May 1887
‘May brings flocks of pretty lambs,
Skipping by their fleecy dams.’
Sunday, May 1st
In the dim paleness of the rising sun, Tizzie and Agnes ventured as far as the little valley to find the purest and sweetest dew on the cleanest grass.
“Pity May Day’s Sunday this year,” Agnes complained, yawning, plodding, barely awake, beside Tizzie. “Vicar’ll not approve noisy May Day celebrations, not today.”
Tizzie paused on the lip of the valley, at the top of the path winding down into the greenery, smiled at Agnes. “Nay, then lass. He’s not stopped the crowning of the May Queen, or the dancing. You know that. And the Pub’s going to broach a barrel of ale, and they’re roasting a pig as usual.” She shook Agnes gently by the shoulder. “Wake up, sleepy. See the sun turning all the dandelion heads to gold.”
Agnes yawned again, obediently watched the rising sun brighten the world, and smiled up at her aunt.
“Come on then, lass, we’ve scarce time before milking. “They trod cautiously down the sheep track, their boots squelching, raising the scent of moist warm earth, a grand growing smell. And, see, the white scatter of blackthorn blossom, the rosettes of primroses, spring were finally here, even hinting of summer, a precious time. She smiled down at Agnes sharing her delight.
Agnes exclaimed, stooped. She’d found violets, in deep purple clusters beside the patch of purple veined wood sorrel and a sprinkling of butter yellow celandine. She began to pick flowers, a few from each plant. “I’ll take Mam a May Day bunch.”
“Well thought on, lass. Eh, mind tha feet, ‘tis a shame to walk on them.”
“Violets are sweetest.” Agnes handed her a buttonhole of them, fragile stems wrapped protectively in the larger wet primrose leaves. “You wear these on your Sunday coat and smell sweet in church.”
“That’s kind, thanks, lass. Hurry and find enough dew to wet your face. We’ll make you beautiful for all this year, but we’ve the milking, the cheeses to turn, the calves....”
“And the pigs,” Agnes interrupted. She tucked the stems of her mother’s flowers carefully into her jacket pocket, patted their heads, waved her flannel at Tizzie, then dragged it across the top of the wet blades of the long grass growing near the hazel bushes. “Where’s yours, Auntie Tiz? Come on, find your dew and dip your flannel in.” She applied her wet flannel to her face and squealed. “Brr. It’s ice cold.” She peeped over the cloth at her aunt. “Does it really work, the dew, I mean, make skin beautiful for the year?”
Tizzie laughed. “We can but hope. I’m getting mine from the hollow, that soft grass by the blown-over tree. Hurry now, lass.” She caught Agnes by the hand and they ran, slithering round and hopping over the flowers, taking the path’s twisting corners as fast as their boots would hold to the wet earth. Chortling they raced each other. Agnes, in the lead as they entered the hollow, came to a sudden sliding halt. Tizzie cannoned into her. Some man sat on the log, back to them, floppy peaked cap covering his hair. He worked in a sketch book held on his lap, with a box of pencils at his feet. He heard them and rose, turning to face them.
“Why, it’s the schoolmaster.” Agnes skipped across to him. “Good morning, Schoolmaster. You’ve found the bluebells.”
He nodded to Agnes, turned to Tizzie. “Good morning, Miss Cawthra.” He touched his cap, inclined his head to her. Tizzie bobbed her head in return, glad she wore a bonnet and not her knitted tammy.
“Yes, Agnes, your directions were clear, thank you.”
Tizzie wishing, most devoutly, that Schoolmaster Topley were anywhere but in her valley, looked across the hollow to the spread of bluebells beneath the rowan and ash trees. After last Sunday in church she’d wanted time to gather her courage before seeing anyone who’d been present when Ivy and Bert had their spat.
Agnes, bless her, distracted, chattering away. “We’re out early gathering May Day dew, sir.”
Tizzie breathed in once, twice, as deep as possible, and calmed her soul by enjoying the sheer exuberance of the blueness spread before her. Such a blue. You’d never find woven stuff with that brilliant shimmer. And the way the early morning sunlight sneaked its rays between the tree branches onto stark bare trunks, the bushes’ interwoven greening branches and that shine of bluebells at their feet. It were a picture. Small wonder the schoolmaster drew it.
Agnes sat on the fallen tree with the schoolmaster looking at his sketch book. Biological drawings of bluebells he called them and cross sections of blossom, stem and leaf. Tizzie edged closer, peered over Agnes’ back as the Schoolmaster explained what he had drawn. They were pencil sketches, very detailed and careful, but no colour, nothing to show the haze of blue she saw.
“Is that...” Tizzie began and then stopped, faltering under his direct gaze. “I thought you were making a picture,” she finally managed to say.
“Nay, Miss Cawthra, I’m no artist, just a draughtsman.” He held out his sketch book for her to see more closely. “I learnt to draw in India. It was my task when scouting to draw plans and maps.”
Tizzie searched for words to ask questions about India, but Agnes spoke first. “Uncle Jem’s a Sergeant in India. He’s with the 105th, the King's Own, isn’t he Aunt Tizzie?” Tizzie nodded. Agnes, eyes bright again, turned them on the schoolmaster. “Will you teach me to draw like that, Sir?”
“Find me a different flower or two, Agnes and I’ll show you how to look at them to see the details.”
Trust that lass, she never missed a chance to learn, and grand it were that the schoolmaster encouraged her. “Away up the path, lass. You’ve a choice of flowers there.”
Agnes beamed at them both and ran off.
Tizzie watched her racing up the path, heard the schoolmaster step nearer and turned to him. He stood close, at her shoulder, began speaking softly and urgently. “Miss Cawthra, forgive me, I have no right to say this. I should not, for it is not my place to speak, but I have a concern for Agnes.”
Have a concern? That were something Quakers said when they cared and wanted to do something. Lady Esther’d told her that. Tizzie looked and nodded.
“I should not interfere in your brother’s decisions for his children. It is wrong of me, but I know that Agnes, from questions she’s put to me, is intending still to teach. I fear, that apart from you,” here he tilted his head towards her, sent her a swift glance, “she will have little support. I worry she may...” his voice trailed away.
“Lose heart?” Tizzie glanced towards the place where Agnes would reappear, then looked back to face the schoolmaster. “Do summat daft?”
“Perhaps, Miss Cawthra. Do something regrettable anyway.” The schoolmaster paused.
“Nay, I’ll not let her.” Tizzie managed a wry smile and waited for a response. A blackbird chinked an alarum. A chaffinch repeated it with his higher pitched pink-pink. Agnes must have startled them.
The schoolmaster smiled in reply, losing his stern cast of features. “You care very much for Agnes. So do I. She’s the girl I hoped my daughter would grow to be. When Agnes is fourteen, if she’s still set on teaching, and is prepared to leave home and family, I will help her find an assistant teacher’s place in York.”
Daughter? The schoolmaster had a daughter? Tizzie stared. The schoolmaster, cheeks now a deeper shade under his already darkened skin, nodded as though taking her stare for disbelief. But never mind that for now. York, a place in York, that meant so much. If she and Agnes couldn’t make Maggie and Jack see sense they’d got this surety.
“As a responsible schoolmaster I should not encourage her to flout her duty to her parents, but she should be allowed to use her God given gifts.” He pulled a rueful face and extend his hand, drew Tizzie to the fallen tree trunk, gestured for her to sit.
Tizzie found herself sitting next to the man, a bit closer than she’d sat beside any man bar Johnnie. He’d always sneaked an arm round her waist to snug her closer and she quashed her instinct to cuddle up, instead slide further away and hoped she smelt cleanly of soap like the schoolmaster did, and not of cows.
“Please don’t tell Agnes I am encouraging her to disobey her parents, but would you help her to hold onto her wish? Would you bring her to Thursday Night Classes and tell her to look forward to that fourteenth birthday when she will be old enough to become an assistant teacher?”
His eyes were full of genuine concern. Thank the good Lord, Tizzie thought, an answer to my Sunday petitions. Aid for them both from that scarce creature, a kind man.
“Aye, Mr Topley, I will give her that hope. I won’t repeat what you’ve said, you have my promise, but I will encourage her.” So, she thought, smiling at the schoolmaster, all I have to do is see she gets to York to take up an assistant teacher’s place, and that means we need that St Columba lamb money.
The schoolmaster rose, helped Tizzie to her feet. “You know, if her parents won’t permit her to train, she’ll need money for her classes. Perhaps you and Agnes can save....”
Agnes reappeared, hurrying into the hollow, clutching violets and wood sorrel. The schoolmaster fell silent.
Tizzie pitched her voice low, spoke swiftly, before the lass came into ear shot.
“I thank you for that promise, right gladly I do, for we’ve both been in despair.”
Agnes, beaming, skipped up to the schoolmaster, offered the flowers. Tizzie caught their faint scent, the schoolmaster actually raised them to his nose, sniffed them with a smile, and thanked Agnes. The lass followed him as he returned to his seat on the fallen tree, hurrying to keep an eye on what he did, eager to learn. They sat together and Tizzie stood behind them, watching as the schoolmaster pointed out each part of the violet and made a quick drawing of it.
