March 1887
‘March brings breezes loud and shrill,
Stirs the dancing daffodil.’
Friday, March 11th
March plough week had to be snatched when the weather were blowing fine. Last week’s drying winds, coupled with sunny days, had every farmer out this week to plough. Tizzie smiled to herself. As most of the boys were wanted, the schoolmaster, with His Lordship’s approval, had announced a week’s ploughing holiday. Made life much quieter with Jack and the lads out each day, from dawn to dusk, turning their best fields under to grow the barley they’d sell, and preparing the other fields for oats and beans. Jack were too tired to do more than growl of an evening. Tizzie liked that kind of evening.
She liked her break too, sitting by the schoolroom stove and acting like a schoolmarm, teaching knitting for two hours each morning. She looked at the little girls, heads bent, slowly knitting, with tongues working as hard as their fingers. “That’s it. You’re getting it well, good lasses. Now, use your right hand fingers to move the wool.” She stretched her feet towards the heat. The stove needed feeding. “Pop some more coal on the fire, please, Agnes.”
Calving soon. Thank the Lord her cows never turned awkward about bulling, chased him they did, the hussies. They’d, excepting the house cow who were always out of kilter, been with the bull last June so they’d drop their calves before April. Reliable old bodies her cows were, who paid her back for all her care, unlike her family. She watched Agnes dust off her hands and settle back to her sewing. Love, loyalty and affection, that’s what families should give to each other. Where were that in her family? Were it Maggie’s fault or Jack’s? Who’ d been first to see how to trap her? A panicky squeak brought her mind back to teaching. “There now, Jenny.” She reached to sort out another tangle. “You keep your wool loose in your lap then it won’t snaggle so.”
At least Maggie’d not been able to nay-say the vicar’s lady and Lady Esther when they called. Boys ploughed, and the lasses had a week of special girls’ lessons all planned and thought out by the schoolmaster with the vicar’s lady, Lady Esther and Agnes in charge. Tizzie suspicioned strongly that Agnes helped draw up the list of the local women who could help. How else would Lady Esther know who to ask in the village? Maggie’d found a smile to wear for the visitors, though she were tart enough once they’d gone, not wanting to be doing Tizzie’s midday chores and the morning’s washing and baking on her own. Tizzie weren’t sorry to have a week off, and Agnes fair shone with happiness, but Maggie were hissing and spitting. Lord only knew how she’d reward them both for this little break.
It had been a strange week, but all the lasses were right keen, for the schoolmaster guaranteed prizes for their work. Best of all, Lady Esther promised that students who attended every day would be invited to a special ceremony at the Hall for the prizes and a tea. Tea at the hall! Not one lass wanted to miss a chance to eat the kind of cakes and dainties the Hall’s new cook were said to make. They all came and without the lads twitting them settled comfortably into groups helping each other with their tasks.
One or two of the Mams visited each day, to help, they said. More like for a nosy poke, Tizzie reckoned, but they did give up a bit of precious time to help with winding wool or threading needles. Maggie had threaten to pop in too. Tizzie daren’t guess why and the wondering when had spoiled her mornings. Still it were Friday now, not likely for her to drop in. And Tizzie’d enjoyed the company. Mrs Mullen, the retired nursery nurse, well respected and pleased to be asked, came all day, every day, teaching plain and fancy sewing and showed the lasses how to make clothes for babies and little children. “I’m glad to be with children again,” she’d told Tizzie the first morning. “Don’t you worry about the wee bairns, I’ll see to them.” She had a knack of stopping squabbles after the first cross word, with a shocked look and hands raised in horror. Tizzie’d watched, grateful. She might try that herself one day if she thought she could do it without a smile spoiling the effect.
Lady Esther, responsible for both schools on the Estate, spent an hour in the mornings at the Linden estate school, and an hour in the afternoons she were at their Dale village school. My, but she had deft dainty fingers. Tizzie’d watched her do some fancy paper work, all that piercing and cutting and scrolling, so neatly and that nice. The girls created mantle ornaments, three dimensional cards and bookmarks. Tizzie’d tried her hand too. It weren’t that tricksy really, and her cards came out looking grand when she got the knack of tight folding. Happen she and Agnes might earn a few pence making Christmas cards to sell come December.
It’d been a good week. The school fair hummed with busy hands and voices, a kind of music, as the knitters chanted the counting rhymes under their breath, and littlies sang the casting on and off instructions. A bit of a rhyme and tune eased work, helped the lasses learn. Tizzie sang herself, surprised, in the midst of her pother, how much she were enjoying herself.
Ivy’d come in for the Friday morning session, teaching fancy pattern knitting for the older ones, lassies who’d mastered the trick of knitting short and swift with the stick and using several colours of wool together. She kept them at making up their own patterns with stories of the good money earned by knitting. “Ask Miss Cawthra what her patterned gloves and mittens fetch.”
Tizzie pretended shock, and that made them laugh. Then she near jumped out of her skin when someone rapped with a stick on the window beside her. A head bobbed up and down trying to peer in. Then a hand appeared, the palm smacked the glass. The window rattled, Tizzie flinched, and a voice called for her. It sounded like Jack.
The vicar’s lady, who had been questioning Ivy about the knitting clubs, stepped over to the window and flung it open. “If you need something, come inside, man,” she called down. “You’ll break the window behaving like that.” No nonsense with the vicar’s lady.
Tizzie puzzled over Jack’s action, as Mrs Holbrooke turned back to Ivy with more questions. She liked Mrs Holbrooke, even though she did ask queer questions. The village regarded the vicar’s lady as peculiar, but old folk liked her ‘cos she listened to their tall tales. She had been raised at Cambridge, the university, so the village understood. A bit of a blue stocking she were, what with her family being professors an’ all. In the Dale she studied local history and what she called folk-lore and folk-tales. She even published pamphlets. Now she wanted to write about knitting clubs and the knitting stick, which she said she’d never seen ‘til she came to the Dales.
