to look after him. Mama must be resting” Ernest’s voice was a great deal more refined than that of Frank’s. Two years education at the nearby Grammar School had left its mark in the way he spoke. Frank himself was due to begin there on May 6^th ~ a week’s time. His thoughts had been on the school of late ~ taking his mind off other things. Ernest closed the door and looked at Frank before returning to his bed. Frank was sometimes slow to take things in but he thought about things more deeply than others supposed.

            “Ernie, do you think Sydney will last the night?”

            “Of course not, silly.”

“Then father will be in one of his black humours and we will have more scenes and carryings on.”

“Indubitably” replied Ernest, who liked to show off all the new words he was learning at a school where every boy was taught the Queens English. One mispronunciation and an offending lad would soon hear the swish of the cane.

“Ernie.”

“What!”

“I miss mamma.”

“Oh don’t be silly, she’s just tired.”

“She wornt die of a broken heart will she?”

“Don’t be a pot-herb Frank ~ she still has us to look after.”

“I ‘ope not. Who would calm father’s ‘umours?”

“Now you jolly well stop it Frank. Just try to think of your new school and all the things that you will learn there.”

A brief pause followed before Frank asked: -

“Will it be ‘ard at the Grammar school. Learning all ‘em fancy Greek and Latin words?”

“Sometimes.”

“Are the teachers strict?”

“They can be. But the headmaster is a decent old stick. If you have to see him in his study he does not cane you the first time. He tells you to behave like ‘a true Christian gentleman’. Only if you have to see him a second time does he cane you. But even then he says that it is going to hurt him far more than it will hurt you. Of course that is never true. What they really like at the school is if you‘re good at sport or look as if you’re going to enter posh places like Cambridge or Oxford ~ then the masters may even smile at you and say you’re a credit to the school.”

“Aw I see,” replied Frank whose face betrayed the conviction that he was neither going to be very good at sport nor possess the brains to go to Oxbridge.

“‘Ave you ever had to see the ‘eadmaster Ernie.”

“I would not tell you even if I had. Father might hear.”

Another pause occurred.

“Ernie”

“What!”

“Will the Grammar School make a gentleman of me? That’s what father said when ‘e told me that I was going.”

“Father said the same to me too.”

“But will it?”

“Of course! Look at how well I am speaking. I also know a lot of Greek and Latin verbs just like those jolly clever people at Oxford and Cambridge.”

“Cor! That is something. I then worn’t talk common.”

“Of course not! The masters are very keen on what they call proper pronunciation of the Queen’s English.” Ernest then yawned ~ he was obviously finding his brother getting to be more tedious as the night wore on.

“Ernest.”

“Goodnight! I am going to sleep.”

“But Ernie!”

“No it’s time for sleep. Father would be so cross if he could hear us now.”

“Aw Ernie1”

This time the reply was the thump of the pillow over his face.

            “Ow that hurt.”

“Goter to sleep yer big cry baby.” snapped Ernest, speaking in a very distinct Yorkshire accent.

 

            Sleep came in limited doses for Rosamond Smith. Long nights spent watching sick children had left her exhausted but unable to rest in any other than short snatches. Yesterday, she had been faced with the choice of going to Sutton in order to see one of her children being buried or of staying at home in Leeds to nurse another child whose demise was now only a matter of time. She had chosen the second alternative, or rather it had been chosen for her, as her husband had remarked, “There’s nowt you can do about 'ilda now, you’re needed to nurse the living.” Again she had to admit that he was right, for a trip to the family vault would have been too much. She also knew that her husband was anxious that she should not catch a cold in the bad weather. He did care for her in a rough and ready sort of way. Since his return home he had briefly had burst into the master bedroom where she was resting, muttering something about ‘confounded Doctors.’ Rosamond had closed her eyes until he had gone again. Mercifully, his stay had only been for a few seconds but it was enough to confirm that he was in one of his black humours. It must now be evening for Edmund had never allowed anything to stop him from his business. “Got Doctors and funeral bills to pay,” he had retorted when she had asked him to spend a day at home following the death of baby Aldyth in March 1875. ‘He would still be working for Stewart Macdonald as a Commercial Traveller until the Judgement Day. Oh yes he would’ she wryly thought. That firm was her one great rival for his love. ‘Always wanting to better himself ~ our Edmund, never one to show his feelings.’ Yet in some ways she had been blest. At least when sadness came into the family he always took refuge in business rather than drink. ‘Couldn’t complain on that score,’ she reflected.

When the ladies from a nearby church had come to commiserate over the loss of Hilda two days previously, they had praised Edmund to the skies saying, “Your Edmund must be a tower of strength at a time like this. Such a good provider for the family.” ‘Eeee! What did they know? Half of them would want to marry him, if anything ever happened to her.’ “Of such distinguished appearance” they said. Well, nothing was going to happen to her not until she had brought up all the little ones ~ then her duty would be done but not before. In her mind, no lady from the chapel was going to drive her ~ Rosamond Smith ~ into an early grave just to get their grubby hands on Edmund. He was hers until the good Lord ruled otherwise. Her careworn face then sunk onto the pillow showing that she had fallen into one of her fitful slumbers. In her late thirties, she looked more like someone at least fifteen years older. What almost seemed like continuous pregnancies had taken their heavy toll.

 

The shaking of the young Doctor’s head confirmed what Edmund already knew.

“I am sorry Mr Smith but everything possible has been done. I did what I could.”

            ‘Aaarg! That’s what she used to say’ thought Edmund as he looked at the Doctor with barely concealed impatience.

“I perfectly understand Doctor. The Lord’s will be done.”

“It is good to see that you are so stoical in these most tragic circumstances.”

“Have you received your fees?”

“Your daughter gave it to me. Such a magnificently calm girl, a chip-off the old block if I may be so bold as to say. She does you credit.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

“If you want to delay payment until matters are a little resolved I would of course understand.”

“Doctor, you know me well enough by now. I always pay my bills on time regardless of circumstances.”

“You’re such a brave man Mr Smith,” the young Doctor enthused. Still fairly new to general practice he was eager to ingratiate himself with those who were likely to provide plenty of future custom.

“I just like to get things done promptly.”

“Yes, of course. Anyway, I have another patient to see - the poor man has a daughter with the vapours. I must prescribe something to calm her. He finished courteously by adding, “She’s not at all like Betsey, I hope all bodes well under the circumstances.”

The Doctor replaced his top hat, wrapping a white scarf around his neck before leaving through the front door that Edmund had already opened for him. A shower of cold drizzle showed that spring had come very late this year. As the Doctor walked down the stone steps, out through the front garden entrance and up toward the coach house, he mused, ‘Now that should keep him as a patient regardless of what happens to the child. Always praise a father’s favourite daughter without getting over-familiar that’s what I say.’ From inside a red brick coach house at the top of Vernon Road a horse gave a forlorn neigh.

As Edmund finished locking up he muttered “Confounded Doctors. All they give you are fancy words. They are all the same. They do nothing, but still take every last farthing. The Doctor ‘as been the second fool I’ve met today”

 

Sydney was still now. With the fever it was always the same. First there was the screaming, then the whimpering and finally the silence. Soon the breathing would stop. Only in his intermittent moaning and fitful dreaming did there exist any sign of life. The nightmares ceased and now all he could see in his dreams was his mother kissing him and gently blowing him on his stomach as she used to do when he was a baby.

 

Meanwhile, Frank lay half-awake, day thinking to himself, ‘One day I will marry a right fine lady and show father what a real gentleman is. ‘E worn’t apply the rod of correction then, aw nor ‘e worn’t.’ He then gave a quiet knowing chuckle before drifting off to sleep.

 

His mother Rosamond was not so much dreaming but actively reflecting upon what had been and what could have been. Soon she would have to get up and tend to Sydney but for now it was best to rest quietly and hope for her pounding headache to subside. Betsey could look after him for now, always a most efficient girl. She took after her father Betsey did. If anything happened to Rosamond Betsey could take-over the role of mistress of the house in much the same way as she (Rosamond) had taken over the role from Betsey’s mother, Helen. But where had Rosomond failed as a mother? She had cared for poor children as if they had been her own. Even Edmund said that she was ‘a good un’ although he took care to keep such displays of affection from the children. He had almost grovelled to marry her after death, oh yes he had been most solicitous in his attentions, buying little presents and looking quite ‘a swell’ in his new checked trousers and frock coat. Her own father had said he was quite a regular chap with a good head for business. So Edmund had always provided for his family in bad times as well as good, never drunk never a source of gossip and never indulged in unspeakable vices in the City Centre. Also with her he was only ever violent in tongue, but with the children it was different ~ they had learned to dread his rod of correction, particularly young Frank whom Edmund had often said was too tied to her apron strings. Edmund’s only other love was his business and that at least kept him out of the house for most of the day. ‘Trade was in his blood, oh yes it was! Went back generations it did. Skipton would never hold a man like Edmund, oh no it couldn’t. He was always striving to improve himself, never knew when to stop. His mind was nearly always on somewhere else other than the family. But when it was on the family we all knew about it, not half we didn’t.’ She knew that the little ones often trembled when he was physically amongst them to attend to family matters.

It was Helen, in the last months of that fatal pregnancy that was responsible for first planting the idea of Rosamond marrying Edmund. They had been busy sewing together when Helen, in her usual and slow, meandering way asked:

“Dear Rosamond, I wonder if you would please pay a very important consideration?

“What kind of consideration do you have in mind Auntie?”

“I wonder whether if any sorrow arose from my confinement, that you would look after my little ones?”

“Of course I would Auntie, I find them an absolute treasure,” exclaimed Rosamond. She had thought that anything would be better than having to return to Burton Pidsea to look after her increasingly cantankerous grandfather, James Hastings. In Leeds she had experienced a new freedom, not available to her remote village. The shops in the Town Centre had formed a particularly seductive attraction.

“I know they are fond of you, James and Betsey almost view you as a second mother.”

“But there can only ever be one mother for your children.”

“They might need another one soon.”

“Don’t say that Auntie!”

A pause followed as the two ladies resumed their sewing.

“Dear Rosamond, just in case anything happened to me would you take my place?”

“Don’t be a goose - nothing will happen, your husband will see to that!”

“Rosamond! Edmund will need a capable wife to look after the house. Since you came from Burton Pidsea to help me, his humours have improved considerably. I‘ve been such a cold and undutiful wife,” she said, her voice trailing off sadly. Tearfully she recalled his last rebuke when he had loudly observed before the maids “Your niece Rosamond has done more to sort this ‘ouse out in one week than you’ve done in orver eight years.”

“Don’t say that Aunt, you did what you could.”

“Dear Rosamond I want to leave a legacy of happiness to my little angels and to my husband. That is something I can still do, if only you would give your consent.”

“Well, if the worse did come to the worse and Edmund did ask I would not refuse, but I am sure that …”

“Oh thank you Rosamond! I know that you will bring happiness to this house and earn the respect that somehow…” again her voice trailed off as she picked up her sewing once more.

