November 1887
Dull November brings the blast,
Then the leaves go whirling past.
“Agnes.” My guardian calls. I can hear his footsteps and take a long last look.
“Time to go,” he says and he’s there beside me. He takes one glance at the stairs, grasps my elbow, turns us both away.
“She warned me,” I tell him, managing to say those guilty words at last.“She warned me to stay outside and near the men loading the cart.”
Jared Topley nods as if he has always known. “But it wouldn’t have made any difference,” he says.
And he’s right. I know that now, but I look back as we leave and I can see it all happening.
***
Friday, November 4th
“You be careful,” Aunt Tizzie warned, “keep away from your brother. Stay outside, keep near the men and the cart.”
I think she just wanted one last look round her room in the house that had always been her home. It was like her to make a final goodbye to a place that had been her whole world even though we were both glad to be leaving. The men had finished packing her furniture, all those bits and pieces which had been her Mam’s and Nan’s. They started strapping down the covers.
“Nearly ready for off, lass,” the biggest man said. I nodded and sneaked to the yard door. It was tight closed, through it, with my ear pressed close, I could hear my Mam and Da talking. Right, if they were in the kitchen then I could use the back door to sneak upstairs and fetch Aunt Tizzie. She’d be by the cold hearth staring at the bare boards, trundle bed frame and dust motes, tearing her heart over leaving and struggling to find courage to do it. I’d promised to help her through ‘til she learned the way of the city, and I would do my best for her as she’d done for me. At the top of the stairs as I turned left to cross the passage and go up the short flight of stairs to Aunt Tizzie’s room, the boys’ room door clicked open. I hadn’t time to run up Tizzie’s stairs, I could only flatten myself against the wall and hope it wasn’t Mike.
The lads’ door opened outwards, hiding the opener from me. Up on tiptoe I crept in giant steps to reach Aunt Tizzie’s stairs. Behind me a scream of outrage exploded the quiet, feet thumped across the wooden floor. Mike, and he caught me. He bellowed, taunting me. “Got you now, stupid, worthless cow. I’ve fixed it to send you where you belong, you’re not leaving us.” He had me by the neck, squeezing with his hot sweaty hands. He whirled me round, away from the stairs, and tried to march me along the landing.
I saw though, what he’d twisted me away from, what he wanted to hide from me, light glinting where it shouldn’t. “You monster!” I kicked, struggling to raise my knee. Footsteps tattooed above us. Aunt Tizzie rushed to her door, snecked the latch and stood in her doorway. Mike laughed, gripped me close to himself, slapped one hand over my mouth with a stinging smack, wrapped the other arm round my body, thrusting my arm up my back.
“Can’t let you spoil it,” he whispered. “Just wait and see.”
Aunt Tizzie drew in a great breath, bellowed, “Let the lass go.”
Mike had me near bent in two. I struggled, wild with fury, desperate to be free. I stamped and kicked, mumbling into Mike’s hand because I couldn’t speak up.
Mike laughed at Aunt Tizzie, gloating like some evil imp, his face malformed with devilish glee. “Come and get her then.”
But I got him. He swore and jerked his hand away from my face. I’d bitten his hand, right fierce and hard, for I could taste blood on my lips, feel it sticky on my chin. I didn’t care I had to warn my aunt. Words could only come in gasps. “Mind...the stairs...look down....” Then Mike cracked the back of his hand across my face, swung me away from Aunt Tizzie, but I brought my heel up between his legs and he collapsed over me. “Trip...don’t trip.”
Aunt Tizzie heard my panic. As I wriggled out from under my groaning brother, desperate to reach her, to catch her, she looked down. Although already moving she managed to see what I’d seen, a rope fixed by a bit of wire at ankle height across the width of the top step. Her left boot snagged in it. I cried out, but she managed to lift her right foot clear and then her left foot yanked the rope free. Her hands groped for the banister. I prayed hard and rejoiced as her fingers found it, scrabbled and held on. She twisted awkwardly, off balance, her body falling. She did keep her feet though, half toppling, half running down the stairs, dragging the rope with her, catching herself upright against the passage wall at the bottom, slapping her hands into it so hard they must have smarted.