Tizzie tried to concentrate on her wee lassies but Jack, he’d nattered her. Why had he come? She watched the doorway from the corner of her eye and saw his head poke round the door frame then vanish, all in a blink. Mrs Holbrooke stood facing the door.
Another tangled up knitter brought her eyes back to her work, but she heard boots, men’s boots, clattering on the floor. One, two three strides then a halt. She peeped again.
Ivy sidled up beside her. “Don’t look. It’s your Jack.” She raised her voice to normal level. “Change to red now, Marianne. That’s it.”
Tizzie tried not to move her head but moved her eyes desperately, seeking to see round Ivy. What were Jack playing at?
“What is it, Mr Cawthra?” That were the vicar’s lady, being haughty. “You’re disturbing the school, you know.”
“We need our Tizzie.”
Tizzie jerked upright. What were he on about? Couldn’t be Agnes in trouble, she were safe over with Mrs Mullen. She swivelled in her chair to peep over her shoulder, but Ivy blocked her.
“Don’t look,” Ivy hissed. “It’ll be Maggie after spoiling your day and that fancy luncheon Her Ladyship’s bringing us.”
“Ah, don’t, Ivy.” Tizzie sighed to herself. How did Ivy see so much more than she’d ever done? And she knew she shouldn’t have let Agnes talk about the Friday luncheon. Master Mike’s big ears must have been flapping, his tongue wagging tales to his Mam and Da.
“Tizzie hasn’t finished her task, Mr. Cawthra. Can we not keep her for another hour?”
Tizzie sneaked a glance. Jack, cap doffed and crushed between his hands, looked nattered. Mrs Holbrook stood in front of him and he couldna move round her because of the desks and chairs. He shifted from foot to foot, boots slurring over the floor. He gripped his cap and began again.
“Aye, well it’s our Maggie. She’s a bit poorly and needs Tiz to take the food up to the ploughers. It can’t wait. They went without their pie and a piece this morning so they’ve had nowt since breakfust.”
Tizzie wanted to cry out. She’d given the boys their pieces all wrapped up and with a bottle of tea each this morning. It’d be that Mike leaving his behind. Or happen this were a tale....” Mrs Holbrooke couldn’t get her out of this.
Ivy gave her a look. Tizzie rose and began to walk towards Jack.
“Couldn’t you see to this, Mr Cawthra?”
“Nay, ma’am. I’ve horse to get shod. She’s cast a shoe, and we need her for the ploughing.”
Tizzie didn’t look at Jack. After all it could be true. She faced Mrs Holbrook. “I’ll be back for my things later, ma’am.”
Jack took her by the elbow, marched her out of the classroom, then he spoke. “Aggie’ll have to bring your things. You’re needed. Maggie’s had enough to do.”
Tizzie, wondering why she felt so guilty, opened her mouth, but Jack were pushing her on. He had her at the outer door before she could catch a breath.
“Don’t blether. Go on , open t’door,” He pushed her forward, but cannoned into her as Tizzie halted in the doorway. Her Ladyship had arrived.
“You’re not leaving now are you, Tizzie?” Lady Esther asked.
Jack mumbled something about needing his sister. Lady Esther looked a question at Tizzie.
“Maggie wants me to take the dinners up to the ploughing fields, m’lady.”
Lady Esther tipped her head, regarding them for a moment. She smiled sweetly upon Jack. “Mr Cawthra, we really do need your sister for another hour. She is helping Mrs Holbrooke and myself with the village recipe book.”
Hope bubbled as Tizzie tried not to let her face show surprise. Happen she’d share that lunch after all.
Jack coughed into his hand. “Aye well....”
Lady Esther turned to the young man behind her. “Perhaps my groom could carry the food to the fields for you.” Tizzie nearly grinned. It were George, Ivy’s eldest lad. “Can you do that for us, George?”
George did grin. “Certainly, m’lady.”
Jack might glower, but he couldn’t do ought now.
George thrust the basket he held into Tizzie’s arms. “You carry that inside, Miss Cawthra. I’ll feth t’other and m’lady’s bags.”
Tizzie dodged round Jack one way. Her Ladyship went the other. They left Jack standing in the doorway waiting for George. Tizzie allowed herself a smile. Maggie’d not be best pleased, but it were Lady Esther who’d kept her. Jack couldn’t go against m’lady, nor could Maggie.
M’lady’s soft white baps and a big crock of shrimp paste made a treat for all to eat. The large kettle, simmering away well back on the stove, steamed the air and dribbled droplets down the window panes, and as Ivy made the tea, everyone settled near the stove
“I am writing a pamphlet about our Dale’s special recipes,” Mrs Holbrooke announced smiling round at them all. “I’d like to sell it to raise money for the children’s church treats. Miss Cawthra, we need your recipes. Would you be happy to share any special ones with me?”
Tizzie, prodded vigorously in her ribs, jerked, and frowned at Agnes. Agnes jabbed her again. “Recipes,” she hissed, “go on, Auntie Tiz.”
Which recipes could she give? Tizzie, cheeks hot, stuttered through a simple curdie recipe.
“There’s something special your family does, isn’t there, Miss Cawthra?” Lady Esther spoke. “Could you tell us about the Saint Columba’s Day cake and how it’s made? We might make that a feature of the pamphlet.”
“It’s Maggie’s recipe, really, m’lady. She brought the custom with her from Scotland.” Tizzie watched Mrs Holbrooke writing down her words and spoke with care. “It’s a griddle cake, m’lady, made with oatmeal.”