That night Rosamond was in turmoil. Somehow her instinct told her that Helen would not survive what had already been a very difficult pregnancy. She also knew that she had made a commitment that could change her own life and that of many other people. Hardest of all was coming to terms with her feelings for Edmund who was out that night on his travels. Initially, he had struck her as being an ill tempered ‘bear’ of a man, but when he had seen how quickly she had got everything into order he had quickly mellowed. She had to admit to herself that she did seem strangely attracted to his rock-like strength. He at least knew his own mind, unlike many of those in the village. Yes, she would accept any proposal if anything did happen to Auntie and she was sure it would. A woman’s instinct does not lie about such things. Meanwhile, Helen slept peacefully, convinced that for once in her life she had done something right. Her children and her husband would be in good hands. She had indeed done what she could.

Only a few weeks later Helen lay bleeding to death. Her womb had ruptured and all hope had been abandoned. The child had been stillborn but there was still a last opportunity to do something for the living. Whilst Edmund was downstairs noisily haggling over the Doctor’s fees, a rapidly weakening Helen rallied to make one last whispered plea: -

“Rosamond, will you take my place?”

“Yes I will.”

“You’ve been so kind, be a good mother to my little ones.”

Helen then grasped the hand of her successor and gave it a surprisingly firm squeeze before lapsing into unconsciousness. It was time to call Edmund. He hated death, not least because it was so disruptive to the normal routine of his life. For him, the unforgivable thing about death was not that loved ones died and were gone forever from this life, but that the upheaval surrounding death had a habit of disrupting his business, always occurring at the worst possible times.

The months after the funeral at Sutton had been difficult. Edmund had to work extra hard to pay for the costs of the monument. Why he was so insistent about Sutton when there was perfectly respectable Woodhouse Street cemetery nearby, Rosamond could not fathom. She knew the township had been his birthplace, but his family had left it when he was only a young baby. Yet, on this matter as on every other matter involving money he knew his own mind and was quite determined to have his own way. All she could do was to look after her young charges. They were already beginning to call her ‘mummy.’ A low point was reached when she knew that Edmund’s interests had strayed to another woman. She did not know who she was but she could tell by the cheerfulness of his demeanour. Rosamond also guessed that the woman concerned would have a lot of money. Each morning Edmund would leave Vernon Road humming some music hall ditty. Should she return to her parents? However, what would become of her promise to Helen?  Should she create a scene and yell “Helen chose me be to be your wife.” Yet, she knew that would drive him away. Likely as not he would grumpily retort, “Well that woman was wrong on everything.” Any recommendation from her predecessor could destroy her chances. The only thing she could do was to wait and hope for this infatuation to end. Only when he came home one night slamming the door, eyes glaring like a mad man did she know for sure that she was safe. He was hers. Sure enough, a proposal of marriage was made the next day. Edmund was almost comical in the way he pompously confessed to entertaining long-standing feelings of tenderness to her but had been unable to disclose them because of important business and personal matters. She also knew that the presents he gave her had been intended for an unknown rival as they were not exactly to her taste but she pretended that it was otherwise. The memory of his proposal still brought a smile to her face. Even now she could still see him pacing up and down in front of the living room’s bay window, holding the lapels of his jacket as if he was about to make a public speech. Only after a long clearing of his throat did he begin to speak.

“Ahem! It has come to my attention Miss Stamford that my children have come to view you as a more than adequate replacement for their late dear mother. Eh! I must also confess to entertaining certain long-standing feelings of regard to your own person. In light of these most promising developments I wondered whether it would be appropriate to ask you to join me in the married estate. It goes without saying that I have given serious consideration to all possible aspects in connection with this proposed union. I have here a few tokens of appreciation of your considerable service to this household.”

He then handed her a box of trinkets that had been intended for another woman.

Rosamond placed it down on the table determined that her love was not going to be bought as if she was some cheap City hussy. She quickly decided that Edmund would have to be serious in his intentions.

“Dear Edmund, I am most touched by this token of esteem, but you must understand that we women are fickle creatures, easily swayed by any whim or vain fancy. To enter into a marital union with you on a fit of giddy impulse could do us both a disservice. There are too the feelings of my father to consider. Time is needed before I can give a final answer…”

“Ow much time?” retorted Edmund sharply.

“At least a week.”

“Too long! Make it twenty four hours or otherwise start packing your bags to return to your father at Burton Pidsea.”

She knew at once that he wanted her.

“Very well, I agree to twenty four hours.”

“Right! And make sure that your decision is definite, I dorn’t want any ‘uming or ‘aring.”

Early next morning the maid called her up and asked for her to go down into the living room. Edmund was standing there in his smartest clothes, looking every inch the successful man of the world.

“Well, ‘ave you made up your mind? ” he asked gruffly.

“You said twenty four hours.”

“’Urry up, I ‘avn’t got all day, I’ve my business to attend to.”

“I have pondered deeply upon the question of our proposed union and…”

“Get on with it!” he exclaimed with an impatient whirl of his hand.

“And I have decided to give my consent to your gracious proposal.”

“Is that definite?”

“Oh very definite.”

“Good! Good! Good! At last a woman who can make up ‘er mind. So very different from ‘elen who couldn’t make up ‘er mind on anything.”

"There is just one condition.”

“What is that?” – he asked defensively

“I never want to hear you utter one cross word against my late Auntie in front of her children, at least not whilst they are young. You must dutifully respect her memory for the sake of her little ones. They will not want to see their father still at variance with their departed mother no matter what her incapacity may have been.”

Edmund then nervously drummed the table with his fingers before giving an answer.

“Is that your only condition?”

“That is my only condition.”

“Very well, I will try hard to keep it, if only for your sake.”

For a moment his face resembled that of a naughty boy being rebuked by his mother. He then coughed loudly before regaining his composure.

“We shall discuss the wedding arrangements on Sunday when there is more time. For now please accept this small token of esteem I purchased at the jewellers.”  

He gave her a small case. With deliberate slowness Rosamond opened it to find inside a gold, expensive looking engagement ring.

“Oh Edmund! This is lovely!”

‘It didn’t though cost a luvely price,’ thought Edmund who had been annoyed at the way he had failed to get a price reduction from Barraclough the jeweller.

“How considerate of you!”

The next thing she knew she was in Edmunds arms with the ring on her finger, whilst he gave her one solitary peck on the cheek. By his standards he was being highly affectionate. By then Rosamond knew that she had won, and so in a way had Helen. Someone from within the family would now bring up the children. No longer would there be any question of farming them out to some frightful governess or lethal boarding school.

‘Ah! All that was around twelve years ago. Overall, despite grievous losses the good Lord has been kind.’ Some of the women she knew ‘had suffered a really hard time.’ She would not dare to recount some of the tales told about their drunken, brawling husbands who masked their cruelty behind a veneer of respectability. Rosamond sighed; a noisy rattle of drumbeats in her head told her that it was time to close her eyes again. Later, her services would be needed. For now, she would conserve her strength.

 

Edmund sighed but his was more of exasperation than exhaustion. He hated his orderly world being thrown into turmoil. When a child lay dying not even he could be the centre of attention. The cold meat provided for him had not filled him up, he remained peckish but still he could not eat. Slowly he sank into his favourite armchair and gazed up rather dejectedly at a very cluttered mantelpiece. In the centre was a quietly ticking clock. Immediately to the right of it encased by a glass dome was a stuffed owl. Edmund had gained it as part-payment from a customer who had been rather short of money. This was at the time of his move to Leeds when he thought that having an effigy an animal acting, as an emblem of the city would create a favourable impression. His gaze moved along to a crude painting of his mother Ann, painted by a certain impoverished young artist at Skipton many years ago, ‘Aye you ‘ad your grief’s too. Only Rosmond can nearly compare with you. I’ve worked my guts out to give the family the respectability you would have wanted.’

Still in a reflective frame of mind, he turned his attention to a sombre oak book cabinet situated to his left. Occupying pride of place on the lowest shelve stood three King James Bibles next to folios of Shakespeare, all of which had been bought in by Rosamond. She too had purchased the volumes of Dickens, which lay on the shelf above. Her reason for doing so was that they were “morally improving for the children.” She had not told him that she had made the children laugh by her impersonation of some of the characters. Edmund had once dipped into Dickens, thought that Mr Gradgrind was ‘a capital fellow’ and that Mr Squeers of Dotheboys Hall had a good way with children. ‘Humph! They should have ‘ad him as a father then they would know what fear was really like. I am too nannyish with them, that’s my trouble.’ Next to Dickens, stood the works of the of the Bronte sisters. The fact that they had been written by women was enough to exclude them from Edmund’s attention. It did not matter that they had lived under half a day’s walk from where he had been born. On the shelf above sat further works more to Edmund’s taste. They were mainly rags to riches stories of enterprising men who had done well for themselves. One such work was John Halifax, gentleman. He had read it twice as a younger man before realising that a certain Mrs Craik was the author. Her redeeming feature was that she had possessed the good sense to have men portrayed as the central characters, although the sentimental ending did spoil the story somewhat. Even more well-thumbed, was a copy of Samuel Smiles’ ‘Self-Help.’ Except for the ‘good book’ itself, ‘Self-Help’ was for Edmund, the most important written work of his life. Far more practical than Shakespeare, whose works contained all sorts of ‘airy notions.’ Various religious texts and Greek or Latin primers bought for the boys filled the rest of the cabinet. He had grumbled at the expense of these primers but they at least would help make gentlemen out of his sons. They even possessed an 1835 ‘History of Roman Emperors’ whose dreadful debaucheries happily belonged to a past age. As he sat musing on this or that book his eye caught something lying on the floor. “What’s this? It should have been cleared away two nights ago; the house is going to the dogs with all this sickness. I would have expected Betsey at least to have kept some kind of order,” he growled angrily. Lying on the floor between the armchair and book cabinet lay the 9027th edition of ‘The Yorkshire Post And Leeds Intelligencer.’ Dated Saturday April 26 1879 and priced 1d, it lay folded, still unread. Saturday had been the day Hilda had had passed on. Edmund had brushed the copy aside and onto the floor when Rosamond had asked him to come up and be with his daughter for her last moments. Unlike Sydney, she had not made a prolonged struggle against the Scarlet fever. Her end had been quieter. Since then he had been too preoccupied to read a newspaper that perhaps would have had nothing in it anyway. He had only bought it because it contained an important notice given by Leeds Grammar School and some interesting information about the textile trade. To Edmund, newspapers were only of value if they had useful information in them. Usually, he was a Leeds Mercury man ~ but a customer had told him that this particular issue of the Yorkshire Post had interesting details about the death of an accountant he may have known.