I had never seen my aunt’s face shape such anger before. “You devil. You wicked spawn of Satan.” Aunt Tizzie blew on her palms, straightened up, advanced on Mike, hand raised.
Mike, ever the coward, pushed me before him, as a shield. I wriggled and squirmed, stamping on him with my feet. He shook me, and sneered.
“Let your sister go.”
Mike backed off, dragging me with him. “Happen you’ve forgot, Aunt Tizzie, that November 4th is Mischief Night ‘tother side of the Dale. We owe you a bit of mischief for what you’ve done to us.”
Auntie Tiz sighed, calming enough to speak without yelling. “I’ve done nowt, Mike. Ask your Mam and your Da what they’ve done and what they should have done. Now you let your sister be.”
Molly and Bert appeared at the end of the passage. They stood, watching, mouths tight-set. Molly’s hand clutched Bert’s shirt sleeve, gripping hard enough to make her knuckles stand out shiny white like snow on the moor tops.
From below came the click of the latch. Someone had opened the back stairs door in the kitchen. I stopped struggling, glanced quickly down the flight of stairs, got a glimpse of my Mam’s face peering round the door frame. Aunt Tizzie saw too. Had it been my Mam behind this mischief? I didn’t want to think it, but Aunt Tizzie did. I’d never known her so furious.
“Hoped for a real hurt to happen?” She gave such a look of disgust even my Mam seemed shocked. “You tell the truth, Maggie Cawthra. You tell your boys I haven’t taken all the money I’m owed. You tell them exactly how much money you’ve hidden away, some of it mine too. You tell them that you know you have enough money for the rent for Naizbit’s farm.”
Everyone gaped at her. Auntie Tiz never lost her temper. She darted forward, grasped me by the shoulder, twisting me free of Mike’s grip. Then she slammed a fierce kick on the lad’s shins so that he fell to the floor with a crash. He swore loudly, threatening vengeance.
“The moving men outside’ll hear the noise you’re making. They’ll come in and see your shame. Leave be. Stop tormenting us.” She mopped my face clean with a handkerchief, then dusted me down. “Come away, lass, we know we’re not wanted here.” She turned on Mike again, and he backed off. I tucked myself beside her and stuck my tongue out at Mike.
The downstairs door creaked wide open. My Mam advanced, stood in the doorway glaring up at us, and now Da peered over her shoulder, his face empurpling with anger. I felt trapped, feared more trouble, shivered, felt Aunt Tizzie shudder, but she wrapped a protective arm round my shoulders.
“Here,” she said, giving me her hanky, “wipe your nose and face.”
I did and blew a raspberry at Mike, cringing on the floor. “We’ll have a fine and peaceful life in York without you, Michael Cawthra. And I’ll be taking my St. Columba’s money an’all.”
Mike bellowed a curse, then sprang up. Bert called out, Molly exclaimed, but Mike ran at me, yelling, “That you shan’t. It’s mine, it’s mine.”
He came so fast he bowled Aunt Tizzie into the wall. He tackled me. We fell forward, landing at the top of the stairs. Mike gave a triumphant shout, grasping me round the knees as I pulled myself to my feet, toppling me forward. “Down you go, useless,” he cried.
Aunt Tizzie staggered off the wall and, as he pushed me, she caught me by both shoulders, preventing my fall, twisting me away from the danger. I felt her hands firm and strong, flat on my shoulder blades, as she shoved me to safety. I stumbled away from the stairs as Mike, raging with disappointment, attacked her. Yelling like a heathen, he knocked her off balance, then pushed her, thrust her with both hands, down the stairs.
Aunt Tizzie fell backwards, grasping at the banister. Her fingers slipped off, she was moving too fast to hold on. I watched, rigid, as she bounced and tumbled, hitting both walls, and what looked like every one of those steep stairs. I felt each bounce and crash she made as a jolt of pain sharp as a knife. She arrived at my Mam’s feet in front of the doorway all in a heap.
Mike cheered and hurrayed. I saw him leap and smile, his mouth flapping. Mam and Da stood looking. I tore down the steps, clutching the banister, slipping and sliding to the bottom.