The vicar’s lady wrote and wrote, her pencil fair leaping over the paper. “We’ll make a wonderful recipe book,” she said, “and every girl who has given me a recipe shall have a copy.”
Tizzie pondered. Recipes, Saint Columba, and Agnes wanting. She’d need to think a lot more, but there was a seed of an idea here to help Agnes if she could but put it all together right. She’d sleep on it and see.
***
Sunday, March 20th
‘Sunday-go-to-church,’ Tizzie hummed the old rhyme to herself. Sundays, after the necessary early morning chores, on went her best corset for all of the day, and those fine stockings and pretty shoes. Tizzie took her time, putting on each precious garment carefully. It helped her stop thinking, worrying so hard about brother Tom, and Johnnie, and St Columba’s Day. If she didn’t keep busy her thoughts tick-tocked like a pendulum, swinging from ‘Yes, Jack and Maggie have destroyed my life.’ to ‘But they didn’t mean to.’ because it were near unbearable to think they’d truly done it on purpose. And Agnes wanted those St Columba’s lambs. It weren’t fair the lass had been missed out, and it done on purpose. Agnes needed money in the bank as well as the boys. Dither, dither, dither, went her mind, never settling to let her decide one sure way. And why? She well knew and were shamed. She dare not come out and say, not out loud, what Maggie and Jack had done. She were afraid, fully frit of what would happen if she challenged them. If she were to ask about Tom’s letters, about what Johnnie had said, what would they do? Life were steady now, how would it be if she started asking questions? She had comforts here, ones she’d not get as a dairymaid on another farm. Hiring wasn’t until Michaelmas any road, what’d she do today if she were tossed out on her ear by Jack and Maggie? And Jack’s raging, Maggie’s outbursts, they terrified her. Shaming though it were to think it, they had her cowed.
No, today, fourth Sunday in Lent, Mothering Sunday, with Vicar’s lady giving Simnel Cake to the mothers, she could dress like a lady and stop trying to make up her mind about anything but the coming of Easter. Those soft cotton stockings, tucked and embroidered petticoats, pin tucked shift and lace trimmed drawers felt grand, it were a treat to wear them. She eased into her Sunday dress, carefully adjusting the skirt and the folds of the overskirt. She stroked the soft wool and smiled, for vanity might be a sin, but she did love a pretty dress, and this year’s dress had a high necked, cuirass bodice, seemly for church, and the new, slimmer sleeves. What she could see in her mirror told her the dress suited her, looked becoming on her lean frame. No good longing for womanly curves on her hips and breasts, wanting wouldn’t make a difference. This style made the most of what she had, but very proper and lady-like she looked. That’d please Maggie. She fastened up the carved ivory buttons on the bodice, a present from Jem last Christmas, prinked the lace on her sleeves and neck band, and viewed herself again. Maggie had been all for the bright colours and tartan trims so she’d bought her cloth from the draper’s. Tizzie liked the solid coloured, fine wool pieces Sam sent from the mill, found enough tan, cream and chocolate brown stuff to make the skirt and bodice for this dress. ‘It’d be a bit dull,’ Maggie warned, but Tizzie thought she looked elegant, plain but distinguished, like Lady Esther. There, all ready except for her hair. She sat at her toilet table, corseted stiffly upright, and dressed her hair up into her fancy Sunday style, something more than her usual weekday twisted coil or plaited crown. This past month, what with those late night lambing watches, it had been all she could do to tidy her hair away in a couple of plaits and pin them round her head. Today she had an opportunity to forget all her hard work, not only was there a full Eucharist service, but also all the community would be there to hear the Jubilee plans. Tizzie swept up her hair and reckoned she’d look as fine as any other young woman in her village. It’d be a beautiful service with the musicians present and the choir well rehearsed. His Lordship were attending; the vicar had warned everyone.
Agnes’s rap on the door came early, well before they had to leave. She popped her head around the door, hopeful but polite. Her face had been soaped rosy clean, her hair scraped back tightly and it still smelt slightly of the vinegar-water comb through Maggie had given it. She edged into the room without a smile.
Tizzie wondered who had been yelling at her. She missed family quarrels and a lot of the goings-on tucked away up the back stairs at the end of the house. Still she liked it that way, quieter, better than dodging any fratcheting or brangling downstairs, and Agnes knew she could hide away with Tizzie whenever she needed to. Those three lads could make a rock retort, and their Mam never checked them when they were twitting Agnes.
“Well, there’s a good lass, all ready for church?”
“Mam wants me to go to chapel.”
Tizzie paused, then continued pushing in her last hair pins. Hair as thick as hers needed careful pinning, even under a bonnet. There, that’ll hold. She looked at Agnes, puzzled. “Chapel not Church?”
Agnes nodded.
Maggie were Chapel, but she usually went in the evenings. The vicar and his wife fetched in everyone for morning service, no matter what religion they claimed. Community notices, public notices and what not, all happened Sunday mornings in that church, and no one wanted to miss out. Maggie and Jack usually went, it were best to stay on the vicar’s good side. Besides the church gave supper dances, a grand harvest festival, Christmas treats for the bairns and Boxing day parcels for the adults. Agnes had always gone to church with Tizzie, even when, like now, her Mam intended to attend morning chapel.
“Why is that?”
“There’s a special Methodist Preacher coming, Mam says he’s famous for his sermons. She wants me to hear his preaching today. It’s about duty. Da’s going to church without her.”
“I see. Well, does your Mam know today is when the vicar and His Lordship are arranging the Jubilee Celebrations? That we all have to be there in church or we won’t be able to take part?”
“I didn’t...that’s not what he said last week, Aunt Tizzie. Is it?”