 

The Doctor’s potion had quietened Sydney, but it could not stop his life from ebbing away with the evening light. His kidneys had failed and soon all else would follow. Only the odd moan or shuffle showed that he had not bidden a final farewell to this world. Betsey could now think. She never knew what had caused the trouble between father and her mother Helen, but the atmosphere in the house at Blenheim Place had not been a happy one. Father’s humours had then been really black. “Couldn’t you do better than that woman?” was the mildest of his rebukes. Sometimes tearfully she would protest, “but I did what I could.” Edmund’s response was always a curt “Well it wer’nt good enough wer it.” More often than not Helen had remained silent. Once he had swept all of the contents of a slightly burnt evening meal onto the floor shouting “You’ve cooked nowt but a work ‘ouse stew.” Helen (it was always ‘Helen,’ never ‘mother’) had wept profusely as she, with the help of a maid cleared up the mess. When poor Helen lay dying, father had prowled furiously up and down the bedroom muttering “that woman even takes ‘er time to enter the next world. I’ve got an important customer to see to tomorrow. She just keeps mumbling ‘I did what I could.’” Rosamond her niece had spent a great deal of time by her bedside but then she had been well known for her ability to care for people. She had virtually been a mother to Helen’s children during those last difficult months of what was to be Helen’s final pregnancy. Somehow in those last few months Helen had lost the will to live. The worst moment had come when, following her death, they had gone to visit her grave in Sutton. Betsey could not recall whether it was before or after the death of baby John but everything else about that bleak winter’s day she remembered all too well. She remembered standing there, just herself and her father but never before or ever since had she seen him so beside himself. As a girl of seven she saw him kick the headstone, furiously shouting “You did what you could, but why did you die on me leaving me with the little ones to bring up? I can barely attend my business and I lost a customer as a result. You were always useless, an ‘indrance to everything I wanted to achieve. Should never ‘ave married you, no’r I shouldn’t.” Then from around the headstone an elderly widow appeared carrying a bunch of flowers in her hand. “Will you be quiet sir? Others have their sorrows to attend to besides you, you’re behaving like a drunkard.” Suddenly coming to himself Edmund had gripped his daughter by the arm and marched her straight out of the cemetery, past the old Baptist church and out of Sutton. It was the only time that she had seen father with a look of abject shame on his face. For a long time after that visit he barely spoke about Helen. Meanwhile, in Betsey’s mind young as she was, the decided resolution formed never to allow ‘father’ to make a fool of himself in front anyone ever again. She would spend all her life trying either to appease or to keep him out of a black humour. On the whole she had succeeded. Where before he had been wild with rage he was now just sarcastic, where before ‘the carryings on’ would last for days they would now only endure for a few hours. When Rosamond, now Edmund’s second wife had been tired during one of her many pregnancies it was Betsey who had chivvied the maids, finished the housework and made sure that father’s slippers were warmed by the fire in exactly the place he liked. She did not mind when Edmund would return and say, “My Rosamond! What an orderly house you keep, for a woman in your delicate condition.” Anything to stop father from behaving in the way he had with Helen. Once, a young and rather slow maid suffering from a squint had tried to bribe her with a penny to prevent her from telling her father that she had dropped a plate. Betsey’s response had been to keep the 1d and then tell Father. He had then dismissed the maid the next day without giving her a reference ~ with Betsey also gaining another penny from father as a reward. After that the maids had come to fear Betsey nearly as much as the whole household feared Edmund. She had tasted a little power and it felt good

“Yes, your mother ‘as been a good ‘un” she exclaimed as she moved some bedding off Sydney in order to allow him to cool. “You’ll be over the Jordan by tomorrow morning and it will be far better for you. Your little sister will be there to greet you.” Betsey’s piety was conventional but it stood her well in times like this. Suddenly the door swept open and in walked Rosamond with a look of determination on her face. “I can not sleep any more, I want Sydney to be with me when he’s called home.” Betsey knew that it was her turn to take a rest.

 

With folded newspaper on his lap Edmund continued to sit brooding over the past. It was always like that at a time of family death ~ unwanted memories would come flooding back like raging mountain torrents.  Such a bother all this dying, it made one think of things that were best left alone. One thing Edmund had learnt was to despise weakness. Feckless attitudes left people without hope in the world. Drink in particular was a killer. He would not dissipate his energies on petty debaucheries, like the drunkards he had seen staggering out of Hells Kitchen on the High Street of Skipton as a young boy. Nor would he ever reduce himself to the level of those Chartist ruffians who during the troubles of ’42 had burst into the house at Greenside demanding milk and bread – as if his poor mother Ann had any milk or bread to give them. In that year many had hungered including the Smiths. Even today Edmund remembered that the Chartist intruders had smelt as badly as the privies in the back yard. If he recalled correctly, there were three of angry, bitter men demanding bread and milk as ‘payment.’ Their lean white faces already carried a graveyard look about them. One kept swigging from a bottle of whisky looted from a nearby inn. They would have taken more if there had been more to take, but Ann on the advice of John had hidden the few family trinkets behind some loose brickwork in the backyard wall. Muttering imprecatory oaths they had skulked away taking a loaf of bread. One rudely pushed Edmund aside as he headed for the doorway. He never forgot the fear on his mother’s face, John had been told by his employers to be at the Corn Mill to guard it from attack. Any refusal would mean the loss of a job and enslavement to hard, pitiless hunger. It was lucky for his father that the mob obviously had other mills in mind. The Corn Mill was left alone on that hot blazing day. From that moment onwards Edmund was determined that his life would be a success come what may. At least he Edmund Smith would gain the respectability his illiterate parents deserved, but never got. Edmund shivered a little in his chair. He actively avoided the weaknesses that had been the undoing of many men. Quite shrewdly, he saw that they brought nothing but misery ~ not least to the womenfolk.

As he pondered again, his memories shifted forward to the time when he was a young man wanting to make his mark on the world. Twice, arrangements had been made to marry a refined lady from one of the grand families he had met on his travels as a commercial representative. Twice he had been refused on the grounds that he did not have enough capital to keep such ladies in the lifestyle to which they were accustomed. Once, it had got back to him that one of the fathers had remarked, “Young Mr Smith aspires to a station in life to which he was not born. You can’t make a gentleman out of a mere tradesman. Besides, with no living parents he could have come from anywhere.” That observation had rankled with Edmund all of his life for his one ambition was to better himself. He was addicted to achievement. His feelings of injustice had been worsened when news reached him that the object of his attentions had “married into a proper land owning family.” Mere tradesman was he? Well he would show these people what he could do, and so he had! But first he knew he had to gain some capital and where else but from a plain elder daughter whom a family with means was desperate to marry off after an earlier association had ended in tragedy. Oh yes! Helen had, through a generous dowry provided the capital ~ for that he was grateful. Her brother Thomas who owned a thriving drapery and hosiery store in the centre of Hull was one of his best customers and had viewed him as a godsend “a marriage between his sister and Mr Smith would be a most fortuitous arrangement. Eh, don’t you think so Helen?” Edmund had recalled her looking downwards to the floor saying nothing. “Ther, I knew that you would agree, eh good, good very good. Mr Smith is a far better than the last one. The fellow simply had no prospects. He was an n’er do well. At least Edmund won’t always be asking me for money. I know from my dealings with him that he’s got a good head for that sort of thing.” Edmund was not sure, but he seemed to recall her trying to hold back some tears as these words were being uttered. On first seeing her, he knew that she was one of those pale milk-water types who was always having mysterious indisposition’s. What he did not reckon on was just how quickly those ‘indisposition’s’ would grow into an intolerable bother. ‘Thought at least she could get the maid to do the work but oh no not even that. Housework was always left undone, meals never properly cooked, children sometimes not seen to. With her it was third time unlucky.’ No wonder he had lost himself in his work. She was lucky that he had not turned to drink. ‘Many a lesser man would ‘ave ‘ad,’ he thought angrily. Still, despite her lack lustre and ineffectual ways he had always provided for her, given her children, took care to find the right maids, but here she was-still useless. What more could an honest man have done? She always seemed far away in a dream world. Even when left alone together for the first time she had only answered his questions in curt monosyllables whilst looking down onto the floor. With bitter hindsight he could see that her fancy had always lain with that ‘Sammy ‘eron’ who was just longed for the day he could take over his masters business. Even more unforgivable Helen ‘Wasn’t a patch on mother when it came to doing practical things.’ What was it one of his mother’s friends had said? “Our Ed will only ever be ‘appy marrying ‘is mother or a lass with a good ‘ead for business.” Poor Helen fell into neither class and in that failure lay the tragedy of their marriage. Only once had the light shone in their relationship and that was with the birth of their first child James when both of them shared the excitement of the safe delivery of a boy. Even Edmund had been moved when he had seen the child suck eagerly from her breast. For the only time in their marriage Helen and her husband had smiled at one another. ‘’ad taken care to praise ‘er but soon it was back to the old complaining ways. I could never please that woman.’ Whatever it was, she did not love him ~ he had known that immediately through her cold response on the wedding night. ‘Shouldn’t ‘ave allowed ‘er brother to charm me with all ‘is ‘ospitality and beer. I should ‘ave seen that ‘e wanted rid of ‘is sister from that crowded ‘ouse of ‘is in order to get a wife for ‘imself.’

The memorial in Sutton was not so much a tribute to Helen but a statement of purpose. Better still, it would be one of the first memorials people would see upon entering the cemetery. Then folk would know that Edmund had been a man of substance. People would notice it before any fancy Tetley headstone. He would have preferred it to be marble but sandstone would do. Even that had cost him almost every last penny. He had also taken the trouble of ensuring that the stonemasons did a proper job. There was even a spot of bother over the epitaph to Helen.

“Don’t you think the epitaph to your dear departed wife somewhat singular? In later years members of your family might place a most unfortunate meaning to it. We have had customers desire such epitaphs before and they have always come to rue it.”

“Aye she was dear cost me a lot she did! I want that epitaph. ‘Er last words to me were ‘I did what I could.’ She kept saying that orver and orver again.”

“Are you sure Mr Smith?”

“Look ‘ere, do you want my custom or don’t you?”

“Why of course Mr Smith! But we do have to be sure of these things, we have the good name of our business to consider.”

“Make sure the words ‘She did what she could’ are in a prominent place and put them in quotation marks too. I want the masons to do a proper job as well. I’ve seen ‘em ‘alf completed ‘eadstones in the cemetery and I weren’t impressed. I will pay handsomely but the job better be done well.”

“As you say Mr Smith.”

It was only after ‘a certain difficulty’ at the graveside that marriage had once more become an attractive prospect. This time Edmund would be careful to choose a woman with a good head for business. A certain widow with a millinery business in the Woodhouse area of Leeds seemed to fit the bill. By now, a picture of a rather plump woman with flaming ginger hair had floated into his mind. What he did not know was that an assortment of hairpieces had made her look much younger than her years. ‘What a woman she was, took orver a business after her ‘usbands death and it actually prospered! Ah, so capable! So exceedingly capable! Together we could ‘ave made a big name for ourselves in these parts. Even bought myself a new checked trousers and a frock coat to try and woo her. Wouldn’t ‘ave any of it, wanted to see my accounts before considering any proposal. Then she still refused! Despite all my persuading that with her head for figures and my way with customers we could go a long way in the world. Said something about wanting to preserve ‘er independence and having three suitors in the last month because she was a woman of substance. What a chance she missed in me, bet thorse other suitors were bankrupts. Told ‘er I din’t need ‘er money but she weren’t to be persuaded.’ Edmund would have been even more mortified had he known that on abruptly leaving her premises the lady so admired had really begun thinking ‘Ad a particular lucky escape with that one, even though unlike t’ others ‘e wasn’t in debt. Huh, men are all the same ~ they just want one thing from a lady ~ MONEY!’