“Aunt?”
“I hoped we’d be rid of both of ‘em. Is she hurt?” That was Da’s voice, but it was only me who bent to touch her.
“Aunt?” She lay so still. I dared to stroke her cheek. Warm and soft it felt. I smoothed her hair. “Aunt Tizzie, please...please?” Please open your eyes I wanted to say. I tugged gently at her shoulder to urge her to sit up. Her shoulder moved, her head remained, resting on the floor, turned at an odd angle.
Mam drew breath sharply, nudged Da.
Mike tramped down the stairs, halted on the bottom step. “I got one of ‘em anyway.” His voice, triumphant, sounded out like Da’s. Same nastiness in it. I couldn’t move or say anything. Aunt Tizzie lay dead, and only me to care. Aunt Tizzie dead because she saved me.
“Is no one going to help them?” Bert spoke out loudly as he trod down the stairs.
“Do something. Quick. The men outside, they must’ve heard something.” Molly’s voice, panicking.
“Take Aggie to Tizzie’s room, shut her in. I’ll send the men away. And you, lass, are off to Scotland.” Mam sounded pleased, turned and went into the kitchen, taking Da with her.
Head whirling, stomach clenching, I managed to heave Aunt Tizzie into my arms. The feel of her head flopping against me like a chicken with its neck wrung, made me retch. I sat holding her and knew that this was the end for both of us. I flung my head back and howled. “Murderer,” I screamed, “You pushed Aunt Tizzie.”
Mike laughed, but Bert, who had halted midstairs, staring, turned, grabbed him, yanked him up the steps shaking him. “Shut your gob, fool.”
Molly appeared behind Bert, peeped over his shoulder, covered her mouth with both hands. Her face turned my guts to ice. “Get Aggie away before....”
Frantic now, I screamed and screamed ‘til my voice cracked and my throat hurt. “You’ve killed her, killed Aunt Tizzie.”
Mam rushed back, her skirts brushed my legs. She bent, hand raised, but hesitated to reach over Aunt Tizzie’s body to slap me, and I smelt the lemon vinegar of her hair rinse, the one Aunt Tizzie made for her, for me. Huge sobs wrenched out of me. I howled some more. She crouched, hissing like a pot boiling over. “Stop that noise.”
I roared on, and someone knocked loudly. “Is owt the matter? Will Miss Cawthra come now?” A man’s voice, the carter’s.
I yelled for help. The carter and his man came to the doorway. Da tried to block them from seeing but they stood tall and looked over his head.
“What’s to do?” The carter looked down and saw me holding Aunt Tizzie. “God a’mercy. What happened here?”
“He pushed her, Mike pushed her down the stairs.” I gasped the words between sobs, I couldn’t stop crying now. “He murdered her. He did. Tried to push me too.”
Maggie spoke up. “An accident, there’s been a fall as you can see. That’s what’s to do.”
She’d get away with it, my Mam, so calm and reasonable she sounded. Through a throat stuffed with sandpaper, I forced out more words as tears scalded my nose, dripped off my cheeks. “Nay, it’s murder. My family are murderers. Murderers. Mike pushed us.”
The carter’s mouth fell open. His assistant gawped.
The carter pulled himself together. “Miss Cawthra, lass, is she...?”
“Dead. She’s dead. They killed her, tried to kill me.” I could say no more for Mam and Da cried out, noisy voluble protests to drown my words.
“...accident...accident....In God’s name it was an accident...believe me....accident....” Molly’s voice, Mam’s, Da’s, Mike’s and even Bert? Aye. They were all repeating the lie and adding to it.
The carter rubbed his chin, looking at me and Auntie Tiz. “This is a bad do, needs His Lordship to sort. I were warned to watch out and help Miss Cawthra by the schoolmaster. Whatever happened you’d best explain to him.” He bent to touch my aunt. “Here lass, stop bawling. You help me and I’ll carry her out.”