“Five minutes, Agnes, then we must run. We durst not keep those cows waiting.”
***
Even with John-Jack and Bert sent to help, Tizzie had a scant two hours before church. Agnes fed the calves and Tizzie made Mike churn the butter, for the milk was coming in thick and rich, with quality butter-making cream. It took much longer to strip each cow of those last creamy drops, and there was much more to sieve and set. Tizzie’s hands ached, her back complained, her feet stumbled as she hurried to the house. Ten cows in full milk were too much for one person, and she knew it. How to make Jack know it though. She sighed.
Her room welcomed her, snug from the overnight fire. Tizzie closed the door behind her and rubbed her hands. Agnes sat on the rug all tucked up into herself, as small as she could be. “Your Mam been after you, lass?” Tizzie settled on the toilet table stool with a sigh and peeled off her two layers of boot socks.
Agnes gave a short jerky nod. “Said I should have been doing butter, not Mike.” She lifted her face, and Tizzie saw the red slap mark across her cheek.
“Here, I’ve some arnica lotion still made up from when Countess trod all over me. Let’s dab a bit on your cheek. Did you tell your Mam you were feeding calves and helping me with the milk?”
“I did.”
Tizzie looked at the woebegone face. “You must be still and silent when your Mam’s waxing wrath.”
“I was.”
Tizzie sighed again and found the little bottle on her toilet table. “Shall I fix your hair up, and we’ll get you dressed for church up here out of reach?” She started to soothe lotion over the mark. “You can help me lace my stays.”
Agnes nodded, her lips trembled, but she didn’t cry. She even attempted a chuckle. “I’ll pull you so tight you can’t sing.” She managed a watery smile. “Let me fetch my frock ‘n’ things and come up.” She knuckled her eyes and departed.
Tizzie made ready in haste. That poor lass needed to be kept safe away from her mam’s temper. She’d get her prettied up, and they’d head off for church without waiting for the family. Agnes’d had enough of them, especially Mike, he couldn’t keep his hands to himself.
***
The vicar and his lady caught them at the lych gate. “Ah, Miss Cawthra,” the vicar called. Tizzie and Agnes, just opening the gate, turned, startled. Mr Holbrooke sported a large nosegay of primroses and violets in honour of the day. Mrs Holbrooke wore a summer hat of straw, loaded with flowers and velvet ribbon and streamers. They both smiled kindly at Agnes, who bobbed and retired a few polite paces behind Tizzie.
The vicar inclined his head in approval. He liked mannerly children, and especially Agnes, who always knew her Sunday collect, prayer, and the Bible reading. “My wife and I have a request.”
Tizzie felt her brows rise. Agnes tugged at her coat, muttering, but too quietly for Tizzie to hear clearly.
“It’s about the St. Columba’s Day celebration.”
Agnes stopped tugging, gripped Tizzie’s coat so tightly Tizzie feared she’d be pulled over backwards.
“My wife’s family are professors, Fellows of Cambridge you know,” he smiled at his wife. “They will be visiting us during June to enjoy our Jubilee celebrations. Perhaps it would be possible for them to observe the making of the cake and learn from Mrs Cawthra about the tradition?”
Tizzie held in a cheer. Another answer to her prayers, the Lord had listened. This were wonderful, nay, near miraculous. Now she only had to trick Maggie. Behind her, Tizzie heard Agnes smother a yip. She hastily shuffled her feet, leaning back a little to block the lass’s face from the Holbrookes’ view. She arranged her face into what she hoped was a polite smile, reining in the wide grin of delight trying to burst through. “I am sure Maggie’d be honoured. She’s proud of the tradition, brought it with her from her Highland home.”
Mrs Holbrooke, her eyes gleaming, obviously pleased, reached out to Tizzie. “Please don’t concern yourself, Tizzie, or say anything to your sister-in-law. I will ask Mrs Cawthra myself. I understand how it might be.”
She did an’ all. She were in church that time too.
Mrs Holbrooke smiled and nodded in reassurance. “I will see to it all. I shall write her a polite request, and my brother and father will write, making their formal requests.” She smiled again. “It is a most unusual custom, you know, and my father would like to include it in the talks he gives on British Folk Traditions. We are most fortunate to have your sister-in-law still baking a St Columba’s Day cake. It will be of great interest to us all, especially as these old customs are dying out.”
The vicar made an agreeing noise and stepped sideways to regard Agnes. “You must pray it is your turn for the lambs this year, Agnes. I understand the coin goes to the good child.”
“Oh, yes, sir, and I am praying, sir.” Agnes, with Tizzie leaning a warning hip against her side, smiled and kept still. “And I’m being good.”
The vicar placed his hand on her head. “Bless you, Agnes, I know you for a good and godly child.” He smiled at Tizzie, turned to his wife. “Come, my dear, or I shall be later than late.”
Tizzie and Agnes stood aside and let them walk briskly down the path to the church porch ahead of them. Tizzie encircled Agnes’s shoulders with her arm, so that she could hold her gloved hand firmly over Agnes’s mouth. “Nary a word, nor a whisper, nary a squeal nor a squeak.” She whispered the warning. Bright brown eyes, shining like the best glass taws, gazed up at her. Tizzie patted Agnes’s mouth as a reminder and released her. The lass fair vibrated with excitement. She grabbed Tizzie’s arm, pulled Tizzie down until her lips pressed against Tizzie’s ear.
“If they all come, watching and taking notes, Mam’ll never be able to cheat.”
Her breathy words tickled. Tizzie straightened, rubbing her ear. “Aye, maybe you’re right.” Tizzie touched her finger to her mouth, then to Agnes’s, then let her go and watched her race ahead to the porch.
An’ I’m going to cheat to see you get those lambs, my poppet. After all, Maggie’s been cheating you every year, ‘twould be nice to beat her at it this year. She smiled to herself. This was the way to get Agnes to be a teacher. Face each problem one at a time, and the first was to see to the lambs. Second’d be to turn ‘em into money in the bank for the lass to get at, but she had a fair while yet to think on how to do that.
***
Saturday, May 7th
After April’s sulky changeable weather, May delighted. Daily Tizzie’d turned the cows into Ellers, the top pasture, sloping meadowland which drained well and faced south. The mild days continued until Thursday when gusty squalls chased up the Dale. Every girl in the village despaired, complained furiously when Friday proved grey and changeable. Their Saturday outing to Linden Hall would be cancelled if it rained. Agnes fussed and fumed until Tizzie forbade her entrance to her room. “Saturday will be what it will be, lass. Wait on it.”
And Saturday bid fair. Agnes announced it as she crept into Tizzie’s room well before morning milking time and sat herself down at the foot of the bed. “It’s all fine for the Hall.” She sneaked her cold toes under the covers.
Tizzie squeaked at their touch, swung herself upright to sit on the edge of the bed. “Prizes, fairings and a feast,” she said. “Lady Esther promised you girls a fête as your reward for your craft work and she’s not let you down.”
“We worked hard, and not one lass missed a day did they?”
“Nay, all were right good students. Better hope Her Ladyship has ordered enough cakes. Don’t think she knows how much a crowd of you lasses can guzzle.”
Agnes giggled.
“Art coming, lass, or wilt tha keep my bed warm?”
“Coming. I want to know....”
Tizzie leaned across her bed, stretched out an arm, flicked a pillow up and round to bat Agnes on the head. “What did I say about blethering on?” She stood up, tossed the pillow back on the bed and wagged a finger at Agnes. “Sneck up, get dressed and meet me in the kitchen.”
Agnes turned pink as a peony, bit her lip and hung her head. “I forgot,” she whispered and pattered out. Tizzie heard her yell floating up before the door closed. “What you doin’, Mike, sneaking up Aunt Tizzie’s stairs like that.”
She stuck her head round the door, called sharply to quieten them both. Two startled faces tipped upwards to see her. “Get dressed, Agnes. And you, Mike, learn some manners, creeping around like a thief. You can fetch water to those calves.”
Jack thrust open his bedroom door demanding to know who had disturbed him, and the bairns fled. Tizzie sighed to herself. It’d be the poor lass’s lot to get across her Da this morning and be forbidden the Linden Hall treat. She’d have to watch and guard for she reckoned full well it’d give pleasure to Maggie, as well as Jack, to spoil their day out.
But Agnes stayed close, wary. She milked beside her aunt and stuck like a burdock burr as Tizzie hurried through her dairy work. Canny lass, and knowing too. She’d kept mum when Mike appeared. Hah! Tizzie’d shown him, the little toad, sent him off sharpish too. Serve him right for trying to provoke Agnes.
Just before noon, Tizzie and Agnes crept out of the back door and straight into Maggie with Mike at her side. “Just a moment, Tiz,” she said reaching for Agnes. “What’s this I hear, Aggie, about you not doing your work.”
Mike grinned. “Aggie shouldn’t be going to the treat should she, Mam? Aunt Tizzie did her work. I saw her.”