“Tha must ‘a been cloud gazing.” Tizzie winked. “That’s what I conned from his words. I’ll tell your Mam about that, shall I? Here, let's fix your hair. Your Mam gets it too tight in those plaits for your fine waves. Let's try something else.”
Agnes rubbed her temples where her hair had been scraped back tightly enough to pucker skin, and looked pleased. “Can you, Aunt Tizzie? It’s always coming out and tickling after Mam does it.”
Tizzie made two loose soft plaits, looped them back up to Agnes' ears, tied them off individually, twisted both the loops together, threading ribbons round and through to hold them together firmly. Triumphantly she pinned the bulky mass straight up the back of Agnes' head. “There, just like I do to the pony's tail for market day.” They shared a chuckle as Agnes raised her hands to feel the arrangement.
“Take that little hand mirror you bought me for Christmas, turn around, that’s it, back to my table glass, now have a peep in the hand mirror at the glass.” Agnes manoeuvred, looked, smiled satisfaction.
“Feeling grown up, Agnes? Then you act quiet and still like, no fussing and flouncing, then maybe we’ll get your Mam to allow you to come to Church. Did the schoolmaster, or the vicar’s lady, ask for help from you scholars?” Tizzie replaced Agnes’s tam o’shanter, adjusting it over the new hair style, and settled her own hat, not a great flowerpot one like Maggie’s newest and very fashionable one, but a simple, shapely fawn bonnet with a ruche of ribbons dyed to match her coat. She tied the bonnet ribbons carefully in a neat rosette beside her ear, then lifted down her new coat from its peg, still full of delight at the cloth Sam had sent her. It was a pretty green-blue shade, like a mallard’s wing patch, unusual, and no one else had woollen stuff like it anywhere in the Dale. The coat slipped on to fit snug round her shoulders. Tizzie stood tall.
“Oo, Aunt Tizzie, you do look grand.”
Agnes’s compliment sent warm red rushing to warm Tizzie’s cheeks. She thought she looked well too, but you didn’t say it outloud, that were vainglorious. “Away with you, soft soaping me, you forward lassie.” She found her tan gloves, and a handkerchief in the drawer. “And let me speak to your Mam.” She opened her door and led Agnes down the stairs to the main landing.
“Oh, yes, Auntie Tiz,” Agnes paused, eyes lighting with a happy memory. “I remember. The vicar wants student helpers to copy the words of songs and things. We’re doing a pageant, and the schoolmaster’s writing it.” Her whisper carried almost as far as her normal voice. Tizzie placed a finger to her own lips, then touched Agnes’s. “Gently now. You be meek and biddable, my lass. Let’s explain to your Mam. She’ll not want you and your brothers to miss out, especially when the rest of the village is taking part, but don’t you let on you know that. You keep your head down and your eyes sad.”
“Oh, Auntie Tiz!” Agnes opened her eyes wide and pretended shock. “Who’s been teaching you such tricks?” This time her whisper barely touched Tizzie’s ears.
Tizzie pointed to her, shaking her head in mock sorrow, and their smiles grew broader until they had to cover their mouths to stifle laughter. “Come away down, tha naughty lass,” she whispered, “and we’ll try.” But she were right were Agnes. Tizzie had been learning tricks to find a way to do as they wanted without Maggie having tantrums. Tizzie didn’t know whether to scold herself or be grateful.
Her plan succeeded, Maggie came too. “We can go to chapel tonight.” She nodded approval at Tizzie. “That coat looks well.” Then she looked at Agnes. “Don’t think you’re missing that sermon, my lass. Duty is something you’re short on when it comes to family.” She glanced again at her daughter, took in the tammy perched unusually straight on top of her head. “And what have you done to your hair?”
Tizzie’s explanation lasted until they reached the church yard.
“All the world and his wife, coming, eh?” Jack muttered as they joined the press going through the lych gate. In a kind of stop, start, shuffle, everyone crowded along the clean-swept flagstones of the paved path to the church, muttering, chattering or complaining. Agnes hung back, listening to the gossip. The rooks’ clamour, cawing and fretting in the rookery high up in the churchyard elm trees, caught Tizzie’s ear. She’d like to slip away on a bonnie day like this, gather a few primroses and little wild daffodils, take Agnes to see the pussy willow and hazels down in her valley. She gazed across the church yard, taking in the high blue sky, the wisps of white cloud flicking across the blue, the greening tree tops churning, and the yellow of many wild daffodils scattered amongst the graves stirring in wave after wave as the March wind galloped by. What was that poem the lass’d learned about daffodils? She turned to seek Agnes and found Schoolmaster Topley coming upon her, making his way quickly to the church by walking through the wet grass beside the queue on the path.
He inclined his head gravely, just as he did when she met him on Thursday nights. So they were his Sunday manners too and he used them every day. Shame more folk didn’t. Tizzie jerked her head in a little bob. She’d have to practise this head bowing business. Lady Esther did it an’ all. Perhaps it were Quaker thing?
“Excuse me, Miss Cawthra,” he said, as he edged by. He noticed her new coat and bonnet, his eyes flickered over her in a swift polite glance with a rare smile.
The words slid out before Tizzie knew it. “That poem you read, about ‘a host of golden daffodils’?”
Jared Topley stopped, his gaze followed Tizzie’s pointing finger, and understanding glimmered. “William Wordsworth’s poem, ‘Daffodils’ you mean?”
Tizzie nodded. “What was the part about dancing, like these?” She pointed at the wind tossed flowers.