I tried to stop the wailing noise coming out of my mouth, clutched my Aunt’s hand. I think I believed if I held her hand tightly enough she wouldn’t be dead. But she was. When the carter lifted her and carried her through to the kitchen it was not Aunt Tizzie he held. She’d gone, she’d left me, and my Mam had won. She knew it too. She and Da bustled after us, my Da reaching out to grab my arm.
“What in God’s name has happened?” No one had heard the schoolmaster. Now he strode from the outside door to stare at the carter’s burden. When he finally realised what he saw his face turned pale as milk.
“Sir, oh, sir, they’ve killed her. She saved me. Mike tried to kill me.” My Da raised his hand to belt me, but I wrenched free and hurled myself at the schoolmaster. If I’d not been so scared and shaken, I’d never have dared to behave in such a way. “They’ve killed her, sir. Mike, he pushed her down the stairs.”
Again Mam and Da, Bert and Molly all nay-sayed me. Mike had disappeared the moment he saw the schoolmaster. The carter tried to speak out too. The clamour they made hurt my ears.
The schoolmaster caught me, stood me upright. “In a moment,” he told me. He gently lifted Aunt Tizzie’s body out of the carter’s arms, held her close. “Such a good woman,” he said. “She deserved better than this death.” He brushed his cheek against her hair. “Whatever happened, you will explain at the inquest.”
Mam and Da drew in breath, she caught his arm. “Inquest?” They spoke together.
“Sir Charles will have to call an inquest. For now her body must lie in the church for Sir Charles, the doctor and the jurymen to see.’ He turned, made for the outer door. I opened my mouth to beg to go with him, but he spoke first. “Come, Agnes, you are a witness and must tell me and Sir Charles how this happened.”
I sped after him, clutched the tail of his jacket. He didn’t notice. In the yard the carter made a space amongst our things on the back of the cart and spread out a piece of canvas. The schoolmaster lowered Aunt Tizzie’s body and wrapped the canvas round her. Tears blinded me. The schoolmaster swung me up onto the cart tail. “To the church,” he directed the carter. The big shires leaned into their collars, harness creaked, the wheels rumbled as we moved off. The schoolmaster walked behind, silent. I snivelled and sought a handkerchief in my apron pocket. It was my aunt’s. That undid me completely. I collapsed on to the canvas shroud and wept for my aunt, keening like a lost puppy.
At the church the schoolmaster sent the carter’s man for the carpenter, and questioned the carter as to what he had seen. I gave myself up to despair. No aunt, no wedding, no teaching, I would have to go back to my parents. That thought gave rise to great anger.
The schoolmaster had it right, Aunt Tizzie had been a good woman and she had deserved better. The heat of my hate scorched dry the tears. My breath still came in gasps and heaves, but I’d fix that Mike, and it wouldn’t be the last thing I did either.
“Bear up, Agnes,” the schoolmaster said. “The carter believes you, and he has proof.” He showed me the bit of rope. “You can’t return to your family, you’ll not be safe. I think...,” he paused, nodded to himself, “yes, that’s the way. Let’s find Miss Eddings, she can help you.”
***
Saturday, November 5th
They still lit the village bonfire and burnt the guy, and chanted the Guy Fawkes rhymes. Never mind Aunt Tizzie lying on the carpenter’s laying-out table in the church. I watched the celebrations sitting up in bed in the small bedroom of Mrs Mullen’s cottage which overlooked the village green. Miss Eddings sat beside me in a low chair, trying to knit as Aunt Tizzie’d taught her with the knitting stick. The leaping flames, dancing in red and orange splashes, reflected on the bedroom’s white ceiling. Flames from Hell reaching, I hoped, for Mike. He wouldn’t be enjoying the fun. His Lordship hadn’t ordered the family to stay in their house, only not leave the farm. I hoped their ears burned, for the village talked, and I heard the schoolmaster’s words repeated so many times. “She were a good lass, too good for the likes of them.” His Lordship instructed Mrs Mullens to keep me away from people before the inquest, but many called to offer condolences and I heard them downstairs, talking with her or Miss Eddings.