Tizzie stepped forward, blocking Maggie’s access to Agnes. “Aye, I finished off for the lass, certainly, Maggie. Ask Mike why.”
“I’m not interested in excuses....”
“You should be, Maggie. I don’t mind the boys sneaking a handful of cream occasionally but....”
Maggie’s eyes narrowed. “I do,” she interrupted.
Mike shifted his feet and glared at Tizzie. Well he might, for this time she’d not let him off. “Twice this week Agnes had to clean up in the dairy because not only was cream taken but the cats let in. Cream spilt and spoiled and cat hair everywhere. Always happens when Mike’s meant to be helping. And today he spoiled a whole pan of cream using his hands to take it and then letting the cats get at it.”
“Mike wouldn’t....”
“He did. Look at his face. Don’t pin this on Agnes. She milked, never went to the dairy except with me at the end. I carried and milked because Mike wasn’t doing his share, and t’lass and I went to dairy together.”
Maggie’s lips thinned into a snappish line.
“Best part of a pan of cream, Maggie, ruined. And this is twice this week. Yon lad won’t heed me. Says you’ll let him have what he likes.”
“Oh, does he?” Maggie smiled that sweet and dangerous smile, turned to Mike.
Tizzie nodded, “We’ll be off.” She grabbed Agnes by the wrist and they fled.
Ivy Thetford and Mrs Mullens waited at the school. Agnes joined her friends. Mrs Mullens counted up the students. Not one girl were missing, all dressed in clean frocks and pinafores, well wrapped in jackets or shawls. Those shawls they’d knitted themselves. Grand it were to see what they’d made, and the lasses were right proud, showing them off to her.
Ivy tutted impatiently. “Let’s be having you,” she said and led the way.
The girls begged to follow the ancient ridgeway track then drop down a sheep path into the dale, a rather up and down walk, but interesting. “It’s a mild fair day, the walk’d be enjoyable,” they pleaded. Tizzie found herself in the lead with Agnes and a group of similar, wiry-fit lasses, who rushed and raced and needed to be checked if the littlies were not to be lost behind. Looking back Tizzie saw Mrs Mullens and Ivy, loaded on each arm with the youngest ones, straggling in the rear.
“Hey up, lasses. Wait for the bairns.”
They halted, turned to observe how far back the others had fallen, giggled and pushed each other about. Someone started singing ‘Here we go a-maying’ and the giggles became song. The pushing became the weaving in and around of the May Day dance and their restless energy and excitement found an outlet. Tizzie urged them to sing another song as the tail fixed itself to them again. They sang nursery rhymes with the littlies, danced the skipping songs, linked hands and swung themselves along in high humour. Agnes, with her friends, started reciting the poetry they’d learned from the schoolmaster. Long romantic stories they were, and most of the girls knew them by heart. Thank the Lord the anticipation of this day had stopped Agnes fretting over the whereabouts of Mrs Holbrooke’s letter, asking to come and watch the St Columba’s celebration. Maggie had said nowt, and Agnes wanted so to know if they were coming. Tizzie felt sure, from Maggie’s behaviour, that no note or letter had been received. Happen the vicar’s lady waited for her family’s letters to come first. Surely she’d bring ‘em all at once to add weight to her request. Tizzie daren’t ask. Maggie must never know she had ought to do with their visit nor with getting Agnes those lambs, for get them she would.
Agnes appeared at her side. “Come on, Auntie Tiz, come and chant with us.” She tugged Tizzie along with her to join the group.
Ivy called them to order just before they’d finished. “Whoa, that’s the turn off,” she shouted. They had to scurry back.
The gap in the dry stone wall was one sheep wide, and half way up the wall, with a flat stone to stand on. Mrs Mullens and Ivy took the littlies through first. Mrs Mullens turned sideways to squeeze herself across. Nobbut just, Tizzie thought, watching Mrs Mullens shuffle and heave. Half inch more and she’d be stuck. She frowned down any comments the waiting lasses might try to make, chivvied them up and over, following the last one.
Mid gap she paused, caught by the view. From the ridge, right down the dale, it were a bonnie sight. With a bright May sun burning above fat clouds, making strong shadows and brightening all the colours, the valley looked all shiny bright, freshly painted in the spring light. A lark rose on her left, singing wildly, and another flew up in the field before her, trying to outdo the first. Down below, dazzling white lambs danced over grass of a brilliant green, whilst their blacker than black-faced dams scrunched the grass as they cropped the fresh growth. She could make out the honey coloured
stones of Linden Hall, match box size. The estate and garden walls, so neat and straight, looked like ruled lines. She’d not been to the Hall since His Lordship had taken over, had never been inside. The old squire’d always held his sheep clipping feasts, the harvest homes, and threshing dinners in the biggest barn away in the farmyard.
“Hurry up, Tizzie,” Ivy called, waving at her. The group were way ahead now. She leapt down and hurried after them.
They all hurried, but no one slipped or muddied themselves. Excitement swirled through the lasses like a Yorkshire fog. A manservant opened the front doors for them long before they arrived at the wide stone steps, and the housekeeper, Mrs Otley, stood in the doorway to meet them.
“I expect you’d like to tidy yourselves,” she said, smiling kindly at the littlest lasses. “Follow me, please.” She tripped off to the left, neat shiny shoes pattering over the floor, heading them away from the large square hall.
Ivy’s eyes rounded, and she patted Tizzie’s arm. “They’ve new water closets, flush ones,” she whispered. And so they had. The cloakroom impressed with the newest of porcelain fittings, black and white tiled floors and a long mirror. The washbasins had two taps, one for hot water. Scented soap and pretty green towels lay by the basins, set out for them. The lasses goggled, and everyone had to take a turn to use the facilities. It were good the housekeeper were patient. She let each lass turn taps or pull the chains. She rounded with pride, gently boasting about the Hall’s new boilers which heated the house and gave so much hot water. Tizzie thought it must be easy to run a house where maids did not have to carry cans of hot water and slop pails up or down long flights of stairs. There were four water closets upstairs, trust Ivy to ask. Lavatories Mrs Otley called them. And there were four bathrooms. Four! Tizzie didn’t often feel envy, but she envied them that. A hot bath soaked away the smell of the cow yard, cheese making and old milk. With a bathroom, she could treat herself to a bath more than once a week. Small wonder Maggie were agitating for a bathroom and indoor water closet. She’d be wanting an expensive new kitchen range with a special boiler to heat bath water too. Happen that’s why Maggie’s so close with money, maybe that’s where my money goes. Tizzie shook her head. Not any more, not my money, if I can find a way to stop it. That’s a promise I pray I can keep.
When the last lasses had tidied up, the housekeeper led them back through the passage way into the main hall. “Mrs Mullens, Mrs Thetford, if you would be so good as to accompany me.” She smiled on the lasses. “Well, girls, the other school’s scholars are here too. Shall we go and meet them?” Before they moved off she turned to Tizzie. “Miss Cawthra, Lady Esther wishes to speak to you. She’s in the ladies’ drawing room.” She nodded dismissal. “That way, if you please. Now everyone else follow me please.” Mrs Otley firmly sent the group on its way, and like a sheepdog, moved behind the group catching the stragglers.
Tizzie watched, gazing after them as they left her, trooping off down a corridor. She shifted from foot to foot. Where were the ladies’ drawing room? The hall were silent of all but the gentle tock tock of a clock. She gazed around, moithered about where to go. Should she knock on a door? But which? Doors there were a plenty. Two panelled doors on the left of the hall and two on the right. Which should she knock upon? Or there were the staircase, a central one, opposite her. Made of fancy red-gold wood, with carved newel posts and balusters, it ascended unto heaven, or the heights of the first floor anyhow. The broad smooth banisters either side were a tempting width for bairns to slide down. Tizzie smiled. Agnes’d be one for trying that. Were she meant to go up there? She crossed the hall to the stairs. Standing on tiptoe and peering upwards, she could just see where the stairs divided and branched off either side. She caught at the newel post to steady herself and felt the carvings under her fingers. Acorns, aye, acorns and oak leaves, that real to touch she might pick ‘em. She ran her fingers over them, marvelling. Raising her head, she listened for voices or footsteps, but heard none. She dithered, looked round again, but no one appeared at any of the doors, or came down the corridors. The loud clunk from the long case clock beginning to chime the hour startled her. How long had she been fretting here? She stepped cautiously into the middle of the hall, minding the noise of her boots on the wooden floor. She regarded each panelled door in turn. She’d never a notion about which door to try. Shrugging, she began to play the bairns’ counting rhyme, “Yan, tan, tether, mether,” she muttered to herself, pointing to each door as she counted. She swung round to point again. “Pip,” she announced, and that door opened. Blood rushed into her face, making her temples pulse. She pressed her hands to her cheeks. So many people. Had they heard? Did they notice her pointing fingers? She couldn’t see Lady Esther, and all the faces stared at her. She nearly hoisted her skirts and ran, but Lady Esther’s voice stopped her.
“Is Tizzie Cawthra out there? Has she been waiting long? Do, please, come in, Tizzie. Let her come in, everyone. Mama, please escort her.”