Having failed to get his way with the woman of means, Edmund had decided to look for another mother, both for himself and for his children. Rosamond, who had been looking after Helen’s children, fitted well. ‘Was of good character, cooked well and got things done. ‘Ad even helped out when things were bad with the other un. Without him ‘aving to say anything she knew what he wanted. Wouldn’t do much in the money way, but she could bare children and that way could ‘elp the family to become big. Best of all she only took a little wooing ~ could just give her the presents reserved for the woman of means. Yes, can’t deny she ‘ad been a good investment. Tried ‘ard to get along with Betsey and ‘ad not allowed the ‘ouse to go to wrack and ruin. Gave the peace of mind a man needed to get on with ‘is business.’ Actually, he had considered Helen’s niece as a possible replacement for Helen at least several months before his first wife’s death from a ruptured womb. In the marriage market as in the cloth market he always liked to keep his options open until the last possible moment.  He had said nothing to Rosamond but somehow she seemed to know.  Crystallising matters was a rather stern letter from Rosamond’s father, John Stamford demanding that he make a honourable woman of his daughter. Oddly enough it arrived on the same day as his failure to gain his way with the woman of means. Despite being utterly infuriated Edmund had written back a conciliatory letter saying that he had delayed any proposal to Rosamond until after the first anniversary of ‘dear Helens’ death. Besides, he had needed to pay off certain debts in connection with the funeral before he felt he could make any firm proposal to his daughter who had done such a commendable job of looking after Helen’s young children. With such obligations now happily discharged he would now be more than happy to take the hand of his daughter in marriage. Indeed, he had already prepared a letter to ask for permission to marry his daughter thus ensuring that someone who still belonged to their family would bring up Helen’s young children. He even apologised for any delay in making a decision whilst at the same time insisting that the wedding be held in Leeds in order to avoid the dangerous inconvenience of travelling with Helen’s young children in the middle of winter. In dealing with John Stamford, Edmund had employed all the shrewdness he reserved for a particularly difficult customer. He now firmly wanted Rosamond and the less fuss he had to endure in getting her the better.

With his plans to rise upward in the world through a marriage of means thwarted, Edmund had then firmly resolved that his ambitions would be realised through his children or at least his grand children. He would work his uttermost to ensure that they could enjoy a better estate in life than he had ever known. If he could not rise to being anything more than a Commercial Traveller then he would make sure that he was the best Commercial Traveller working for the best firm in the area. Stewart Macdonald fitted the bill perfectly. It was a Company that one could feel proud to belong to. If necessary, his relationship to this company would outlast that of any of his wives. In any domestic storm it could provide a safe haven in which to shelter. His work had been the only means whereby he had been prevented from ‘doing something grievous to the last one.’ He had learnt never to underestimate its value.

‘One day the Smiths will be as big as thorse ‘Bairstows and Spencers, ‘No one would dare to look down their noses at us then.’ His sons, at least those who were any good, would be raised as gentlemen so they could occupy a grand place in the world. Except for Betsey and possibly Ann who were needed at home, the other daughters could marry people in the professions. That was respectable enough but Edmund’s greatest ambitions lay with the boys. What matter if some of them died, or if James was a fat head and Frank too tied to his mother’s apron strings? The law of numbers would make sure that enough of his sons would prosper to promote the family name and ensure some movement into the right social class. The important thing was to have a large number of children and not to place hopes on only one. Families were like a business ~ it was wise to spread the risk. Sometimes he enjoyed imagining his prosperous descendants visiting the grave at Sutton to admire the man who had ‘made them.’ They might even replace the sandstone monument with a grand marble one. ‘Any road they certainly could not miss the present memorial, it was prominent enough for all of ‘em to see.’ Yes, his descendants would give him his due ~ he was sure of that. Edmund Smith would not be forgotten in a hurry.

For him, Leeds Grammar School had been a means to an end. He had once mentioned to Rosamond that it was a ‘factory for producing gentlemen.’ His sons could prosper in the world through what was taught them and they could achieve the things he had always aspired to. Some might even rise to eminent places in society ~ possibly gaining some say into how Leeds was run, ‘That would teach the council a thing or two.’ Another memory came into mind ~ that of his first meeting with the headmaster Dr W. G. Henderson when he had first tried to place James at the school back in early 1870.

“Now tell me Mr Smith, why do you wish to place your son in this establishment?”

“I want my son to be taught a gentleman’s education so he can obtain a good position in the world.”

“Not every man’s son can be Prime Minister or Chancellor of the Exchequer. We are mainly concerned with a boys moral development, rather than with him t getting him on the world.”

“Being a gentleman will help him fit in the right circles.”

“Mr Smith! May I venture to suggest that if you want your boy to prosper in the world of commerce then perhaps the local Mechanics Institute may be more appropriate.”

“I dorn’t want any Mechanical Institute, I want the best and your school is the best.”

“I am most touched by your confidence in this establishment. But the main thing is the boy’s happiness, for a happy boy brings credit to the school.” For a split second, Dr Henderson’s face froze into the pained expression that every headmaster reserves for dealing with a difficult parent whom they cannot afford to offend.

 “I will decide whether he is happy or not.”

“Quite so! But we must be very clear about the terms on which we take your boy. So many parents have such giddy expectations and if these are not completely fulfilled there can be a difficulty. You must be abundantly clear in your mind about what the school can do and what it cannot do.”

“I do know my own mind, I want my boy to receive a proper education to set him up for the rest of his life. I also want the same for his brothers.”

“You have other sons Mr Smith?” the headmaster exclaimed hopefully, whilst raising his bushy eyebrows.

“Yes, and I am planning to have a lot more.”

“Well that throws quite a new light on the matter. He will be able to begin next term on condition of advanced payment of course. You do have advanced payment Mr Smith?”

“Of course. You will always find me most prompt in the payment of fees. Now what is the date you will receive him at the school?”

Edmund would not have known that after he had left his study, the headmaster had picked out a volume from his ‘Edinburgh collection of the Ante-Nicene Fathers’ thinking, ‘I must read the martyrdom of Polycarp tonight. It’s so very soothing to the soul.” Indeed after that meeting with Edmund, the Rev. W. G. Henderson did feel somewhat a martyr to the cause of education. ‘Parents can be such a trial. If only they would pay their fees and keep out of sight, life would be so much easier.’

 

Rosamond looked down at Sydney and with a mother’s instinct knew that he was going. All she could do was to make his last moments was happy as possible. The loss of one child through Scarlet fever she could endure quite stoically, but two in just over a week ~ that was almost unbearable. Gently she ruffled his hair thinking of the words of Luke 2.35a that she had read only this morning. It was when the Angel had warned Mary  “A sword shall pierce through your own soul also.” Now her soul had been well and truly pierced. Luke 2.35 should be a passage for every bereaved parent. Her main fear now was whether the sickness would spread to carry off any of her other children. She hoped not but in these matters one never knew until it was too late. Even the Doctor could not predict but he had ominously recommended a rapid interment. They shouldn’t have allowed Sydney to sleep with Hilda but the house was overcrowded so where else could they have put him? Edmund would never have had him in their room, even for a few nights. “There! There! Soon you will be going to a better place my child.” Sydney gave a soft moan in acknowledgement. Now he knew that his mother was there, her face was no longer just a dream. Rosamond thought he had even given a slight chuckle. She was determined that his last moments would be precious. Suddenly there was a scuffling at the door, “Whose that?” she exclaimed. Slowly the door creaked open and in came …

 

‘Should I go up and see what’s going on? Better not there’s nowt I can do ~ tending a sick child is woman’s work. There will be more than time enough to deal with their hysterics.’ As a diversion, he unfolded the old copy of the newspaper he had found and he began to scan the pages. His eyes feasted on seven columns of public notices and adverts, which comprised the bulk of this publication. On the first page he glanced with contempt at notice advertising a lecture on modern spiritualism at the philosophical hall, Leeds. An E. F. Barbeck was defending the reality of ‘the phenomena’ against charges that it was an imposture of conjuring. Chairing the meeting was Alderman Tatham. Admission prices were 2s, 1s and 6d. The lecture had been held on the evening following Hilda’s funeral. “Fools” muttered Edmund, as he snorted with contempt, “some people can’t have enough of the grim reaper. Dorn’t they know what they are playing with? If they want death let them come ‘ere and see it. Besides, I wouldn’t want any of my departed ones coming back as ghostly pieces of ectoplasm dependent upon some batty medium to convey their requests. Least of all ‘elen! The good Lord must have better for those who have gone beyond.” He gave another snort of contempt before reading another advert this time for a special show of ladies’ silk umbrellas “with horn handles and plaited mounts.” The exhibition was at “C. J. HARDY, “NUMBER ONE” BOAR LANE.” ‘I bet they cost a pretty penny. The girls will want some of these if I am not careful.’ On turning to the third page he saw a notice that interested him. The first notice placed under the ‘EDUCATION’ column read as follows: -

LEEDS FREE GRAMMAR SCHOOL

 

SCHOOL TERM 1879

 

The School re-opens Monday 5^th May, on which day new boys will be admitted at two ‘o’ clock P.M. Previous notice of each application for admission should be sent to the Rev. W. G. Henderson D.C.L. The Master to be addressed to the care of Mr Smallpage of 1, Mark Lane should be accompanied by a certificate of age.

Further information may be had on application to the Receiver or at the Grammar School.

The Trustees require three months notice to be given of the removal of any boy from the school or payment of the Terminal Fee. Boarders are received by Mr C. C. Templeton, Beech Grove Place, Leeds.

By Order JOHN SMALLPAGE Receiver

Leeds, April 10^th 1879.

N.B. – Attendance will be given at the office of the Receiver, 1 Mark Lane May 6^th, 7th and 8^th from 10.00 A.M. to 5.00 P.M. on one of which day the admission fee must be paid.

 

 ‘I better ask Betsey to cut out that notice so I can make sure the fees are paid on time. It would do to be prompt ~ that ‘eadmaster is fussy. She must make sure that Frank is not late when ‘e begins ‘is new school.’

           

On the fourth page he read the following account of the Afghan war, which had begun when British troops had marched out of Peshwar in Afghanistan.

“In an engagement between British troops and the Mohimunds of Mhairwais in Afghanistan, there were 25 casualties on our side and 74 on that of the enemy. After the engagement the British retreated to Dakka unopposed.”

“Thought this war would end in a mess. What good does it do us being there? It is such an expense. Isn’t India enough? Who knows where our involvement will end?”

 

            Not far from this bulletin lay the following caption.

 

THE QUEENS HOMEWARD JOURNEY

REUTERS TELEGRAM PARIS

 

This briefly described how in France, an immense and respectful crowd “saluted her majesty on her passage through the railway station.”