Penny bangers punctured the night with stuttering cracks and someone let off a rip rap with its distinctive pop-pop explosions, causing squeals from those near as it zig-zagged around their feet. I leaned forward to see better, sighed, and sank back into the bank of pillows. Miss Edding waved her knitting at me. “Would you like to come to the window, Agnes, you’d see more of the fireworks.” She used her soothing teacher’s voice. She, like Mrs Mullens, had an air of solid steadiness so firm, so reassuring, it calmed my anger and fear to bearable levels.
“I’d like that, thank you.” Miss Eddings wrapped me up in the eiderdown and tucked me up in her chair. I whimpered a little, though I did try not to. I don’t know why it was, but it hurt to breath or move. ‘Twas like when John-Jack had dropped a horse collar over my shoulders, squeezing me, pinning my arms, stopping my ribs from expanding, preventing any breath more than a shallow huff. When I closed my eyes, I could see Aunt Tizzie, feel the heavy thump of her head flopping against my body. I daren’t sleep, for the touch and sound of it repeated over and over in dreams which ended with my mouth filled with blood as Mike snapped my neck. I couldn’t think of a future, everything had unravelled like that old jumper Mrs Mullens was pulling apart. No York, no home with the schoolmaster, no school.
Someone tapped politely on the bedroom door. Mrs Mullens popped her head round, smiled at me. “Schoolmaster Topley’s here to speak to you, Agnes. Are you decent?” She cast an eye over the room, hurried in to adjust the bedcovers, smoothing them straight. She nodded once. “Yes, all fit and tidy, Agnes, Now, let me see to you.” She opened a drawer, whipped out a large square woollen shawl, folded it and settled it round my shoulders, wrapping it firmly to knot at the waist, covering me fully with warm grey fluffiness. “There now, no shivering, you’re not to take a chill, lass.” She caught Miss Eddings’s eye, tipped her head towards the door. “He’s to speak to the lass about the inquest. We’re not to hear what’s said.”
Miss Eddings patted my knees, pulled the eiderdown tighter round my legs, and left with Mrs Mullens. The stairs creaked under the weight of two sets of feet descending briskly, then a firm tread announced the schoolmaster ascending.
He sat on the broad window sill. Together we watched several sky rockets whoosh up and dissolve into green and gold showers. The bonfire burnt bright, flames still leapt high, tongues of yellow licking the night sky.
“I hope there’re fires like that in Hell to burn Mike for what he did.” I think I expected the schoolmaster to agree. After all, he’d lost the woman he’d asked to marry him. Didn’t he hurt too?
“I hope young Mike has a chance to redeem himself, achieve forgiveness for his actions, not the fires of hell.”
My fear spurred me to a fury. “He deserves to burn. He tried to push me down the stairs. Aunt Tizzie saved me so he pushed her in spite. Aren’t you angry?” I glared at him, and cried out in despair. “Aunt Tizzie is dead, she saved me, but I couldn’t save her. What am I to do? What will you do?”
“Whoa, Agnes, steady lass, be calm. Still your rage, be compassionate and listen.” The schoolmaster settled himself, glanced keenly at me, then lowered his eyes to contemplate his clenched hands. “Yes, I am angry that your aunt is dead. But we have to hear the truth of the matter without the colour of anger or hurt. Sir Charles is holding the inquest tomorrow. I need to help you explain clearly and truthfully exactly what happened.” He sighed. “And you will be facing your own family who all say you are lying. So tell me slowly and carefully, the exact truth of what happened as you saw it.”
Outside several rip raps rattled off a series of popping explosions. Something glittering and sparkling poured a column of golden light into the sky. The bonfire glowed red, sinking within itself, but sudden fingers of flames would reach up to touch the dark, streamers of smoke and sparks flying upwards. I arranged my memories as the schoolmaster waited, no foot tapping or glaring, just his reassuring presence.
I had to pause, trying to get words round that great lump in my throat. “Blame my Mam for working on Mike and Bert, telling ‘em Aunt Tizzie had taken all the money so we couldn’t rent the Naizbit farm. That put Bert against Aunt Tizzie, ” A sob sneaked out, I clamped a hand over my mouth, swallowed down any more.