Tizzie blinked, and the faces sorted themselves into several young women and an elder. Quakers they looked, in their dress, and those queer manners, for they were welcoming her, speaking to her as they’d speak to each other. She hesitated, and the oldest woman caught her arm.
“Tizzie Cawthra? The dairy maid who makes the sweet butter and fine cheeses. I am Lady Esther’s mother, Elizabeth Terry. Do come in, my daughter wishes to speak to you.” She patted Tizzie’s arm, tucked Tizzie’s hand beneath her elbow and led Tizzie into the room.
Tizzie didn’t gape like a codfish, but she wanted to. The old Squire’s wife’d never have spoken so straightly, like Mrs Terry had. You always knew who were the lady and who weren’t with her. Not that she weren’t kind, nor did her Christian duty with a good heart, but she’d never have taken Tizzie’s arm like these Quakers did. Tizzie found herself in the centre of the room, in a daze. Not only had she been led by the arm, by Lady Esther’s mother, but also she’d been told the Christian names of each of the ladies. The shock stunned, made her misremember, not that she could see herself daring to use the names. The ladies encircled her, all sisters and cousins of Lady Esther, all sweet faced and soft voiced, admiring her shawl and asking questions about the making of it, the colours and pattern. Agnes’d nark and natter at her for details about this room, but encircled thus, she could not gawk like a daft old besom. Great long windows, papered walls in yellow and green were all she noted before Lady Esther, laughing and calling out, scolded them for bewildering her poor Tizzie.
“Come this way, Tizzie Cawthra, and ignore my froward family.”
Amidst their protests and gentle laughter, Tizzie freed herself from Lady Esther’s mother and made her way towards the voice. Lady Esther reclined on a sofa, a silk patchwork blanket draped over her skirts, numerous glinting silk cushions banked up behind her.
“My lady.” Tizzie’s bob remained half finished for Mrs Terry caught her arm, and Lady Esther shook her head. Tizzie managed to bow her head, hoping this was not wrong. She wondered what His Lordship would think if he saw. Thank the Lord he weren’t in the room.
“Tizzie, thank you for coming.” Lady Esther folded the blanket and placed it on the cushions. “I thought you and I could look at Linden Hall’s new dairy and discuss what you can do there for the Jubilee celebrations.” Her mouth turned up and dimples appeared. Tizzie, face still feeling stiff with botheration, managed to bend muscles into a smile, responding to Lady Esther’s. “We cannot take a long time, for I must attend the fête to give the prizes. I know you won’t want to miss watching your niece receive her prize.” Aye, she did want to clap for Agnes, that were thoughtful of Lady Esther to remember that. Tizzie let her shoulders loosen, her breathing ease, looked directly into Lady Esther’s eyes.
Lady Esther smiled again. Ah, she were pretty when she smiled, and her grey eyes shone like Agnes’s did, full of light and fun. Her ladyship extended her hand. Tizzie gazed at it, so slender and white, not like her dairymaid’s strong red hands. “If you would just help me to stand, please, Tizzie.”
Tizzie blinked, hesitated, finally caught the soft little hand between both her strong ones, and hauled as gently and carefully as she did when helping a calf into the world.
Lady Esther rose gradually to her feet. Tizzie steadied her, waiting until she stood secure.
“Thank you, Tizzie.” Lady Esther smelled of flowers again, like honeysuckle or meadow sweet, and her fair hair smelt of camomile. Tizzie released the delicate fingers and wondered if her hand could ever feel as smooth as the lady’s or her skin smell as sweet.
Mrs Terry bustled to her daughter’s side. “Don’t tire yourself, my dear. Thou must rest, and remember the doctor’s instructions.”
Tizzie creased her brow at the remark, but the sisters and cousins flocked round, pretty as turtle doves in their soft pink, pale grey, or delicate fawn frocks with those cream lace collars and cuffs, and she hadn’t time to catch at the thought.
“We must go too, Mama.” The youngest sister spoke. “The prizes need carrying out and the feast uncovering. Come and see to the ices.” The young ladies surged forward, and surrounded by them, Mrs Terry was swept away.
Lady Esther, shaking out her skirts, smoothing down her bodice, laughed and shook her head at the group as they vanished through the doors. “Let us go, too, Tizzie.” She picked up her jacket from the back of the sofa, a straw hat from the little table by the sofa, and walked over to a mirror.
Tizzie stared. What a great glass, near as big as the windows it were hanging between at the far end of the room. As Lady Esther eased into her jacket, patted her hair, settled her hat and rearranged her collar, Tizzie sneaked quick peeps around the room. The walls and mantlepiece were not crowded with things like Maggie had in her parlour. A collection of pictures, but not family portraits, hung on the walls. The mantle ornaments consisted of one large vase at one end and two small figurines at the other. The chairs and sofas, of generous length and breadth, were roundly padded. Upholstered with cream cloth scattered with gloriously coloured flowers, they filled the centre of the room, made it appear a garden. The small tables and the desk were dainty pieces, standing on slim legs of fine wood, not a bit like Maggie’s carved stuff. More like mine, Tizzie thought and caught Lady Esther watching her in the mirror. Her cheeks flamed up again.
“Agnes will fret at me to tell her about the house,” she stammered.
Lady Esther didn’t appear angry or to think that Tizzie had been impertinent. She laughed. “One day I shall persuade Sir Charles to have an open day, so every one can see.” She adjusted her hat brim downwards. “Let us go, Tizzie.” She set off briskly towards the doors.
Tizzie followed, sneaking curious glances at the pictures as she went.
The dairy had been moved. Once standing between the bake and brew houses, His Lordship had declared it not a suitable place. What did Tizzie think?
“Aye, too hot, m’lady when the bread oven and the brewing boiler burned.” They walked past the open door. Tizzie noticed the old dairy now held the flour bins and bread troughs.
“We make all the bread here for the house, all our people, and to sell,” Lady Esther explained. “We reorganized the entire kitchen wing. Building the chef’s new kitchen, which is much smaller than the previous one, allowed us to have all the cooking, baking and brewing in one wing under one roof. More efficient and comfortable for those working there.”
Tizzie thought on their bread oven and brew house at home, lean-tos at the back of the kitchen, reached by outside doors. She traipsed out to them in the cold and wet and reckoned His Lordship had showed good sense.
“Here we are, Tizzie. The new dairy.” Lady Esther opened the last door on the right and waved Tizzie through.
Tizzie stepped in and blinked, dazzled by the light shining off the walls, benches, and even the slate floor. It were tiled, all tiled. Not only were the dairy as big as Maggie’s kitchen, it had shiny tiles on the walls, like in the cloakroom, only blue and cream. The benches were...Tizzie reached out and tapped one. It were hard stone, gleaming blueish grey and blackish grey with white patterned in swirls.
“Marble, Tizzie, a kind of rock which will stay cool. The pastry cook swears by it.”
Tizzie nodded, smoothed her palm over the silky cold surface as she walked towards the sinks. Two taps. She touched them carefully. “Hot water, m’lady?”
“Yes, we thought it would be easier for cleaning.”
“Aye, m’lady, ‘twould be grand.” Tizzie swung round slowly, taking in again all the features of the dairy, the large windows, with wooden shutters, the tiled walls and those long wide benches. Aye, ‘twould be grand indeed to have a slab of that marble in her tiny little dairy and a sink with taps, not to be fetching water from the pump. Then she sniffed loudly.
Lady Esther watched as Tizzie walked round the perimeter of the room sniffing like a hound seeking a scent. When Tizzie shook her head, Lady Esther could bear it no longer. “What is it, Tizzie?” She raised her nose and sniffed. “I cannot smell anything. Is something wrong?”
Tizzie touched the nearest wall and then smelt her fingers. “It’s what my nan taught us. We do it in’t village. A good dairy needs to have a smell of a dairy.”
Lady Esther raised her eyebrows.
“I s’ppose Schoolmaster Topley’d have some proper words for it.”
Lady Esther made a gentle enquiring noise. “Yes, Tizzie? Do tell me.”
In the face of such patient, kindly interest Tizzie, emboldened, rushed on. “New dairies...we’d a hold a ceremony...a bringing of our own dairies’ goodness into the new dairy. You have to make it smell right for the cheese to be good.”
“Oh.” Lady Esther waited. Tizzie wandered over to the pile of copper and earthenware bowls and pans, began to examine them. “How do you do it, Tizzie?”
“Bring in the makings of our best cheeses, m’lady, and put ‘em all around the dairy.” She darted a quick glance at Lady Esther, found no laughter in her face, continued. “There’s old rhymes to say and a song to sing.”
“Is it an old custom this bringing of cheeses, making a new dairy a good dairy?”
“Oh, indeed, m’lady. My nan were shown how by her nan, and her nan afore her.” Tizzie suddenly thought about the ceremony and spoke out. “Shall we do it here, for you?”
“At our Jubilee Celebration? What a splendid idea, Tizzie.”
Tizzie smiled. She hadn’t actually thought of doing it for the Jubilee, but it were a grand notion. “Oh aye, m’lady.”