‘Three cheers for her Majesty’ Edmund enthused. He rather liked Queen Victoria because there was something about her that reminded him of his dear departed mother. The next headline was of an altogether tragic nature.

 

SUICIDE OF LEEDS BANK

ACCOUNTANT

 

            “Mr E. S. Thornton, accountant at the Leeds branch of the Provincial committed suicide, himself with a revolver.” The report then narrated how, after completing his books he had retired to the men’s cloakroom. There he had been found “in a sitting posture and his right hand was grasping the revolver with which he had evidently shot himself in the right temple… We were informed that the accounts which it was Mr Thornton’s duty to check, were in perfect order and that his duties had always been faithfully performed… It was stated that several of Mr Thornton’s relatives had died lately.”

‘Humph, they always say the accounts are in order when this sort of thing ‘appens. Heard about this un from one of my customers who ‘ad ‘is money at this bank. Wait! Didn’t I once meet him when trying to get my business finances in order?’ Edmund then saw the face of a bespectacled man with a quill pen in his ear. ‘Maybe not, the Thornton in the newspaper was aged 45, the one I saw looked a lot older. Still whoever ‘e was ‘e was a weakling. Didn’t even seem to be faced with the prospect of financial ruin. Mere loss of relatives was a cause. Should ‘ave tried living ‘ere then’ Another snort of contempt followed.

 

He turned to the fifth page and saw the following caption: -

 

TIMES TELEGRAM BELGRADE SERVIA

APRIL 25^TH

 

   “After heavy losses on both sides the Albanians have been entirely driven from Servian territory. On the Turkish side they were surrounded by Nizamas who compelled them to give up their spoils cattle included which they had carried away from the principality and which had been returned to the rightful owners.” 

‘Ah, there’s always trouble in that part of the world. I can see the bother amongst these people carrying on for a long time. The Turks can’t do anything, they are the sick man of Europe.’

 

The next bulletin involved matters nearer home. It came under the heading: -

 

DEPRESSED TRADE IN ROTHERAM

A highly factual report briefly described how nearly 1,000 men at the Phoenix Bessemer Steel Works had received notice of employment. In the same area 500 men and boys employed at Holmes Colliery had also been given notice to leave.

‘When business gets this bad it means there’s an upturn on the way,’ observed Edmund who indeed possessed an uncanny eye for spotting the next stage of the late Victorian trade cycle.

Thumbing past news of the Durham miner’s strike, his caught a headline on page eight. It read” THE GERMAN TARIFF ON WOOL GOODS.” Below this was a highly indignant letter by the chairman of the Yorkshire Chambers of Commerce J. Behrens. It was addressed to “the chairman of the joint Tariff Committee,” Part of it read, “As Germany competes with us successfully in our and every neutral market and supplies our weavers with large quantities of woollen yarn, protection against English goods cannot be demanded by the merit of serious inspection.”

‘The continentals are up to their wretched tricks again ~ always wanting to rob us of our trade. If this goer’s on we’ll ‘ave an even worse downturn and then business will be ‘ard.’ He then threw the paper onto the floor muttering, “It’s time to collect your thoughts man and pull yourself together. The night ahead is going to be ‘ard.”

 

“I couldn’t sleep mum. I kept dreaming of masters from Leeds Grammar school in them gowns and mortar boards chasin’ me around Wood’ouse Moor, wavin their canes in the air an’ shouting at me to learn Greek and Latin.”

“Don’t be silly Frank, it was only a dream.” Rosamond replied.

“’Ows our Sydney?”

“Not very well.”

A look in her eyes warned him not to ask any more.

“I am sorry mum, but I ‘ll do anythin to make you ‘appy, ‘onest I will. I will marry a fine lady and we’ll look after you when you get old.”

“Thank you, but I think you better go now.”

“Aw mum!”

“Hush! Father may hear and that will make him very cross.”

“Alright mum, I’ll say a little prayer for you and for Sydney before I go to sleep.”

He then quietly opened the door and vanished onto the darkening landing. Night was drawing in and from outside he could hear rain fall. For the Smiths winter seemed never to have ended.

 

Downstairs Edmund had begun reading the old family Bible. Like the others it was a King James Version. This Bible he always kept on top of the large mahogany table. Inside a large stiff leather black cover were written all of the names and birth dates of the Smith children. Their father always resorted to it during times of difficulty. Amongst his favourite readings were the stories of the patriarchs in Genesis. He was also fond of accounts of the more successful kings of Israel, especially those who had gained great fortune and had many sons. In the gospels he liked any parable that touched upon business, especially the parable of the talents, whilst of the Epistles, James was his favourite because it was practical. The more obtuse parts of scripture sometimes left him frowning in puzzlement because he liked his religion to be plain and practical. To Edmund every part of the Bible was fact! The six days of creation ~ fact! The existence of Adam and Eve ~ fact! The history of Israel ~ fact! The virgin birth death and resurrection of Jesus ~ fact! The day of judgement ~ fact!  The hereafter ~ fact! Hellfire and damnation ~ fact! Even the Book of Revelation was fact! (Though in that case the facts had proved rather difficult to interpret.) Indeed, to him all of scripture was as factual as the figures in his ledgers. Just to study either of them was to experience the fact of their soothing quality. Only the previous day a reading of 2 Samuel 12.16-24 had reconciled him to the inevitability of Sydney leaving this world. Better to accept the loss with dignity than to make a song and dance about it. He hated sentiment when it came to matters of religion, because for him true religion meant leading a good life in this world with God’s help and that too was an unarguable fact!

Tonight however was a night for the Psalms, not always his favourite reading but good at a time like this. He began Psalm twenty-three; “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.” Slowly, he read it believing every promise it held. After all! Was not the good Lord the best possible ‘partner’ to have both in business and amidst the many woes of family life? As he continued reading, his eyes fixed upon one sentence,

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.”

‘Comforting words, comforting words,’ thought Edmund whose respect for what he called ‘the word’ was genuine.

After reading this Psalm about three times he turned to the gospel text for the evening. He had barely begun to read it when words from Matthew 10.26 sprang out at him. These stated that,  “there is nothing covered that shall not be revealed and hidden that shall not be made known.” 

‘Challenging words, challenging words,” he thought, “but what on earth do they mean?” He then fidgeted in his chair thinking of something highly shameful about his own past that neither Rosamond nor Betsey knew. ‘None of my family will ever know about that,’ he thought as an attitude of defiance arose in his own mind.

 

One thing Edmund hated above all in religion was pretence ~ especially when the pretence risked costing him a pretty shilling or two. It was this trait that explained the quarrel he had had with Blenheim Chapel back in 1865. This dispute had come at a time when matters with Helen had gone from bad to hopeless, so it was with an ill humour that he had already entered the chapel for the Sunday morning service. To Edmund, even the start of that sermon had sounded a wrong note. Such was his anger that he recalled some of its words even to this day. ‘Aye the preacher seemed right pleased with ‘imself, but ‘e lost me with is ‘olier than thou mannerisms and foppish ways.’

“Cultured minds are breaking away from the cramping influence of old formulas ~ of doctrinal statements that were deemed the ‘ne plus ultra’ of religious belief ~ (the preacher twiddled his forefinger in the air looking highly satisfied with this erudite display) of creeds and articles of faith feeling as it were instinctively that a stereotyped form of belief is utterly unworthy of the greatness and the over expansive power of those transcendent glorious truths which God reveals by his spirit to the spiritually minded.” The self-adoring look on the minister’s face confirmed his belief that he most certainly belonged to this select category of blessed people.

“Men are not content to receive implicitly and unquestioned mere dogmatic statements of even inspired truth. They ask the ‘whys’ and ‘wherefores’ more earnestly than ever. There is on all sides a growing tendency toward that which is real and practical.”

            ‘Not in your sermon’ thought Edmund shaking his head vigorously.

            “The Church of Christ has not realised anything equivalent to her apparently just expectations. The fact of her possession of mighty power is not borne out by the results of its exercise, and the progress she has made in the world is by no means commensurate with the magnitude of her pretensions. She has not so much to advance as to maintain her position ~ not so much to conquer as to preserve herself from injury.

Christianity has to repair the gigantic injuries inflicted upon the universe by sin and restore men to the authority of God. Is it not too much the case that the pulpit has been used more for the utterances of theological dogma than the enforcement of Christian truth in relation to the needs of everyday life?”

With a great flourish the preacher called for Christianity to take its legitimate place among the great in the universe ~ namely the place of supreme and unquestioned authority. He then proceeded to stress the Biblical injunction not to love the world. It was to be this part of the sermon that stirred in Edmund a feeling of colic.

“Men of business listen with ill-concealed impatience to applications for help for religious societies. They ask querulously for proof of the good that has been done and they are very doubtful that any will be done commensurate with the effort put forth. Difficulty is frequently felt in persuading them that much good will follow from religious undertakings of various kinds and the missionary operations of the Church are regarded in many quarters with ill-disguised contempt and this must be expected unless the benefits of Christianity are real and practical.”

            “It’s all fine and dandy for ‘im ~ ’e should try bein’ in business then,” muttered Edmund, provoking a lady from behind him to exclaim “Shush!”

            At last the preacher closed by exhorting, “Let not the prayer meeting ~ that sure condition of a Church be forsaken or neglected.” By that time Edmund was not there to hear it. Long before he had put on his hat and left with the feeling that much of church was a money-grabbing organisation characterised by show and pretence.

            Once in June 1877, when Rosamond had told him that the sermon at Blenheim was to be on “Giving to the work of God,” his reply had been “That’s the trouble with them Churches, they’re always after your money. They think they can preach any new fangled thing and get away with it. The next thing they will preach will be that evolution nonsense. It stands to reason that if you believe that men came from the apes then they will behave like apes and then we’ll ‘ave all kinds of mayhem.”

            Over the Sunday meal the Smith family were all too regularly treated to what was known as ‘carved preacher.’ It would always begin just after Edmund was carving at the meat. With grave solemnity he would declare that this preacher was too foppish in his mannerisms, that preacher too windy in his discourse and another preacher too airy in his notions. Sometimes he would repeat large chunks of the sermon to make his point whilst his children waited hungrily to be served. The most common charge was that the preacher was after money. Only Rosamond could stop him by raising her eyebrows and warning, “the gravy will be growing cold dear.” Once James, his eldest son, had had the temerity to cough politely before saying “Don’t you think that’s being a little contrary father?” Edmund’s response was to retort, “What do you know about these things you fat head? Your’e as big a dreamer as …” Only raised eyebrows from Rosamond had prevented a certain dreaded name from being uttered. However, she did notice that he proceeded to carve the roast beef with extra vigour before throwing it onto the plates. More disturbingly, she noticed that Jim had retired from the fray with a supercilious smile on his face. Betsey glowered at her elder brother, visibly thinking ‘don’t be a fool Jim. Now see what you’ve done. He’ll be in a black humour all day long now.’

            Very different had been Edmund’s response to a sermon whose topic had been forgiveness.