The schoolmaster stepped onto the path beside her. He were only half a head taller so she didn’t have to crane her neck, and he didn’t leer or push his face too close. She felt comfortable next to him and could smile as he spoke the poem to her. She liked to hear his reciting voice, clear and full of a singing rhythm, even when he spoke softly as he did now. She nodded, wishing she hadn’t spoken out so abruptly, almost manner-less she’d been, and here she were trying to teach Agnes to be polite. Where had the lass hidden herself? She glanced round, and Agnes arrived, wriggling through the people behind them. The lass halted, beaming up at the schoolmaster.
“I remember that poem,” she said and joined in with the schoolmaster.
“That’s it,” Tizzie said, hearing the words again. She repeated them. “ Thank you. ‘Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.’ A fine dance in this wind.”
The three of them watched the daffodils a moment longer.
“It’s a heart warming sight all that cheering yellow,” the schoolmaster said to Tizzie. “I see where Agnes gets her love of poetry, Miss Cawthra.” He paused, hesitated, then bowed slightly. “ Please excuse me, I’m to help organise the Jubilee celebrations and I’m late, but I’ll find you some more spring poems for Thursday night.” He smiled enough to crinkle his face with friendly lines and stepped off the path again, dodging the queue.
Tizzie felt a tap on her elbow. She turned her head and there was Ivy. “Now you’re showing sense, Tizzie, lass. Schoolmaster Topley’s a good catch, you keep in his eye like and maybe...” Ivy’s voice tailed away and she winked, chuckling. She looked along the queue to where Jack and Maggie were worming their way to the church door, pushing the boys ahead. “Good job they didn’t see you chatting to him.” Then Ivy saw Agnes, peering from behind Tizzie, staring, mouth opening to speak. Ivy’s cheeks flamed, she scuttled away, cutting between the grave stones to rejoin her husband and children in the queue.
Agnes caught hold of Tizzie’s arm. “Did Mrs Thetford mean...could you wed the schoolmaster?” her voice, rising upwards in surprise, sounded out clear and loud. Tizzie clamped her own mouth tight shut and shook her head, her face heating up. ‘Twas Johnnie she’d only ever cared for, no other man to match him. She should never have stopped the schoolmaster, nor spoken to him in public. Those counter clerks from the post office gaggled together not far behind, fussing and preening in their Sunday best, and Mrs Mullens stood near. She’d have something sharp to say about place and position, and Tizzie, being too big for her boots, only a dairymaid’s after all, talking to the schoolmaster like that.
Agnes breathed out a gusty breath. “It’d be right fine if you did.”
The queue eased forward again. Tizzie saw Mrs Holbrooke standing beside a table in the church porch. The church warden sat at the table, head down, scribbling on a great roll of cream paper. “Run up and see what’s happening, Agnes.”
She watched the lass speed away and heard the sniggers grow louder. The counter clerks from the post office, were they laughing at her? Counter clerks, who were smart lasses, who could read and write, they didn’t have to go to Thursday Night School. Their names were top of the list for a Literary Club Mr Topley planned, and they were so young, just eighteen or nineteen, and pretty. They could look to wed a schoolmaster for their lives weren’t like hers, bound to the farm and physical work. They had school leaving certificates, could move to another place and a post office if they fancied it. Tizzie turned to face down the sniggers with a smile and found one of the lassies was Johnnie’s youngest sister, all done up in bright ribbons with loud pink feathers on a flowerpot hat of enormous size. She and her two companions stared rudely at Tizzie, huddled their heads closer together and giggled.
Tizzie turned back and, “Old maid,” she heard hissed at her.
Mrs Mullens, moving up beside Tizzie for a word, swung round, tut-tutting and glared at the clerks. “Cheeky young madams,” she said.
“Who’re you calling madams?” All three spoke indignantly. Mrs Mullens gave them a look which could have grated cheese. Tizzie watched the clerks flounce off down the queue, tossing their heads and exclaiming loudly amongst themselves.
“Above themselves, that lot,” Mrs. Mullens told Tizzie. “Never you heed ‘em, Miss Cawthra. You did right and your duty staying with Jack and Maggie, helping the family. That’s what only sisters or daughters are for and you’ve been a good ‘un both ways.” She patted Tizzie’s arm and beamed up at her. “You know your duty.”
Tizzie made a polite face. Mrs Mullens knew all about duty. She were a courtesy missus, never married herself, did her duty working away in the West Riding to keep her parents comfortable here in the village.
“We’ve not missed out.” Mrs Mullens leaned in towards Tizzie and lowered her voice. “We’ve got our children, in a better way than if we’d had to bear ‘em. I’ve had mine in the nursery, you’ve got your niece, who does you proud. That’ll do for us.”
All fine and dandy for some. Mrs Mullens’d been the children’s nurse to a wealthy wool man’s family in Bradford, retired early last year with a generous pension on top of her savings, but a children’s nurse weren’t like a dairy maid. A children’s nurse earned near as much as a head teacher and had respect. A diary maid had naught much of either. Tizzie made another polite face, sighing inwardly, then jumped as Agnes grabbed her arm. “Schoolmaster needs me, hurry do, Auntie Tiz.” Tizzie excused herself and allowed Agnes to propel her up the path.
She couldn’t dodge worry, not even today. The lass had a chance to learn to be something more than her brothers’ helpmate, how to see she could take it, though, made Tizzie’s head ache. It all came down to getting Agnes a bit of money. What about the market money, could she manage to get hold of that? Tizzie followed the lass into the porch. Seemed like she’d think up one plan, and it would need another plan to follow it through, and another and another. Tizzie never had time to reckon a plan to its end and helping Agnes needed to be done with care. The schoolmaster waved them into the church, and she gave up planning for a heartfelt prayer.