Lady Esther stepped towards Tizzie, touched her arm gently. “Tell me all about it as we walk down to the prize giving. What cheeses should I buy?” She turned, caught the toe of her shoe in the folds of her skirt, tripped and began to fall. Tizzie grabbed her, managed to hold her upright. “Careful, m’lady.”
Lady Esther gasped, quivered and clutched Tizzie’s hands. “Oh,” was all she managed to say. One hand flew to her stomach. “My baby...” she began.“Oh, Tizzie, thank you.” She panted, short little breaths, hanging on to Tizzie.
Tizzie felt a thrust of pain like to bend her in two. Break your heart and you hurt even in your bones. Feel jealous and be stabbed like a knife to the heart. Shamed, knowing her face had shown something of that envy, she tried a smile. “There’s joy to you m’lady. Sir Charles’ll be that pleased.”
“We all are, Tizzie.” Lady Esther disengaged herself. “And forgive me for surprising you with my news. I was in church when Mrs Thetford...I know of your loss and I am sorry.”
Her voice and eyes said so. Tizzie blinked hard.
“I couldn’t help overhearing Ivy Thetford and your nephew in the church, Tizzie. I....” Her voice faded, she made a small gesture, shook her head.
“Aye, well.” Tizzie sighed. “That’s past.” She shook herself, set her shoulders, straightened her spine. “I am right glad for you. ‘Twas all I ever want, m’lady, my own man, a home and bairns.”
“Oh, Tizzie.” Lady Esther took hold of Tizzie’s hands again. “I shouldn’t have mentioned...it was the near fall which shocked me into saying...”
“Never fret, m’lady. ‘tis all done and can’t be undone.”
“How wise you are, Tizzie. I have a concern...” Lady Esther compressed her lips, holding back more words. She blushed a delicate rosy pink and released Tizzie’s hands. “Come now, we must go, but I would like you to know that Sir Charles wants you to be our chief dairy maid and a teacher into the bargain. He’d like you to teach all the Linden Estate girls your skills.” She went through the doorway, smiling over her shoulder at Tizzie. “As I would too. We think highly of your work, your accomplishments. If you ever choose to leave your family we would offer you a place here and give you one of the cottages in Linden Hall village.”
Tizzie knew her brows shot up, felt her mouth flapping. This couldna be true. “Me?” she said.
“Yes, Miss Tizzie Cawthra, you.”
Tizzie hurried after Lady Esther, stunned, yet her mind abuzz. Leave home? Work outside the family? Could she help Agnes this way? If she dared to leave Maggie and Jack but lived in the Dale, could she take Agnes? Here was a choice. She needed to sleep on these ideas, reckon out the problems, but later. Now she had to cheer the lass’s prizes.
***
Wednesday, May 11th
“Oh, when will those letters come?” Agnes, homework completed, swung the top gate open as the cows trotted up for afternoon milking, heavy udders swaying, tails flicking at the occasional early fly. “When will Mrs Holbrooke visit Mam?”
Tizzie eyed each cow carefully as they passed her on the way to the shippon. “Don’t fret, Agnes. And don’t let on you know. Your mam’ll be suspicious and winkle out what we’ve done before you can find a way to stop her. Then tha’ll catch it.” She caught the last cow’s tail. “Woa back, Primrose.” The cow slowed to allow Tizzie to remove a tangle of old thistle head from her tail tassel. She swung her large head in Tizzie’s direction and lowed anxiously. Last in the ranking, and thus least in the herd, made Lady Primrose a meek and timid cow. Tizzie released the tail and stroked the cow’s flank. “Learn to be meek and mild like Primrose here.” She clapped Primrose on the rump, allowing the cow to trot off, calling after the others.
Agnes grinned and skipped ahead of Tizzie to the shippon. Bert and John-Jack, sent to help and to carry pails of milk to the dairy, waited at the door.
“Right glad I am to see you two. Thank you, lads. It’s been a long day. If one of you could take the shovel to clean up, ‘t other can carry milk.”
Bert nodded, dipped into his pocket, fetched out a penny and flicked it in the air. John-Jack snatched at the tossed coin and missed. “Heads,” he called. Bert caught the coin on the back of his hand, grinned at his brother. Slowly he uncovered it. John-Jack guffawed. “I won. You can feed calves and cart milk, Bert.”
Tizzie, arching backwards to stretch her back, flexed her knees, and picked up her pails. She’d had the market stall to herself all day, and she were that flayed she could curl up with the cows and sleep. “Under the pump, Bert, then. Clean hands and face, brush down your togs and put tha cap on. There’s to be no muck or dust in my milk.” She looked round for Agnes. “Agnes? Where is that lass?”
Agnes appeared from inside the shippon, behind the lads. “Just setting out the stools and pails, Aunt.”
“Good lass. Go to the dairy and fix sieves over the milk cans. To the pump, Bert. Off with you.” They went, Agnes scurrying dairy-wards, Bert striding out for the pump. Tizzie gave John-Jack a poke. “Be a kind lad and fetch a clean pail of water for washing udders to save my legs.”
He grinned. “It’s tha head needs saving, Auntie Tiz. Vicar’s lady called on Mam today.”
Tizzie, caught mid yawn, covered all her face with her hand, prolonging the yawn to hide her expression. At last, the invite’d been sought. “Oh aye, and what does that mean to me, lad?”
John-Jack hovered, waiting for Bert to finish at the pump. Bert moved off towards the stable to fetch his cap. John-Jack started for the pump, spoke over his shoulder. “Mrs. Holbrooke asked to come to the St Columba’s Day tea.”
Tizzie felt safe enough to call after him. “She never!”
John-Jack swung the handle, rinsed the buckets. “More, Auntie Tiz, she wants to bring some of her family, some professors, to see the celebration.”
“Oh my goodness. That’s...isn’t that praise for your Mam?”
John-Jack, balancing himself either side with a pail of water, loped back, slopping only a scant cupful as he came. “Nay, Mam’s hopping mad. She reckons you’ve twigged and did it to stop her.”
The shock snatched Tizzie’s breath. She opened her mouth to protest, remembered the cows. “Bring the water in, John-Jack.” Inside the shippon she settled on her stool. “Eh, lad, I never invited vicar’s lady.”
John-Jack, distributing a handful of grain into mangers for the eager cows, sneaked a couple of sharp glances at his aunt. She saw him shake his head. “Didn’t think you did, Auntie Tiz, but Mam’s after you and our Aggie.”
Tizzie paused in washing Empress Rosie. “Why? ‘Tis Mike been saying more about those lambs and St Columba’s Day than Agnes.” Rosie swung her head round and stamped a foot. Tizzie stroked her belly. “Patience, Rosie.” She began milking, aiming the first draw into the cats’ bowl.
John-Jack picked up the other stool, hefted the other bucket of water. “I’ll wash udders for you, Auntie Tiz.” He started with Duchess. “Mam’ll not be beat, you know, Aunt. Mike’s to have the lambs.”
Tizzie snorted. “Think she’ll cheat with vicar’s lady, and her family, watching?” Then she asked what she and Agnes had been waiting to hear. “Did your Mam dare to refuse them?”
“Nay, she’s too fly to do that and too fly for you, Auntie. You can’t out-think her. Don’t try, it’d be painful.”
Tizzie shushed him, for she heard the sound of Agnes’s running feet. Bert followed Agnes into the shippon. Agnes, all wide brown eyes and astonished face, speech tumbling out of her in gasps, spoke to Tizzie. “Bert says Mrs Holbrooke asked Mam if she can come to the St. Columba tea. He says she wants to write it in a book.”
“Did Bert tell you your Mam thinks we invited her?”
“We never.” Agnes, eyes sparking, voice full of righteous indignation, glared at her brother.
Bert grabbed her by the shoulders, held her still. “Aye, I know. You’re too quick to do aught that stupid. But Mam has determined Mike gets those lambs. She’ll do it anyhow you try to outfox her.”
Tizzie could see Agnes growing testy. “Don’t torment the lass, Bert. She’s to help me milk. John-Jack, tha can milk too, and give me time to get into the dairy to mix the milk for the cheese.” Bert let his sister go, watched his brother washing udders and leaned against the wall, waiting for the first full pail to take to the calves. Tizzie began to sing softly, fitting her song to the rhythm of milking. Agnes reached down another three legged stool from its hook on the wall and settled beside Duchess. She snuggled into Duchess’s flank and began to milk. She too sang.
Bert cocked his head, listening. “That the opening Jubilee song?” Agnes sang a ‘Yes’. Bert had a good ear and a baritone voice with chocolate tones. He sang with her and John-Jack joined in with his part, though his treble voice tended to crack. Tizzie hummed along. It were grand to have the bairns agreeing.
Happen it were the singing, maybe the way all four of them arrived back at the house, together in mood and mind that caused the upset. Tizzie enjoyed herself, took part, gabbing away, laughing as the boys teased Agnes, kindly for once, not tormenting her. They entered the house singing Agnes’s Jubilee song. Bert opened the kitchen door for Tizzie, and Maggie’s silence slapped them in the face. She had a way with silence that would freeze hell. And her face! Tizzie’s skin goose bumped under the ice of Maggie’s glance, ‘twas as if her eyes could frost you into icicles. Her head jerk had them scurrying to the table. Mike and his Da rose, left the room by the back door, with never a greeting or smile. Maggie could rant and roar all right, but this time she petrified them with silence.