“What did you think of the sermon this morning dear?” queried Rosamond who was eager to break what had been a thunderous silence.

“Very pointed, very pointed.” There was something in his answer that warned Rosamond not to enquire any further. With her eye for detail she noticed that he seemed to take an unusual time to carve the joint. Thankfully, Jim had not said anything to provoke Edmund into distemper. That one was always trying to goad his father  ~ seemed to enjoy it too.

 

                         At least, Church preachers he could ignore. Regrettably, this was not the case with ‘the blessed un’ who was a very important customer for Stewart Macdonald. Only recently, the fellow had inherited the ownership of the business from his deceased father. For Edmund the very name ‘blessed un’ brought to mind the picture of a tall, thin pale looking man with greying sideboards and wispy, receding hair.  With his parson ~ like mannerisms and weedy voice he never could resist the challenge of engaging in all sorts of ‘pious converse.’ To prevent him from causing a delay with other customers, Edmund always took the precaution of seeing ‘the blessed un’ at the end of the working day. However, this did mean that Edmund was then at his most tired and irritable. In matters of business this man had a reputation for being very fussy, once remarking, “Ah, it is part of my calling to be very particular.” He then looked up to the ceiling as if invoking divine sanction for this highly exasperating habit. ‘I wish he was as particular about paying ‘is bills on time, so I can get my commission’ thought Edmund as he heard this justification. After many conversations on a pious theme, Edmund had come to the conclusion that the man was half a prophet and half a fool. He could be exceptionally far-sighted and exceptionally ‘daft’ at the same time.  Earlier in the year ‘the blessed un’ had, in lowered voice said: -

            “There are horrible conspiracies afoot Mr Smith, horrible conspiracies.”

“Who pray are involved in those conspiracies?”

He should not have asked, because for the next twenty minutes he was regaled with the theory that, as Britain now had its first Jewish Prime Minister the end of the world was nigh. Apparently, Benjamin Disraeli would be the false prophet of the anti-Christ, who himself would be Bismarck. Last year’s congress in Berlin had been the scene of a secret alliance between Germany and Britain. In conjunction with the help of Freemasons and Papal support both of these powers combined would defeat Gog, which was of course Russia. However, Russia would have already defeated the Turks thus clearing the way for Jewish people to return to the Holy Land and rebuild their temple. In Leeds government agents were believed to be secretly preparing this rapidly expanding community to make such a return and thus secure a safe passageway to India. Disraeli’s interest in the Suez Canal had been decisive proof of this.

“Now, do be so bold Mr Smith to tell me of your opinion concerning this conjecture.”

“Well I can’t see how the King of Prussia would allow any German Chancellor to play the part of an anti—Christ. It stands against plain common sense.”

“Ah but he could be removed by conspiracy or by revolution. He almost was back in ’48.”

“Unlikely ~ the Germans are too prosperous. They are beating us at trade in every market.”

“Things can change Mr Smith ~ things can change.”

“Not in our life times I think.”

“Ah the Jews, the Jews, they will return to their land.”

“The Turks won’t allow it. There will be no end of trouble if they try.”

“But Empires come and go. Look at Babylon and Rome, they lasted for a phenomenal amount of time and now under the dispensation of providence they are gone.” He smiled, as if by invoking the Almighty he was making a decisive point.

“The whole notion is impractical. Look at the trouble their return would cause.”

“But the Lord’s will be done. Sacred scripture says it will be. You just watch the comings and goings of the Jewish people.”

For another twenty minutes he ransacked every scripture dealing with the Jewish issue. It was only with the greatest difficulty that Edmund managed to get away. Ah well! At least ‘the blessed un’ had enjoyed his monologue enough to settle his bill on time. That same night, Edmund carefully looked up some of the scripture passages quoted by him. As he went from one passage to another he came to the conclusion that on the Jewish issue ‘the blessed un’ was actually onto something although he foresaw no end of trouble over it. As for Bismarck being the anti-Christ and Disraeli being his prophet he knew that to be nonsense. If Germany and Britain failed to agree upon simple trade matters, they were unlikely to form an alliance that could conquer the world. “The trouble with the blessed un’ is that ‘e ‘as too much of a fondness for airy speculations. ’E should treat religion more like business and learn to see the difference between a good and a bad cut of cloth.”

            Of late, ‘the blessed un’ had been endeavouring to persuade Edmund to attend his “spiritually elevating” Tuesday night missionary meetings at his house. Only today when Edmund had called at his office on business, ‘the blessed un’ had offered him the inducements of cold ham sandwiches and pickles.

“Ah my dear wife prepares such a marvellously capital supper. It is such a shame that every time a meeting is held she retires to bed with a headache just before it begins. Such a shame!” he said these words whilst slowly shaking his head, but the gleam in his eyes told Edmund that ‘the blessed un’ was in reality not displeased at the custom of his wife retiring before the start of each meeting.

            “I am afraid I cannot attend. I have a sick child at home.”

“Ah how unfortunate but the good Lord sends these things to try us.”

“We may ‘ave to bury ‘im, just like 'ilda yesterday.”

In response ‘the blessed un’ raised his eyes heavenwards before intoning,

“Oh so regrettable! But still we must keep the faith and thank the Lord amidst all the trials of life. As our dear Lord said ‘thy will be done.’ We can only accept his mysterious purposes.”

Rarely had Edmund felt like boxing the ears of any of his customers, but he was sorely tried by this pious piece of cant. He had barely managed to conceal his temper and was thankful when he could leave with at least a show of politeness.  ”Well, good day to you Sir. I shall call presently with the goods you requested. Thank you for your custom.” As Edmund turned away he immediately thought  ‘’e ‘asn’t even paid ‘is last bill. That was the first fool I met today, the Doctor being the second.’ His black humour would have increased mightily if he had been privy to ‘the blessed uns’ own thoughts as he left.

‘Oh dear! Oh dear! Oh dear! Something I appear to have said seems to have vexed you. Did not even take the payment for the bill that was ready. I am afraid that you are a very troubled man, Mr Smith. Vain ambition appears to have been your downfall. My fear is that either your ambitions will not be fulfilled or if they are, their fulfilment will be in ways you do not expect. I shall ask the men at the meeting tonight to pray for your poor benighted soul.’

            Edmund closed the old Bible with something approaching peace of mind. He was strengthened for what lay ahead. He undid his necktie and folded it into his breast pocket as he settled back into his chair ‘I will rest down ‘ere. If I go up now I shall just be greeted by women’s commotion’s. Best save my strength, there’s nowt I can do for the poor little un.’ He also reflected that waiting for a child to die was like waiting for one to be born, the only difference being that all one got out of a death was funeral bills. It was a relief that the Church at Sutton was most good in not pressing for the burial fees of a dead child. The Rev. W. E. Archer was, in Edmund’s estimation a man who lived as well preached the Christian life. ‘What was it ‘e ‘said yesterday - that the Lord would ‘ave ‘is own time to redeem this sadness? Aye ‘e almost made yer sort of believe it. Perhaps the good Lord ‘as ways to bring good from bad but will I live to see any of it?’ Sleep overcame him just as twilight fell. Downstairs where he sat only the ticking of the clock and the soft patter of the rain on the window kept him company.

 

The sound of a mother’s wailing woke Frank from a fitful slumber.  He called out, “Ernest, Ernest, I think our Sid ‘as gone. ’Ee really ‘as.”

            Silence made its despondent reply.

            “Ernest, Ernest!”

            Thump! A pillow bounced off his face.

            “Aw Ernest!”

            Frank then layback thinking ‘I am really sad for mum but at least I can ‘ave ‘er back again. ’avn’t seen ‘er properly for days.’

           

            It was the glare of the oil lamp and the rustle of skirts that woke Edmund.

            “Eh what mother, ‘elen ~ oh its you Betsey.”

            “I think you should come up father, Sydney’s gor’in.”

            “Confound it! It’s ‘is mother who should let me know.”

            “She’s besides him at the very moment. I think you should go up now!” she added with a note of authority in her voice.

            Grumpily he rose from the chair, very stiff in joint. The Grandfather clock in the hall chimed eleven ~ death had arrived earlier than usual. Death’s call was want to come in the first few hours of the morning when everyone was at his or her lowest ebb. Even the grim reaper had shown a little mercy this time.

            “Uh, I’m coming.” The weary Father followed his daughter up the stairs thinking, ‘Pah! More women’s ‘isterics to look forward to.’

As he entered the room it was clear that the ‘isterics’ had begun. Betsey’s younger sister Ann was comforting a sobbing Rosamond. In her father’s eyes, Ann was helpful, but not capable like Betsey. She was very much a girl who stood in her elder sisters’ shadow.

‘Why can’t women bare these things more stoically, like a man? Even the best of ‘em is given to the vapours,’ he thought to himself.

Sydney marked his departure from this world with a protracted sigh, just as he entered the room.

“Oh Edmund, he has gone a yonder! My second poor baby in just over a week, what will become of us?” Rosamond started to blubber in a way that was both embarrassing and moving.

“Hush now Rosamond! The Lord has given and the Lord has taken away. We must accept His will. They are now in a far better place than this vale of sorrows.” For once in his life Edmund tried to be caring but the attempt sounded wooden. Hugging him tightly by the waist Rosamond looked up with an expression of abject helplessness. With Helen that expression had always filled him with rage because he knew from the first night of his marriage that her heart had lain with someone else, but with Rosamond it was different. She was ‘a good ‘un.’ Also, a certain ‘unpleasantness’ at his first wife’s graveside had taught him to keep an iron grip on his emotions.

“Oh Edmund, what shall we do?”

“Just leave everything to me. I will take care of everything. Hush now dor’nt fret. Money ‘as already been saved for the bills.” An awkward tenderness entered his voice.

Betsey threw her sister ‘the queen who must be obeyed glance.’ When Edmund showed tenderness to her stepmother she knew it was time to go. Together the sisters left the room without saying a word ~ relieved to have left their Father with the duty of comforting his distraught wife. As the door closed behind her Betsey thought, ‘I never want to ‘ave children, they always break your ‘art. Anyway, I’ve got enough bother with this lot.’

 

“There! There! My dear button nose ~ matters will resolve themselves.” He started rubbing her nose with his forefinger. Ever since their wedding night, Rosamond had viewed this habit as one of Edmund’s “quaint ways,” but at least it showed him to be in one was in one of his all too rare good dispositions. Slowly she composed herself.

“Shall we lay him out dear.”

“No! Will be time enough for that when daylight comes an’ you’ve ‘ad a rest. The others can see ‘im then. We’ll ‘ave ‘im in Sutton as soon as possible, arrangements ‘ave already been made. The first thing to do is call out the wretched Doctor and get a death certificate signed. This ‘ouse is becoming ‘is second ‘ome.”

“Oh Edmund, I feel so useless as a mother.”

“You did what you could lass.”

“Please Edmund, don’t use that expression.”

An awkward pause followed before he replied,

“Nor lass, I meant you did more than anyone else could ‘ave. I will always say that about you. You’re a capital lady.”