***
Saturday, March 26th
One thing, the only good thing as far as Tizzie could see about calving was that most of her cows were veteran mothers and needed her not at all. She huffed her way across the yard, breath going up in damp puffs like a steam engine, lantern swinging on one arm, wrapped jug of hot tea and packet of buttered tea cakes in a basket on the other. She liked to be there, on hand if needed. Sometimes calves struggled to free themselves of their birth sac, and there was always one dopey calf who couldn’t find the teat. Tizzie’d made herself a good spot, a nest in the clean straw against the far wall. With a couple of sacks stuffed full of chaff for a chair, she could doze the night away. Three cows had dropped their calves already, without fuss. Tizzie slept through, waking only when she heard that lowing, the special cow to new calf sound. She’d watched in the lantern light as the little one struggled up and wobbled to its mother, who’d expertly nudged the baby towards her udder, and it’d latched on after a couple of attempts. Tizzie loved the sight. It made her heart glad to watch a successful birth and see a contented cow lick her healthy calf.
Tonight she had Duchess and Countess to watch. Duchess was an old hand, chewed cud placidly, but Countess had only delivered one calf. She huffed through her nostrils and stamped her front foot at Tizzie’s approach.
“I’ll not bother you yet, old girl,” Tizzie soothed. “Going to give us a nice little heifer like last year?” Countess shifted restlessly, lifting her hooves in turn and placing them down again on the same spot in the straw, occasionally shaking her neck and head.
Tizzie doused the candle in the lantern, wound herself into the old coverlets, and snuggled down in her nest, muffling the blankets over her nose. The March breeze, pleasant under a daytime blue sky, whined round the shippon at night, found chinks in the joints between stones to cut through. Tizzie shrank into herself, huddling to keep warm. If that bullying wind dropped later there’d be a thick frost. She sighed. The early March spell of sun and blue sky were over. Rare indeed to have her cows calve in a mild spell. Tizzie wriggled deeper into the soft chaff, making a comfortable hollow. It’d been a long day. Maggie had wanted to clean out the bedrooms, carbolic the floors and beds to check any fleas or chigs. Tizzie’s arms ached from scrubbing, shaking, and beating. She needed sleep. The shippon smelt of sweet warm cow, crisp dry straw and the gassy tang of digested green stuff, a pleasant smell when fresh. Tizzie breathed in the scents, leaning back against the wall. Her eyes closed, and she slept.
She woke suddenly, knowing she was needed. The shippon, filled with thick velvet black, had no shape or shadows, hid the cows. Nearly dawn then. She cautiously felt for the lantern and lit the candle. The soft light showed cow shapes, Countess, flanks heaving, neck stretched, head down, uttered a groan. Duchess, away in the far corner, lay on her side, rump facing so that Tizzie could see the birth sack emerging. “Ah, tha’s a good old cow,” Tizzie told her, and turned to Countess.
“Tha’s in a muckle mess, poor beastie. Need help, don’t you?” She soothed with her voice, moving gently and slowly until she reached Countess’s head, then stroked her way to her tail, feeling with her fingers the cow’s straining and heaving. The white birth sac with the feet showed. Tizzie heaved a sigh, at least the calf was coming out right. Happen the head were over-large. “There, there, lass, steady now.” Tizzie fetched her basket of remedies from the high shelf by her sacks, found the pots of herbal goose grease, sought the antiseptic one, sniffing until she smelt the ointment rendered with thyme, sage and comfrey. Ah, now a generous dollop in her palm should do it. The ointment made a cold spot, stung. She blew on the dollop, felt it soften, rubbed her hands together, warming the ointment as she crept back to Countess. She waited for the cow’s next heave. Together they worked. The cow shoved and Tizzie eased, until the calf slid to the ground. “It’s over, tha good old lady.” Tizzie watched as Countess, with a heartfelt moan, began to nuzzle away the birth sack. The heifer calf seemed quite alert despite its hard birth. Wiping her hands Tizzie turned to Duchess.
“Tha’s a bonnie cow,” she exclaimed, for Duchess was getting to her feet and one little calf lay in the straw half out of its birth sac. She edged her way round the wall, feeling the chill at her back, and sank down in her nest, pulling the coverlets and blankets around her. She’d stay awake waiting for the afterbirths then she could doze, sure of her cows’ well being.
Countess expelled hers quickly. Duchess licked her calf. Tizzie’s eyes closed, she blinked hard to stay awake, nodded away again. Her head flopping forward that jerked her awake. Duchess went down on her knees, rolled on to her side. Tizzie rose cautiously, and slipped around the wall to be near. “What then, Duchess, art tha in trouble?” It took her brain some moments to interpret what her eyes saw, not afterbirth, but little hooves, a second calf, a twin. She sidled back to her basket, found another pot, scooped out a dollop of pure goose grease, and hurried back to Duchess. The calf came slowly, Tizzie coaxing rather than pulling so as not to hurt the cow. It slid out and Tizzie sighed. It were another heifer. Thank God, then, both would be fine. A bull would’ve meant both calves for the butcher. “Tha’s a grand old cow,” Tizzie told her. Duchess heaved and sighed, allowing Tizzie to rub and ruffle the twins’ backs whilst she licked their heads. Only five more cows to calve. Pray God they were all as easy. Tizzie crept back to her nest, plucked off a few prickly pieces of straw from her blankets and fell deeply asleep.
Jack woke her, coming to see how many calves were heifers. The morning light greyed the darkness. Tizzie’s brain felt stuffed with the same grey dullness, her eyelids prickled, refused to open, her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth, sear, yearning for hot tea.
“Twins,” Jack’s voice cut through the stuff in her head.
Tizzie’s eyelids unpeeled in a blink. “Nay, don’t fret, Jack. They’re both heifers, no freemartin from Duchess.”