She slapped two thick wedges of bread, dripping with butter and topped with hot slices of bacon, on the plate in front of Bert. He exhaled noisily, dared to speak. “Mam, I’m away out with m’mates, tonight.”
Maggie slowly and deliberately placed one piece of bread on top of the other, thrust the sandwich into his hand. Tizzie didn’t blame him from backing away. Jack poked his head round the back door and bellowed, “Pigs, lad, now!” Bert took his sandwich and went, shoulders rigid, feet stamping on the flagstones.
Tizzie poured tea for John-Jack and Agnes, served egg and bacon pie and fresh broad beans for them all. Maggie watched. ‘Twas hard to chew and swallow under that gaze. Tizzie nibbled in small bites, tasted naught, her gullet clogged. Agnes barely touched her pie. John-Jack gave a brave performance, but only ate one slice of pie and one of fruit cake, washed down with a mug of tea.
“I’ll do some studying upstairs,” he said, grabbing his jacket and making for the back stairs.
Maggie smiled her fierce smile, lips curled away from her teeth. “You can bundle up some of the furze, cowlings and hedge trimming into faggots for the bread oven. After yesterday’s baking we’re nearly out.”
John-Jack dropped his jacket back over his chair and fled outside.
Agnes, quaking, leaned into Tizzie. Maggie merely scowled, flicked her fingers and pointed to the back stairs’ door. Agnes near flew, off her chair and up the back stairs fast as a streak of lightening.
Tizzie reached for the tea pot. Maggie beat her to it, filled Tizzie’s cup and poured one for herself. She sat down opposite Tizzie and hid the silent fury away. It faded as she supped her tea.
“Had the vicar’s wife here today.”
Tizzie blinked. “Aye, Bert said.” She wrapped both hands round her cup to still the shakes and managed to take a sip.
Maggie said no more. Tizzie finished her tea, took her pots to the sink and picked up the two big cans for hot water. She busied herself at the stove, filling them. “Will there be enough hot water for two more cans?”
Maggie nodded.
Tizzie carted her water up both flights of stairs to her room. Agnes had set out the bath sheet, put the fancy new tin bath on it in front of the fire and hidden back in her room. Tizzie poured the water into the bath, turned to go down to the kitchen for more, and found Maggie in the room, right behind her. She jumped like a startled calf.
“I want to talk to you, Tizzie.” Tizzie dithered, swinging an empty can in each hand. “Fetch your hot water. I’ll wait.”
Tizzie trotted down both flights of stairs and back up with the full cans, bemused. What did Maggie want? Questions about Mrs Holbrooke. She’d never invited the vicar’s lady, could speak that truly. Agnes? Was she after Agnes? Well, Maggie’d have another think coming if she reckoned on welting the lass for what she’d not done.
She edged open the door with her foot and found that Maggie’d sat herself down in a chair near the hearth. Agnes, come to have first bath and a hair wash, had discovered her Mam. Dumbstruck, she hovered near the door, covering her fear by trying to unbraid her hair.
“Careful now.” Tizzie dodged her, reached the bath and emptied her cans. “There now. Swish water round with your flannel, that’s a good lass. Did tha pour in some of my bath mix?” Agnes shook her head. Fear had turned her face a sour milk white, her skin pulled across her cheek bones so tightly it made her eyes dark holes. Poor bairn were fully frit. Tizzie smiled at her. “There’s a rose petal one in the pink packet. New today from the market. Like to try it?”
Agnes mumbled something Tizzie took for a yes.
“I don’t often have time to enjoy my daughter’s company.” Maggie rose and walked to the bath. She beckoned Agnes to come forward, took the comb from Agnes’s hand and began to comb out her hair ready for washing. “My, you’ve some cotters in this mane of yours, lass. How did you get it that tangled?” Maggie soothed the knots out firmly, but not harshly. “There. Tizzie’s tipped in the rose mix so in you get, my lass.” Agnes shyly unfastened her petticoat and shift, gave them to Tizzie and stepped into the bath.
Maggie cast an eye over Agnes’s stick thin figure. “You need a little rounding out, lass. I’ll have to see you get more cream with your porridge. ‘Tis time we had some mother and daughter chat. There’s things to learn from me that your Aunt Tizzie won’t be much use for.” She laughed over her shoulder at Tizzie as if she’d spoke out in jest, but Tizzie knew better. Still she managed a smile. Maggie, satisfied, picked up the jug and began dunking Agnes’s hair.
Tizzie resolutely turned her back and briskly picked up the towels and Agnes’s nightgown from the stool. No point giving pleasure to Maggie by showing she were upset. She carried the towels to the fire and held them out to warm near the flames. She kept her back to Maggie and listened to her jab-jabbing with clever little spites. ‘Poor Tizzie didn’t....’ and ‘Poor Tizzie couldn’t....’ and ‘She’s not your mother....’ Fearing Agnes would explode like a pheasant, all noise and racket, and get clouted, (for surely this was what Maggie intended all along, and why she goaded Agnes so,) Tizzie managed to sneak a quick look over her shoulder. She pulled a ‘be careful’ face at Agnes, and put her finger to her lips. Maggie, kneeling by the tub, couldn’t see her. Agnes could. The quick little lass grabbed her flannel, soaked it and sploshed it over her face and ears. Tizzie looked fire-wards again and prayed the peace would hold.
Maggie scrubbed Agnes’s back and washed her hair. She were quick and deft, hands moving swiftly, but it struck Tizzie that it were like she were cleaning the sink, not flesh and blood. “There, Aggie,” Maggie sounded satisfied as she combed Tizzie’s rosemary vinegar rinse through Agnes’s washed hair. “Out you hop.”
Tizzie came forward with the towels, but Maggie took them from her, rubbed briskly, scrubbing Agnes down, leaving Tizzie hovering. “I’ll see Agnes to bed, Tiz.” Maggie encased Agnes in the warmed nightgown, wrapped one of Tizzie’s shawls around her and took her daughter away.
Tizzie pondered Maggie’s behaviour as she went down to see if the water had warmed enough for her to steal another can full. She meant something, some threat, but what? Tizzie’d not said prayers with Agnes and the lass would want her to. On her way back she dared to peep round Agnes’s door, found the room dark. She heard snuffles, with catches of breath, knew Agnes wept, but as silently as she could. This were a private grief now, happen she’d tell Tizzie about it later. Aye, well she’d sneak down and comfort her when she’d had her bath. Tizzie withdrew her head, shut the door and carted the can up to her room.
Maggie were in that chair by the fire again. Tizzie warmed the bath water up, found her precious scented soap, faced her sister-in-law. “Didst tha want me for ought? I’d like to have a bath.”
Maggie smiled, a forcible stretching of muscles which made Tizzie’s own face muscles ache in sympathy. “I hear tell that Linden Hall dairy is a fine dairy.”
Tizzie twitched her mouth into a smile. “Oh aye, it’s grand. Tiled walls and slabs of marble and sinks with hot and cold water.” She dared a joke. “Reckon our Jack would fix my dairy up the same way?”
Maggie rose, smoothed down her apron, tucked her skirt waist into place. “Now, Tiz, you know we don’t have money to spare for that.” She advanced on Tizzie, came so close that Tizzie found herself stepping back until she hit the bath side and had nowhere to go. Their similar height made Maggie’s eye to eye stare even more uncomfortable. “I hear Sir Charles needs a dairymaid.”
Ah, trust Maggie to catch every rumour. Happen Ivy Thetford had been twitting her again, or was it just that Maggie knew how to stick a needle into her sister-in-law? But Tizzie knew how to reply honestly and out face that charge.
“Aye, he would. His Lordship’s got plans to teach all the lasses simple dairy work. Lady Esther said.”
“Simple.” There was spite showing in Maggie’s eyes if not in her tone of voice. Tizzie knew how to see it now. She waited for the next needle pricks. “He’ll need someone who is not simple to teach then won’t he?”
“Aye.”
“Poor Tizzie. You’re a good sister and know your duty.” Maggie reached out and patted her cheek. Tizzie knew she flinched. Maggie pretended not to notice, but her eyes told the lie. “There now, Tizzie. Don’t be thinking he’ll ask you. You’re a good dairy maid, but you aren’t up to keeping all those records and accounts, doing all that figuring about amounts of milk per cow that His Lordship requires.”
“I weren’t going to ask.” Tizzie protested.
“That’s good. I know you’re upset with Jack, but don’t take up dairying in another place. We’d all miss you, especially Agnes. You and she are more like sisters than niece and aunt. She’d never see you if you moved on would she? Not with all that dairy work she’d have to do on her own. She’d be too busy for visiting, and I’ll keep her at home. She is my daughter.”