More tears followed as he went on to say, “Dorn’t fret pet, we will try for another one next year when you ‘ave recovered.”

The sobs became convulsive as she thought, ‘Oh Edmund you try your best but you still do not see that I am worn out with carrying your children.’

Again, she composed herself for there was something of a rocklike strength in her husband that was of comfort to any lady on the edge of the vapours. ‘No wonder those chapel women hanker after him, but he’s mine and always will be.’

In silence they looked at the still form of Sydney.

“Edmund, you know what I am afraid of most?”

“What?” said her husband who was starting to hope that he was not going to receive a full display of the vapours.

“I am scared that no one will remember our babies once we’ve gone. They will lie neglected and forgotten at Sutton.”

“But the good Lord will remember them. He will you know”

“You know what I mean?”

“I dorn’t.”

“I mean that they will be forgotten by people ~ by our children, their children and their grand children also.”

“Rosamond dear! There are many dead children in the world. The Doctor and undertaker see them everyday.” He was trying hard to be logical, but was finding that logic rarely brings comfort in a situation of two tragic losses in little more than a week.

“But my little ones are special to me ~ as they are to every mother. Edmund, don’t you see they are also our little ones as well? I don’t want them forgotten.”

“Their names will be on the headstone. It will be well-tended.”

“But no headstone lasts forever. Just look at the state of those down at the parish church.”

“But ours is in a good Baptist cemetery where the departed will be respected.”

“Yet even the best kept headstones are not always visited.”

“Well we will have to pray that the Lord will preserve their memories,” replied her husband who felt increasingly in need of divine assistance.

“Oh Edmund! I’ve been such a goose. You are so kind. I wish you were more often like this!”

“It’s nothing my love. You’re a good ‘un.”

“I do love you. No one else will have you whilst I am still alive.”

“And I love you too, button nose.”

A pause then followed as Edmund squeezed his wife around her waist. Then a business tone returned to his voice as he stated in a matter of fact way, “Lets now pray over our Sydney. I am going to pray that the good Lord shall bring some good out of this tragedy and that their names worn’t be forgotten.”

“Do you think He will be good enough to answer our prayer?”

“As a fact ‘e will, even if the answer takes one hundred and twenty years to come.”

A wan smile on her face quickly confirmed that she believed in what he said.

“Well, lets get on with it, we ‘avn’t all night. I ‘ave business to do tomorrow; there’s that confounded undertaker to see again.  Knowing ‘im I bet ‘es already got things ready.”

 

‘Ah good it’s in, nice and to the point.’ reflected Edmund as he looked down the list of death notices on the fourth page of WEDNESDAY 30^TH APRIL 1879 edition of the LEEDS MERCURY. He sat up in his armchair to read the following announcement “SMITH – APRIL 29^th at Hastings Place, Vernon Road, Leeds, aged 3 years and 6 months: Sydney Edmond, son of Edmond and Rosamond Smith.” He then closed the paper whilst busily thinking:  ‘another funeral quickly orver with and bills to pay for the interment at Sutton. After that, got to buy Frank those fancy things for the Grammar School. Lets hope it make something out of ‘im so he can give me some well-bred grandsons. I could do with some to make up for our recent losses.” He then tossed aside the paper and began to contemplate his future plans for the Smiths. ‘Aye, I will ‘elp ‘em gain a grand estate in life ~ grander then the Bairstow’s and ‘Spencers. Just give me the time and enough sons. Then my family will give me their dues. Oh yes they will!’

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                ‘Will soon be orver’ Frank mused as he placed his bowler on the wooden hat stand. Large of girth, he looked every bit the successful businessman in his smart brown three-piece suit and bowler hat and smartly brushed snow-white hair. Standing behind him, with a very cross expression was his second daughter Julia who was furiously using a damp cloth to wipe a fine lace Blouse for ‘Little Freddie’ had committed the ultimate offence of dribbling on it when she had picked him up to wind him shortly after they had entered the house at Vernon Road. For once Frank was glad to be paying a Sunday afternoon call to his Father Edmund. That very morning ‘ad seen a right commotion with all the girls at it.’ The problem had begun as usual between Rosamund and Julia, but this time it was over some missing jewellery. He couldn’t make out what was at the bottom of it but soon the two sisters were almost tearing one another’s hair out. Elizabeth had intervened and ‘as was ‘er wont ‘ad made things worse by yelling something to the effect that their behaviour was worse than that of fishwives.’ Rene couldn’t stop blubbering whilst young Madge had scurried around like a headless chicken trying to protect the babies. ‘Almost tripped ‘orver ‘er when I came in to keep ‘er sisters apart.’  Not to be outdone, first young Stewart and then ‘ the new un’ had joined in, wailing loudly ‘as if it was the end of t’er world.’  No wonder Frank possessed a hearty dislike of Sundays. Even Edmund could not be as bad ~ or so he hoped. His usual solution was to keep the two older girls apart. Rosamund preferred to stay at home to be with her ‘dear mummy,’ whilst Julia liked to be ‘out and about.’ Also if bored, Julia could at least be relied upon to restrain her yawns, unlike Rosamund who often made her displeasure embarrassingly visible. ‘Could be as cross-grained as ‘er Grandfather. She reminds me of ‘im when e’ ‘ad one of ‘is black ‘umours. Trouble is she ‘as ‘er mother wrapped around ‘er thumb and I daren’t say nothing.’

                A careworn Betsey greeted them. The years had aged her and there was the fear that she would not outlive her father who was very vigorous for a man of his age. “I am glad that you could come. Since father provided for him we hardly ever see anything of James these days.” Frank noticed there was more than a little note of accusation in her voice. He knew that relationships between her and James had never been good. Also that she would welcome so any conversational distraction, away from her father who had not taken kindly to his recent retirement from Stewart Macdonald. Only severe attacks of bronchitis had forced him to discontinue his work in his eighty-second year. With a wave of her hand Betsey ushered them into the living room. Set out on top of a wheeled double-decker tray, amongst home-made silverware was an assortment of cakes, buns and tarts. Fashioning her own silver cutlery and cooking were her two major hobbies helping her while away the hours of what could have been a lonely existence. She even brought out the silverware when only sandwiches were on offer. As it turned out other members of the household had left to make their own Sunday visits; so only herself and her father Edmund were present when Frank and his two children had arrived. There would be time later to show ‘little Freddie’ to the rest of the family ~ besides Edmund always liked to be the first one to greet a new grandson. It was his way of exerting patriarchcal authority. Also, it paid the other members of the household to keep away until they knew how the two men would get on. Frank was indeed glad that the visit would last at most only half an hour; after which time he could plead that ‘little Freddie’ needed to be taken home in order to receive a feed. He was quite a hungry baby, always wanting food and having wind at the most embarrassing of times.

                Being in his eighty-second year had mellowed Edmund a little. He was now more grumpily cantankerous, rather than furiously outraged about things these days ~ although he could still show his disapproval with an outburst of temper. The lion may well be old but he could still give a hearty roar even when he suffering one of his increasing attacks of bronchitis, causing him to endure a fit of protracted coughing. His main wish had been to continue working until he had died but somewhat grudgingly he knew that was not to be. Edmund look across the table observing the way that Frank always wore his best suit to impress him and he respected the way in which he had done so well at Stewart Macdonald. He had shown a marked ability to charm such difficult customers as Joseph Gillinson who would argue forever over prices. Giving Frank a Grammar School education had been a wise investment. It was a pity that Frank had married another ‘elen but at least she had got round to producing some grandsons. Still it wouldn’t do to go over old ground, ‘Frank had made ‘is bed and would ‘ave to lie in it.’ He was content for now to see ‘the new un’ for the first time. Only with the advent of a warm summer had it been judged wise to allow him to take his first outing. Like his wife, Frank was very protective over the health of his children. Now approaching his fourth month ‘little Freddie’ had learnt to raise his head, ‘with luck he’ll grow up to be like me. Stewart’s a grand lad alright but I want a proper Smith!’

                “Here ‘e is father, your new grandson. ‘Es a right tubby one; Loves ‘is food this one does.”

Very stiffly Julia handed the baby over to Frank who placed him into Edmund’s arms. Betsey stood to the right, watchful as ever. Julia then sat on the chair stifling a yawn. There was a quality of steel about her that Edmund admired, but it was a pity that she too did not look like a  ‘proper’ Smith. The room they were in was in the very cluttered style of some twenty-five years previously. The stuffed owl on the mantle piece still gave a baleful stare. There were also the now fading books in the old cabinet. Nothing much seemed to have changed since Rosamond’s day.

                “So this is the new Smith eh!” Edmund asked eager to make a show of benevolence.

                “Aye ‘e is.”

                “My! He has Rosamond’s eyes.”

                Frank quite a sigh of relief, this comment meant that the visit was going well. Old Edmund had said the same about Stewart whom everyone adored. Toward the girls he had been formally correct but with grandsons it was different.

                “You should ‘ave named ‘im after me Frank.”

                “The world isn’t big enough to ‘old two Edmund Smiths father,” he replied whilst giving the most unconvincing of smiles.

“And ‘ows the young baby charmer.”

“Oh Stewart! ‘Es doing dandy.”

“Must be getting big now?”

“Aye ‘e is.”

“Your wife?”

“Coping well.”

“And the girls?”

“Doing well. Their mother ‘elps ‘em to learn French.”

                “Oh really! I ‘ope they ‘elp around the ‘ouse.”

                “They do indeed father.”

                Julia shot Frank a barely concealed look of disdain thinking, ‘Huh! Rosamund never does anything to help. Oh how I hate her.’ A picture of an older teenage girl with slightly pointed teeth floated into mind.

                “You must always bring your girls to be practical like I did with Betsey. Otherwise they’ll end up with all sorts of giddy notions. Eh, that’s right Betsey my dear?”

“Yes father,” she replied dutifully.

 “Be assured father we dorn’t allow any giddiness in our ‘ouse do we Julia?”

“If you say so Papa,” replied his daughter stifling another yawn.

                “Those priests still causing bother?”

“No’r Father” replied Frank who was still annoyed at the way Rosmund had ‘let the cat out of the bag’ about that problem during a previous visit.

“Capital! Capital! The Churches are always after money. I saw that was the case fifty odd years ago.”

‘Aye if they do come crawling round ‘Ros’ is sure to snitch onto me about the fact. I can sure trust ‘er to do that alright.’

Outwardly Frank doted on his oldest daughter, but part of him knew that she spelt nothing but trouble. However, for the sake of family peace he never expressed this reservation. This was in sharp contrast to Edmund who never hesitated at all to criticise any of his daughters if he judged that they were behaving in ‘a wanton’ manner. Maud in particular he was glad to see married because he feared that her ‘flighty ways’ could bring the whole family into disrepute. At her marriage in October 1899, Edmund had played the part of the proud patriarch with great enthusiasm. No amount of money had been spared on giving her a lavish wedding reception. In contrast, only Betsey had been spared his all too regular criticisms, but she had always been at pains to give her father what he wanted.