“Don’t blame, simply explain to me what happened.” The schoolmaster removed my hand from my mouth, held it. His hand felt warm and dry. I clutched it with both of mine, feeling like a little bairn again. His fingers closed over my hands, held them tight. “You can do this, Agnes. You must do it for your Aunt’s sake. But say it as she’d have you, tell only the plain and simple truth.” He smiled and I could see his sadness behind the smile.
I drew breath and thought of Aunt Tizzie. “The cart was loaded, they were tying down the covers. I went to fetch Aunt Tizzie.”
The schoolmaster nodded. I continued.
***
September 12th, 1897
We sail into Otago harbour tomorrow morning, our long voyage on the emigrant ship, The Fleetwood, completed, and it’s New Zealand at last. I am filled with longing and regret, but above all, hope. Aunt Tizzie would be cheering if she could have come. Such a time it’s taken. It was Queen Victoria’s Golden Jubilee when Auntie Tiz started me out on this journey. Now it’s the Diamond Jubilee year of 1897. Ten long years later.
I clutch a shabby, torn-covered notebook with both hands. I’d hate to drop it overboard, for it’s my aunt’s, and I have read it so often on this journey as a substitute for her presence, wishing she were here to smile in wonder and talk about our fears for the future in this strange land. It’s only now, reading and rereading her words, that I can see how courageous she was in 1887, and how difficult it was for her to do what she did. I know I saw it all, but I was a child and felt less for others and more for myself. Sometimes, after reading a particular entry, I wish I could alter time to return and give her more love, more appreciation for all she did. Hindsight is a cruel thing, and I can’t be sure, as I read and remember, that it is the true picture of my aunt and not my adjusted memories, not simply me looking back. I hope my version, my remembering, is true.
I never knew she kept this record, and in itself it is remarkable. My shy aunt who found writing a chore, kept note of her cows, their calves, their milk quality and her special cheese and curdie recipes. Unusual events, or events special to her, she also noted and she wrote about me. As she attended those Thursday Night Classes her writing began to expand into events which affected us both. Some things I’d forgotten, others I am there with her, nodding at the sharpness of the memory.
I need her words to comfort and support me, for I am afraid of what I do not know, and New Zealand is a great unknown. With my eyes closed I hear her Yorkshire voice again, see her in the farm kitchen, and am comforted. It’s all I’ve left - these snatches and glimpses of a woman I should now be learning to know as an adult, valuing her by my own adult standards. I can fill in her simple words and flesh out her descriptions, the comments she wrote, but I do so with a child’s memories, memories of a loving protector and supporter. I shall never know if my assumptions are correct, if my filling in is real or wistful remembrance. There are so many things I do not know about Elizabeth Cawthra, my dear Aunt Tizzie, and I wish I could go back and save her, to have her here to see me starting out as a teacher, having achieved all she hoped I would.
I don’t know if Uncle Tom should read the notebook. Would he understand what his brother and sister-in-law had made of his sister’s life, and what she managed to make out of their ruin? I reckon I’ll wait until I know if he is like Aunt Tizzie. I hope Uncle Tom will be as outraged as I am that Mike only went to Reform School. But I think he’ll approve of His Lordship’s refusal to turn the Cawthras out, or rent them other farms. The village has a way with those they don’t care for, and that way lasts a cruel and sharp eternity.
Schoolmaster Topley - now Inspector of Schools for His Lordship - comes up beside me to lean on the deck rails. I’m glad he’s here. He’s been as much a father as a guardian to me for ten years, and the parting would have been hard for both of us. Ever a believer in the value of education, he’s helped me organise classes for the steerage passengers, earning the Captain’s gratitude, and an easier life onboard for us both. In New Zealand he is to seek out those opportunities often advertised in British newspapers and examine them for Sir Charles, and various gentlemen, perhaps even buy land for antipodean family estates. His Lordship looks to the future, for he has three healthy boys to endow and another child on the way. If it’s a girl, Her Ladyship whispered to me, she wishes to name her Elizabeth. I know it will be to honour the Quaker lady, Elizabeth Fry, but I like to think that it’s also a remembrance of my beloved Aunt Tizzie too.
The End