So that were it, that were Maggie’s game. Oh, she’d talk it through with Agnes, lass were that wick she’d figure out her Mam’s tricks in a blink. Seemed Maggie had blocked her again. She wouldn’t let Maggie know how down that made her. She forced a yawn. “Aye, well, Maggie I’m fair whacked. I’m not reckoning on shifting to another place, so dinna fash yoursen.”
Maggie tossed her head briskly. “I know. I told Jack so.” She turned sharply on her heel and left Tizzie to her bath. Tizzie listened to her footsteps fading down the passage, beating out a triumphant tattoo.
She undressed hurriedly and lowered herself into the bath. She sat thinking until the water cooled. Maggie’d not won. If I can’t be His Lordship’s dairy maid now, and take the lass to live with me, I can find another way to get her to be a teacher even if we have to wait until that fourteenth birthday. Schoolmaster’s seen we’ve got that hope.”
***
Sunday, May 22nd
The vicar had sent word that everyone had to attend church that morning. Chapel minister and lay preachers stood up front with him, beaming. Tizzie wondered why. Usually, when the vicar issued a summons, they entered ten minutes before the end of the service and scowled from the back of the church.
“Summat up, Auntie Tiz,” John-Jack whispered, as they shuffled in the queue down the aisle, “and I ken what.” He nudged Bert, who shoved him into the Cawthra pew. Agnes hurried to the front pews to be with the Jubilee participants.
“What’s that girl doing?” Maggie hissed. Jack looked thunder.
Tizzie, who had intended to sit with her family to reassure Maggie and Jack, changed her mind. “There’s a Jubilee rehearsal after church, Maggie. Agnes and me are wanted, you too, Mike, and you, John-Jack, Mrs Holbrooke said.” She thrust Mike before her and waited for John-Jack to come. Together they joined the group heading for the front pews. Mike and John-Jack settled in with the other lads, but Tizzie sat beside Mrs Mullens. Sir Charles, positioned in his pew to view them all, turned the pages of his prayer book, stiff spined and looking down his nose. Tizzie wondered if he knew how haughty he usually looked. Happen he felt all forlorn without his wife. Tizzie, remembering Lady Esther’s condition, wondered if she were sick in the mornings, like Maggie had been when carrying Agnes. She knelt to pray for Lady Esther, that all went well for the lady, and the bairn were a lusty buxom lad.
The vicar and minister announced, together like twins, that, in this, our gracious Queen Victoria’s Golden Jubilee year, they had a special Whitsuntide treat for the community. Details were to come after the service. The schoolmaster, the minister, the lay preachers filled the first pew and the congregation grinned or muttered according to whether they knew something, or didn’t and wanted to. Tizzie pondered what the church and chapel might be doing that the Friendly Society didn’t do and Matins began. She said a special prayer for Agnes about St Columba’s thruppence, and another for Lady Esther, and then had to catch up in the prayer book. Folk were that fidgety by the end of the service, even Tizzie found herself twitching, wondering.
The vicar spoke first. “With the contributions from the Friendly Society, the Chapel, this Church, and Sir Charles, we have organised a Special, a Special Train, to take us to Whitby on Whit Saturday.”
The uproar were muted, at least people remembered they were in church, but they were joyful. Tizzie forgot her problems, beamed. Maybe she could go on this train. The bairns were old enough now not to need her watching over them and doing the chores whilst Maggie and Jack went off on trips. And she’d never seen the sea.
The schoolmaster stood and said he would be leading a group of any pupils from the school who wished to go. The Friendly Society Manager rose to remind the congregation that the usual Whit tea would take place, not on Saturday, but on the Sunday, with the vicar’s blessing. There’d be children’s sports first, tea and the keg of ale after, but that the main Society Whitsuntide event was the Saturday Special to Whitby. The vicar asked if anyone had questions and waited patiently for the congregation to find their courage and ask.
The congregation made no move to leave, just twisted around in their pews to talk. Tizzie received a full faced grin from Agnes. By, the lass were fair jumping with glee, but then so were all her mates. If the schoolmaster were taking ‘em, like a school treat, then they didn’t have to pay.
The question finally came, terse and to the point.
“What’s this Special to cost a family?”
Sir Charles stood. “This Jubilee year Linden Hall pays for you all.”
The cheer came spontaneously, hastily shushed out of respect for being in church, but Tizzie, delighted, forgot Maggie and Jack, turned to Mrs Mullens. “I could go. I’ve never seen the sea.”
“I used to take the Oldthorpe children every summer. Filey we went to, Whitby and Scarborough, even Blackpool.”
Tizzie stared in amazement. “Every summer? Did you go to many places?” She eyed Mrs Mullens, felt envy colouring her green. “Did you go to London?”
Mrs Mullens laughed. “A few times. Nasty noisy city and a bit too smelly by the river for me. Oldthorpe’s was a good place, Miss Cawthra, and I miss it. They treated me right well.”
“Will you be coming to Whitby?”
“I’ve been to Whitby before. No, I’ll not come, not unless schoolmaster needs help with the bairns, and as that new lady teacher has arrived he’ll not need me.”
“New teacher?” Agnes had said nothing about a new teacher. “For our school?”
“She’ll be teaching in September when the new school year starts, she’s to take the four and five year olds. Now she’s here to learn what’s done. Schoolmaster’s showing her round. You haven’t seen her?”
Tizzie shook her head. “I don’t get into the village much, too busy. But Agnes never said aught.”
“I doubt the scholars were told. I know because I’m putting her up, or she’s putting up with me.” Mrs Mullens chuckled at her own joke. “It’s a pleasure to have her stay. She’s a fine young lady.”
Tizzie managed to smile politely. Her thoughts turned back to the Whitsuntide trip. How she’d like to see the sea.
Questions had finished, Sir Charles departed. Everyone else began to move. Agnes wriggled her way to Tizzie. “Rehearsal, Auntie Tiz.” She caught her arm. “Shall us both go to Whitby?”
“Aye, that we will, lass. I’ve always wanted to see the sea.”
***
Whitsuntide,
Saturday, May 28th
It were an early start, and they’d be late back. Agnes told Tizzie the schoolmaster said the Special had to give way to regular timetabled trains, so it meant leaving early and coming back late. Tizzie and Agnes managed first milking, Maggie dealt with the milk, Jack fed the calves, harnessed Betsy, then drove Tizzie and Agnes to the station. Tizzie wondered at this honour, especially as John-Jack and Bert had to walk, but then they’d been excused chores where she and Agnes had not. Jack and Maggie weren’t coming. She’d been shamed by how happy that made her feel, her ears tingled even now, but it were hard to keep a grin off her face. Agnes tucked her pleasure under her hat, but Tizzie could feel it quivering in her as she sat beside her, see it in the quick bright glances behind her father’s back. Maggie and Jack were off to the Whit fair in Northallerton with Mike. The older lads opted for Whitby as scholars with the schoolmaster. Tizzie wondered why but said nowt. Schoolmaster’d keep his eyes on all the lads. He’d have ‘em too busy for mischief.
Betsy turned into Station Lane. Folks crowded off the pavement, spilled all over the road. Tizzie saw families with Mams hanging onto bairns, Dads loaded with boxes and baskets. She watched the lads showing off to their lasses, swaggering in newest shirt and coat, noted the lasses, shy or cheeky, charming in summer hats and pretty frocks. Betsy slowed to a shamble as a group of them spread across the lane, like bright chattering flowers.
“Eh, Jack, the station yard’ll be that crowded Betsy’ll never make her way through. Set us out on the road here. We’ll be fine.”
Tizzie opened the trap’s door, stepped down, helped Agnes jump down, and took her bag from Jack.
“Right then, I’m away. Don’t lose your purse, Tiz. Here, another half sovereign for you.” He pushed it into her hand. “Hey, Aggie, catch. You can buy an ice or two.” He flicked her a couple of shillings.
Agnes followed their shining spinning path, caught them deftly. “Thank you, Da,” she said, without prompting, and grasped Tizzie’s arm.
“See you, tonight, then. Back around nine, you say?”
Tizzie nodded. Jack turned Betsy carefully and drove away.
“Shall I watch your money, lass?”
Agnes, staring after her Da, started. “He did that just to show them all, didn’t he, Aunt Tizzie?”
“Oh, don’t start, Agnes, accept the money kindly.”
Agnes gave her a look.
“I know you’re right, lass, but don’t spoil my day, don’t bedevil me with worriting about family. I want to enjoy the sea.” She squeezed Agnes’s arm. “Put your shillings in your purse.”
Agnes grinned, slid them into Tizzie’s hand, disengaged her arm, and raced away to be with her friends gathering around the schoolmaster and a young lady in the station entrance. Tizzie walked towards them.
“This is Miss Eddings, our new junior teacher,” the schoolmaster announced. Tizzie sneaked a long glance.
So that were the new teacher. A plump young lass of middle height, her fair hair rolled away from her face in soft puffs on which her wide brimmed straw hat rested. She had white skin, pink cheeks, wore a sensible burgundy walking skirt, similar to Tizzie’s, a floral blue blouse and burgundy jacket with the same floral trim. She looked a comfortable soul, gentle, quiet spoken. Aye, the littlies’d like her. Tizzie stood back, let the queue move ahead of her, and searched the crowd for John-Jack and Bert. She had a feeling about Bert, but no, he were there, moving in behind the schoolmaster. Ah, that were young Peggy Thetford he made eyes at. Heaven help him if Maggie saw him, Thetfords not being good enough for her. She had other plans for her boys.