“Would you like some more tea Frank?” interjected Betsey.

 “Aye yes please.”

“And you Julia?”

“No thank you” she responded coldly. A few seconds before she had been thinking of the large country house complete with servants that her mother was always telling her about. She had not taken kindly to being disturbed from her daydream. Having been fed all of these grandiose ideas for most of her young life, she now felt determined to escape the narrow confines of her provincial home. One day she would get back everything that her ‘silly mummy’ had lost ~ then Rosamund would be taught a thing or two. She wouldn’t be mummy and daddies favourite then.

Slowly Frank sipped his tea, glad that ‘little Freddie’ was there to provide a topic of conversation. Already the baby had begun to exercise what would turn out to be a life-long vocation as family peacemaker. The beverage was sweet, just the way he liked it. Betsey, like Rosamond had always known his needs. Elizabeth had also had become a good cook -all his wife needed was a bit of patience. At least her heart was in the right place. ‘I would never complain about her as father always did about ‘poor Helen. Long got sick of that story.’

“My! Julia is quite the young lady now.”

“Aye she is,” replied Frank as his daughter stifled another yawn whilst thinking about a really big house in the country. Her view of Edmund was one of indifference ~ although being with him was better than being in the same house as that frightful Rosamund.

‘Little Freddie’ gave a belch followed by a yell. Dribble flowed down his new white petticoat.

“Let me take him,” Betsey interrupted

“Nor! Nor! ~ It’s just a bit of wind. His mother has been overfeeding him.” Both Betsey and Frank knew that in his younger days their father would have exclaimed, “Confound the child” before placing it on the lap of the nearest available wet nurse. Now he was just content to see his daughter wipe away the dribble.

As the baby let off another belch Edmund cooed, “There! There! My little button nose.” As he stroked Freddy’s nose with his forefinger, a smile on the baby’s face showed that the wind had dissipated.  He gurgled to himself mischievously. After a while ‘Little Freddie’ soon settled into a contented sleep.

“Now Frank, ‘ows business going?”

“It’s going well father, despite stiff competition from Germany and America.”

“I wager that you’re glad I got you started at Stewart Macdonald all those years ago. It’s a capital firm to work for. Choosing it was one of the best decisions of my life. It wouldn’t ‘ave done you any ‘arm to ‘ave started from the bottom in the warehouse. In my day as a young man I started with nothing.”

“Aye father” he replied, secretly annoyed by the fact that on this point he could not disagree; his father had indeed done him a great favour in getting him started in what was a very good company. It had certainly caused him to prosper in the world.

“In my day times were very ‘ard. You never knew where your next meal was coming from and them Chartists, roaming around causing so much mischief! They nearly sent my dear mother into an early grave when they ransacked our ‘ouse back in ’42. Stole all the milk and bread we ‘ad, although it was precious little. Left us with nothing. Decided there was nowt in Skipton for me. I ‘ad to make my way in the world by starting with nothing and ‘avin a wife who weren’t much use - was always ill with swoons and fainting fits, but still I provided for ‘er when many a man would ‘ave taken to the bottle. I managed to battle on working all hours of the day, scrimping and saving to give you boys an education at that Grammar School. Never knew where the next penny was coming from. ‘Ad daughters to keep with all their fussy ways ~ even wanting money to ‘ave some fancy umbrellas. Never begrudged them, nor I dint.”

                ‘Not the old rags to riches story’ thought Frank, Betsey and Julia who were all finding it difficult to stifle a yawn. Relief came when ‘Little Freddie’ emitted a high-pitched sigh as if he too was finding things to be getting a bit of a bore.

                “Anyway, that’s all past now. I ‘ope ‘is mother is takin’ care of ‘im.” as he gazed down on his new grandchild.

                “She is father, Elizabeth is very capable in these matters.”

                “Glad to ‘ere it. I’ve seen enough little ‘uns buried at Sutton. Still they are with their dear mother Rosamond ~ may God rest ‘er soul.”

                “e’ll live to a ripe old age just like you father, and see ‘is grandsons.”

                “I ‘ope so. Still ‘e looks strong and might live to my age ~ although ‘eaven knows what changes ‘e’ll see if ‘e does. The changes I saw just in this city were enough. Expect the world will still be in trouble ~ that we can rely on. At least though ‘e looks like a proper Smith. ‘ope ‘e as my practical business turn of mind. There’ll always be a need to make money.”

“I am sure of that father.”

                “I ‘ope ‘e dorn’t ‘ave any airy notions from ‘is …”

                Raised eyebrows from Betsey stopped him from saying the next word.

“Being married to a wrong ’eaded woman never did me any good. It was a mercy when the good Lord took ‘er. Still I suppose she did what she could.” He gave Frank a pointed look. “Ah well, you just have to learn the ‘ard way.”

“More tea Julia dear?” interrupted Betsey anxiously.

“Yes please, Aunt,” she replied coldly, having just concluded that babies were the most disgusting creatures on earth. A sip of tea would at least relieve the boredom.

 Edmund resumed cooing of ‘Little Freddie’ broke the silence. A note of tenderness could be heard in his voice ~ something of a rarity for Edmund. Frank looked on thinking ‘At last father ‘is beginning to mellow with age – ‘e still can be difficult though.’

His half sister’s mind slipped back to a time when her father had not been so mellow. In particular there had been the dreadful evening when Frank had announced his engagement to ‘the Papist wench.’ That was now well over fifteen years ago but the memory was still all too vivid. She had not heard everything that was said in the living room that night, but what she did hear had been bad enough. Then, as now the stuffed owl had watched over the unfolding events; -

“Nowt good will come out of it Frank! Nowt good will come out of it!”

“But father …”

“It’s not as if you’re a man ‘oo ‘as a need of ‘er money. You’re a man with rising prospects. There’s no need to marry Vono beds.”

“But…”

“The trouble is Frank, is that early prosperity ‘as gone to your ‘ead. You needed to struggle like I did at your age.”

“Father the decision ‘as been made.”

“Then unmake it.”

“No father,” said Frank with a note of dogged perseverance in his rather strained voice.

‘Dorn’t be a fat ‘ead! ‘Er family look down at their noses at us Smiths Thure ‘as bad as ‘em ‘artleys and Baistows. They worn’t give you a penny, oh nor they worn’t!” replied his father with great emphasis.

“I dornt need their flaming pennies. I am capable of making my orn way in the world.”

“I nor you can, Then why ‘marry ‘er?”

“Because of love…”

“Fiddlesticks! What do you mean by love? Airy sentiment I suppose or is it a blind infatuation?”

“We ‘ave considered the matter carefully.”

“Giddy Aunt you ‘ave! She’s been reading’ too many silly stories in that Convent of ‘ers. I’d expect that from an empty ‘eaded woman, but you Frank nor the ways of the world, I would expect better from. What you’ve done would break your mother’s ‘eart the Lord bless ‘er soul.”

“There ain’t any need to bring mother into it!” exclaimed Frank raising his voice, his face contorting in anguish.

“There is, because you’re ‘er son,” retorted Edmund his mouth twisted into a ferocious scowl.

“Look ‘ere father, it was always you who wanted me to be a fine gentleman, to marry into the right family and get on in the world. I’ve dun all of that and more!”

“Done! Done! What you’ve done is try to marry into a family who look down at us and are papists to boot.”

“In this enlightened age what matters is love.”

“Utter ‘umbug! Call this age enlightened when people say we cum from monkeys and my son marries into the ‘arlot Church who demand that my grandchildren be raised as little Papists!” shouted Edmund, pounding the table with his fist.

“That’s ornly t’er Christening. They will be allowed to choose their faith when they become adults. Both Elizabeth and I have agreed on that.”

“Since when do you need a mere woman to tell you what religion to bring up your children in.”

“It’s not like that!”

“Oh yes it is! In my time I’ve seen families torn apart by religious disagreements and that’s ornly when a Baptist marries a Methodist. What your’e doin’ is far worse, you’ll leave behind a right mess for your children and grand children to clear up. Religious mismatches never work. They only bring misery.”

“Elizabeth is highly respectable, she comes from a very good family.”

“Frank you’re compromising your principles, you’re compromising your principles,” said Edmund with a note of sorrow entering his voice.

“They are your principles father ~ not mine.”

“Aye they are son and I’d wished I’d made a better job of impartin’ ‘em. Still, they’ve stood me in good stead orver my life.”  A brief but awkward pause followed as Edmund decided to change the tack of his argument.

“’ow will you corpe when times get ‘ard. Will you be able to live on your wretched sentiment then ~ Eh! My lad?”

“We’ve discussed that at length. She is willing to assume a more modest station in life.”

“Oh aye until the infatuation wears off. Then she will drive you mad with all kinds of extravagant demands.”

“Father, she is willing to pay the cost of love ~ she really is! Already she is willing to give everything up.”

“Aw really! What will ‘appen when she ‘as to keep to er ‘ouse and scrub the floor without the aid of an army of servants? Then will come the tears. Just you see.”

“She is very willing father.”

“That’s what poor ‘elen said. Poor fool that I was - I married ‘er and she led me a dogs life ~ always wanting this and that. All she ever gave me was ‘artache - though I suppose Betsey was a fairly good bargain. ‘Giving ‘er and Ann were the only good things she ever did.”

“Father! Elizabeth is not ‘elen! She ‘as a far stronger disposition!”

“Dornt bet on it. She ‘as now but will she when t’er bills cum in? You should marry a down to earth Leeds lass who doesn’t give ‘erself airs and graces. I know fathers who would be eager to ‘ave you ‘as a son-in-law. If you’re so desperate about goin’ down the marrying way I could ‘ave a word with …”

“No father, my mind is made up. It’s going to be Elizabeth.”

“Then you’re a fat ‘ead.”

“Is that all you can say?”

“Yes!”

“Then there is no point in continuing our conversation.”

“Nor there aint.”

“That’s it?”

“Aye it is.”

Frank had then stiffly pulled open the door and stormed out muttering “all because this time ‘e dint get ‘is orn way.” He had brushed past his half sister in furious haste, grabbed his bowler from the hat stand, opened the door and was gone into the night. He had seemed completely unaware of her presence. From inside the living room she had heard her father prowling up and down muttering “Confounded fat ‘ead! This ‘is ‘ow ‘e repays me and ‘is dear late mother for all we did for ‘im. ‘Es gone as daft as Jim with all ‘is fancy ‘igh church ways and milksop of a grandson ‘e gave me!” There was much anger but no remorse in his tone.

 

“Would you like a slice of cake Julia?”

“Just a little,” she replied disdainfully as if answering a young maid.

“And you too Frank?”

“Ee! Yes pet! ” Frank exclaimed with a boyish note of eagerness in his voice.

As cake rapidly vanished into his mouth he thought ‘Aye, it’s thanks to our Betsey that we’re ‘ear at all.’

 

The years since ‘the great scene’ with his father had been most difficult. It took virtually the whole family to persuade Edmund to attend Franks wedding in Birmingham.  He sat through the exchange of vows with a heart