“Hah! Makes up for that bull calf then. One less to buy.” He beamed, ignored Tizzie’s sleepy, “Buy?” and left.
“Buy?” Tizzie shook her head to clear the greyness clouding her brain. Jack had a list a mile long of buyers for Tizzie’s calves. Sell, he should have said. She shook out then folded each blanket and coverlet, made a pile of them and sat down again to puzzle what Jack could mean.
She found out soon enough, for Jack returned with Maggie and Bert, come to see the twins. John-Jack and Mike followed, jostling through the doorway, skidding on the straw.
“Nay then, lads,” she warned, “be still around my cows. You know they’re tetchy over their new calves. Don’t fuss them.” The boys settled against the wall, watching the twins’ knock-kneed wobbly attempts at walking and smothering guffaws behind upraised forearms or into a grubby cap.
Jack took Tizzie’s arm, hauled her upright. “Tha’s a good sister. Away to bed, lass. You’ll be here again tonight, and let’s look for more twin heifers, eh? Less to buy. Your cows do us proud. You’ll manage twenty easy.”
Tizzie felt her mouth fall open. She stared at her brother. “Jack, ten’s hard to manage now, wears me to bone when they’re all in milk. Seven’d be grand on my own.” She looked hard at him for she’d been hinting that for months. “But I can’t do twenty, not by m’self.”
“Now then, no fuss, Tiz. You know your cheese and butter fetches good money, let alone your curdies and cheese cakes. We can double your cows and make a packet. God knows, we’ll need it. Stop your blethering, lass, tha’ll have help. Agnes shall finish school come summer, and you can teach her to be dairy maid.”
Tizzie’s legs wobbled like the calves, her knees bumped. She put out a hand to steady herself against the wall. “Oh no....” She controlled her voice and tried again. “No, Jack, she’s doing so well at school.”
Jack’s nose empurpled, his cheeks reddened. “You were taken out at nine, our Da set you on in the dairy then. Aggie’ll be ten and clever, clever enough to get that leaving certificate His Lordship’s insisting on.” His voice began to rise. “It’s her duty, think on, earning for the family.” Duchess lowed, Countess stamped. He remembered the cows and crashed out through the door to roar from the yard. “Don’t you forget what you owe us neither, Tizzie Cawthra.” His boots clouted sparks from the cobbles he trod over and his voice thundered out. “You’d have no home nor place wi’out us, so do as I bid, lass, or else.” He stamped away, swearing to the sky about fond idiots and bloody sisters.
Bert cleared his throat with a cough and took Tizzie’s elbow, supporting her. John-Jack let out his breath and eyed his mother. Mike stared at Tizzie and sniggered.
His Mam cuffed the back of his head. “Adone do, and mind your manners, lad.” Mike ducked away, scowling at Tizzie. Maggie took Tizzie’s other arm. “We’ll not let him turn you out, Tizzie, dear. Will we, lads?” She gave them her look.
They shook their heads. Bert patted Tizzie’s arm. “We need you, Aunt.”
Maggie smiled that smile where the tips of her dog teeth showed. “You’ll enjoy having Agnes about you all day, won’t you, Tizzie? The two of you are always together, you may as well work together. And, the Lord knows we can use the money now things are tight.”
Tizzie tried, struggling to speak plainly, did her best for Agnes, desperately remembering what the schoolmaster had said. “There’s scholarships, Maggie. His Lordship mentioned ‘em, scholarships, money for trainee teachers, money to pay to train her. The schoolmaster said Agnes’d be sure to get one. She’d earn sixty pound a year as a teacher, Maggie. Sixty pound. She’d be a trainee assistant at fourteen. His Lordship said she’d be able to live at home, work under the schoolmaster at one of the estate schools. All that money coming in, Maggie. More than Agnes and I’d earn in the dairy.”
Maggie shook her head. “That’s for our Mike to do. He’s going to be a schoolmaster ‘til he finds a lass with a farm.” She laid her hand on Mike’s shoulder, grasped it and shook him a little. “He knows his duty, like all my lads know.” She eyed first Bert, then John-Jack. They bent their heads under her gaze, muttering their ‘ayes’. Maggie approved, nodded at them. “Mike knows what happens if he doesn’t improve at school.” She shook his shoulder again, turned him away, pushing him in front of her, out of the door. He went, helpless, and such a scowl he gave his brothers over his shoulder as they watched him marched off.
Tizzie groaned, sagged onto her chaff sack seat. Bert scuffed his feet, sending her sideways glances. John-Jack shrugged, leaned his back against the whitewashed wall. They both seemed to slump, spines sagging with relief or ease, Tizzie couldn’t be sure, but she knew what she felt with Maggie gone. Both boys studied the calves.
Tizzie pondered. Would they help their sister? Could they support their aunt’s arguments and try a bit of persuading too? “Mike’s wanting to be farming, not teaching. He’ll not study to make the high marks needed to be a student teacher. Agnes’d be best set to that task.”
Bert tipped his head in her direction. “He will an’all, or else...”
John-Jack explained. “Mam’s told him, top marks or no lambs. No lambs, no money.”
Bert hissed, and John-Jack glanced at him. “Aunt Tizzie knows all about Mam and the St Columba’s thruppence. She’s not that slow. Any one’d reckon it out by now, even Auntie Tiz who can’t read, write and figure.”
Bert glanced down at Tizzie, then back to John-Jack. “Aye, well, don’t say it out loud. That way it’s nobbut a thought and we won’t be in trouble.” He leaned towards Tizzie, his voice coaxing. “You know how it must be, Auntie Tiz, you were the only lass. Agnes is the only lass. It’s her duty to stay home, like you did. Mam’ll not being paying servants when Agnes can do her bit, as you do.”