The station master, with other trains and timetables in mind, came out of his office to stand in the entrance. “Hurry along now,” he called, and directed the porter to open both doors. The queue dissolved, spreading down the platform, peering in the train carriages, seeking friends or family. The train waited, a dribble of smoke trailing from the funnel.
Tizzie loved trains, all that steam in clouds, the hissing snorting engine, huffing and shaking. It were what a dragon might be, with the fire in its belly an’ all. This engine even looked like a dragon with its bright green and scarlet paint, and the carriages its body, all crimson and cream. Fanciful mayhap, but aye, it were a treat to see.
The schoolmaster, escorting the lady teacher, led his pupils to examine the engine. The driver leaned out to talk to them. Tizzie edged herself in at the back of the group to listen. She envied the bairns who were allowed to stand on the driver’s step to peer in, and the older scholars who understood the engineer’s words as he pointed to the panel of dials. The sooty smoky smell of the engine, the hot tang of gleaming brass and soaped smell of washed and shiny paint caught in Tizzie’s nose and at the back of her throat. She turned her head away and saw the station master walk on to the platform. He inspected his pocket watch, nodded to the guard, and stepped back to stand beside an empty luggage cart.
“All aboard,” bellowed the guard. Excited, shoving and calling out, grasping at children and bundles, people scrambled in, opening then slamming shut the doors. The Special, steaming and ready to go, whistled twice. The first class carriage behind the engine carried the church party, the vicar and his lady, the minister and his large family, and the lay preachers and their families, but not, Tizzie knew, Sir Charles and Lady Esther, the trip declared too much for the lady in her delicate state. All the village knew now. Tizzie wasn’t the only one planning on knitting a gift for the bairn.
Families filled the next two carriages, and the last one before the guard’s van was for the school. Agnes had charge of one compartment of lasses, all with tasks to do and things to watch for on the journey. Schoolmaster Topley were a good master to keep ‘em busy and happy. He worked hard. Agnes said he’d be sitting with the older lads, the ones most likely to make a bother. Tizzie sought a quiet seat up front in the leading third class carriage. The compartments up there must have a spare seat and she had her knitting, wanted to get on with the woollen undershirt she was making to keep Agnes warm during winter morning milking.
“Miss Cawthra.” The schoolmaster hurried towards her, escorting the new teacher. “May I introduce you to our new junior teacher, Miss Eddings?” He flung an anxious look over his shoulder as the guard trotted down the train checking doors and closing any standing open. “Would you be so kind as to sit with her and keep her company?” The guard neared his compartment, the boys leaned out and called. “I’m coming” he replied and turned to Tizzie. She nodded. “ Thank you,” he said. “I knew I could rely on your kindness. He sprinted off.
Tizzie swallowed, smiled hesitantly, but Miss Eddings caught her hand. “Run,” she said, “or we’ll be left behind.” She grasped her skirts, Tizzie twitched hers clear of her feet and they raced to the first third class carriage, seeking two seats somewhere.
Mr Paley, the grocer, opened a compartment door and leaned out. “Hop in with me and the missus, lasses. We’ve room to spare.”
Tizzie and Miss Eddings tumbled in, and he slammed the door shut. The guard’s whistle blew, the train shuddered, heaved and chuffed off on its way. Tizzie shivered and looked out of the window. ‘I’m going to see the sea,’ she kept saying inside her head, in rhythm with the wheels, ‘see the sea, see the sea, see the sea.’
Mrs Paley had some sewing, Mr Paley his newspaper. Miss Eddings had a sketch book and a novel, but she was fascinated by Tizzie’s knitting stick. The four of them had the whole compartment to spread across and they did. Miss Eddings took the corner seat, opposite Tizzie, and alternated between watching the changing scenery and Tizzie’s knitting.
Tizzie caught her glances and fidgeted, wishing she’d say something or stop watching.
Miss Eddings leant forward. “Please excuse me, Miss Cawthra, I’ve never seen knitting like this. Is the wooden sheath easy to use?”
“Aye, well...” but the teacher’s voice held real interest. Tizzie stopped feeling awkward and found herself teaching knitting again. Soon it were Phoebe and Tizzie, both laughing and chatting. Just like Agnes wi’ her friends, Tizzie thought.
The train rattled and shook, the seats needed more padding, but the journey felt swift. There were two long stops, to allow regular trains to go through, but finally the run across the moors ended in the descent to Whitby. Tizzie saw the sea. She stared. Why it weren’t a bit like the sea of bluebells under the trees in her valley. Then the sea vanished for the train whistled, snorted out steam, and slowed as it chugged down the incline, passed through the town and drew into the station.
“Mr Topley asked for my help,” Phoebe said, “I hope...” but there was Agnes coming.
What was the matter with the lass? She ran through the crowd and without her sun hat. Happen she’d be after her shillings. Tizzie felt for her purse, but Agnes caught her arm.
“Schoolmaster asked if you’d come with us, be part of the school party, Auntie Tiz.”
Phoebe’s face brightened, her eyes smiled. “Now that is a good idea. You can keep me company, and perhaps we can both help if the girls need a woman’s aid.”
Tizzie, set to join the vicar and his party heading for the beach, wavered.
“Please, Aunt Tizzie.”
“Well, I....”
“Oh, thank you, Auntie Tiz.” Agnes popped off, like the cork out of a ginger beer bottle.
Phoebe’s lip quivered. “I think,” she said, managing not to laugh, “you are coming with us.”
Tizzie caught the schoolmaster’s smile of thanks and laughed with Phoebe. She’d learn a few things along with the scholars, whether she wanted to or not. Trust Agnes.
***
Tizzie sat, comfortable and easy, smiles she couldn’t prevent twitching at her lips, wisps of escaped hair feathering her forehead and cheeks. Her skin prickled, glowing warm from the sun and sea breezes. She still felt sand under her soles and tickling between her toes. The stickiness of salt filmed her hands and face, she could taste it yet if she licked her lips. She shut her eyes and thought again about the sight of that great ruined abbey, the knitting tips from an old fisherman, a man, aye a man, actually knitting, and on five needles. Oh, and the feeling of those cold salty waves on her feet, the smell and touch of the sea, and those choppy sneaky waves which caught her skirt hem and left it soaked and chill.
“More tea, Miss Cawthra?...Miss Cawthra?” The schoolmaster waited then coughed. Tizzie’s eyes opened, she started. “More tea, Miss Cawthra? Shall I order another pot?”
Tizzie nodded. “Please,” she said, “I’d like that.”
The schoolmaster rose. “I’ll talk to my pupil assistants for a moment and order our tea.” He wove his way between the small tables, so crowded he had to dodge feet, waving arms and the occasional over-large sun hat.
Tizzie gazed across the café. Where was Agnes? Ah, there at the front table, with her particular friends, and an ice cream apiece. All of the school group had ice creams and ate them in a kind of conservatory to the side of the main café. The lads and lasses did the schoolmaster proud. They remembered their Sunday manners, and people watching them couldn’t point a finger and tut. If they did share tastes of the different ice cream flavours it were done neat and quick, a swopping of dishes and a dip of the spoon. Agnes had spent her shillings on a wonderful concoction of several flavours of ice cream with fruit and hot chocolate sauce. Kind lass that she were, she shared it with her friends, all laughing at each other’s shining chocolate lips. Schoolmaster had leaned on the big lads only once. Now they were too tired to be tricksy, but sat, watching for pretty lasses, as they swallowed fizzy drinks and ate ice cream.
“Wouldn’t you care to taste an ice cream, Tizzie?” Phoebe tipped her head to one side and coaxed in both voice and look. “If you do then I can too. I’d feel shy eating one on my own.”
“It’s a treat isn’t it?” Tizzie allowed herself to be cajoled. “I first ate an ice at Linden Hall, in the old squire’s day. It were too cold and gave me a headache after, but it tasted....” She shook her head, gave up trying to find the words. “Do they have lemon ices?”
Phoebe’s grey eyes lit with a smile as bright as new shillings. “I’ll see shall I?” She caught the waitress passing their table and ordered two lemon ices.
As the schoolmaster returned, the waitress arrived with their tray of tea and the ices. Politely the schoolmaster stepped aside. So did the waitress, in the same direction. They dodged each other, but again moved in the same direction. The schoolmaster leant out of her way, but the tray tilted and the contents slipped. Tizzie reached up a steadying hand and caught the tray corner. The schoolmaster dropped down on his chair, ducking as the tray passed over his head before the waitress balanced herself and it.
Tizzie, watched the cups and saucers, ices and the plate of cakes sliding into one another. Now that might work. A tilting tray, the shifting colliding plates, that were how she could put St Columba’s silver thruppence into Agnes’s slice of cake and beat Maggie and Jack. Surely she could manage that.