“Like Da won’t pay for labourers when we can do the work for nowt,” murmured John-Jack, nudging his brother. Bert returned the nudge with a sharp poke from his elbow.
“But, Bert, lad, if Agnes goes teaching she’ll earn enough to give her Mam plenty. She’d be a good teacher. She did right well during plough week and teaches us in grand style on Thursday nights. Schoolmaster says so.”
“It’s Da as well as Mam,” John-Jack began. Bert frowned him down. “Give over, Bert,” he protested. “You know what they’re like.”
Bert punched his brother’s arm, but lightly. “Aye, I know, but Aunt Tizzie doesn’t need to have it spelt out so plain.”
Tizzie reckoned the glance he sent her were not friendly, indeed it carried a good weight of contempt. That hurt. She opened her mouth to speak, but John-Jack hurried on.
“If we don’t want Da belting us, and Mam in a fury, venting her wrath so often, it’ll be wise to warn Auntie Tiz. Our Aggie isn’t persuadable like Auntie Tiz, so happen if Auntie’s told what’s what, she can keep the daft lassie from riling Mam and provoking Da over much.”
Bert stared at his brother, scowled at his aunt, then nodded. He leant down, caught hold of Tizzie’s arm, squeezing gently. “Listen, Auntie Tiz, you know how Da and Mam think and plan like a matched pair of plough horses. A right couple they are.”
“Honour thy father and thy mother?” Tizzie made a question of it. How could the lad be so hard. She answered herself, because he’s following their ways, their example.
Bert muttered something she chose not to hear, shook her arm. “Listen. It’s hard times for us farmers so Mam and Da want to be sure, and we all have to jump to it if this family’s to stay top of all farms and farmers in this part of the Dale.”
“It’s His Lordship,” John-Jack butted in, ducking the clout Bert swung at him and raising his own fists. “Well, tell it right and swiftly, Bert, or Da will be after us.”
Bert gave in. “Go on then, quick wits, you tell.”
“We have to stay top, Aunt, because if His Lordship wants his rent money and his income from the land, he’ll have to join up farms and throw people out.”
Tizzie shook her head. “Nay, he’d not do that, he said so at the school concert.”
Bert leant down again and patted her arm. “He might have to. Things aren’t getting better, the prices at market for livestock are right down again.”
“So you see,” John-Jack continued, “we Cawthras must look best if we want to stay. This is isn’t the biggest farm, and it’d join right handy with Thetford’s place. Only to show a big profit means it’s family works the farm and I reckon...”
But Bert gagged him with a firm hand and dragged him off. “That’s enough, lad, we’re late,” he shoved John-Jack through the door. “Now you see, Aunt Tizzie, why Aggie has to help.”
She didn’t though. Surely Agnes, teaching in the local school, bringing money home would be a big help. Tizzie felt hot tight tears forcing themselves behind her eyelids. She bowed her head and wept. She’d wept more these past couple of months than she’d done in her whole life. Agnes had been doomed like she’d been, but the lass’d feel it more, knowing what could have been. Tizzie searched for her handkerchief, wiped her eyes, finally blew her nose. It were true. All that she’d believed all her life about her family, helping and sharing, loving and caring, it made another pattern, if you knew how to look. Tom’s letters, Johnnie Olderby, the St. Columba’s lambs, they pointed to deliberate scheming. Jack and Maggie, their pattern, their plan for her life had been cruelly different from hers. What she’d do for her family were not what they’d done for her. And now she must watch Agnes being snared too, trapped for all her life in their pattern. That were unbearable. Not my lass, for Agnes were her lass, the daughter she’d never have. She’d find a way, please God, free Agnes and maybe even free herself from Jack and Maggie by doing so. There must be a way.
***
Sunday, March 27th
Fifth Sunday in Lent, Passion Sunday. It was an’ all, passions flying still. Tizzie wouldn’t ever be forgetting the uproar, nor Agnes’s face. She’d not be surprised if the whole village had heard the rumpus. Agnes, told over Saturday’s breakfast that she must get her leaving certificate and finish school in July, had gone off like a Bonfire Night cracker.
Tizzie shuddered. By the time she’d run downstairs to the kitchen it were all on, Jack shouting at the lass and Agnes wailing. She wanted to stop the lass doing something foolish, had tried to reach her, but Agnes’d flown up swiftly, rushing at her father, shouting, until stopped by Maggie’s slap.
Absently Tizzie dressed for church, with none of her usual pleasure. She didn’t notice the softness of her stockings or enjoy the crisp rustle of starched petticoats. She needed to talk to Agnes, sooth her down, but Agnes were off to chapel, dragged by her Mam to have Minister Davy, the Welsh hellfire preacher, drill honouring parents, duty to family and a woman’s place into her. Poor little lass’d had it already thrashed soundly into her by Jack, for all Tizzie’s pleading. That earned Tizzie a slap and a shove from Jack too, and then Maggie’d started after Agnes had been imprisoned in her room. Tizzie’d not be able to get to her. They’d both spent a miserable night.
Sitting at her dressing table, doing up her hair, Tizzie saw how Maggie and Jack would fool His Lordship. Agnes would have her leaving certificate in July. She were that quick and diligent she’d pass now. And a father had the right to say what he wanted for his children. His Lordship could never gainsay that. Agnes were the only lass, her duty to stay with her parents and look after them in their old age, a duty all youngest daughters faced. But...but Agnes could work and provide for them, like Mrs Mullens had for her folks, if they’d let her.
Tizzie tied her bonnet ribbons absently and decided she had one hope left, prayer. Not that the Good Lord had listened to her before, but this was for Agnes, not herself. She took herself quietly down the back stairs and went to seek comfort in the church.