Authors: Margaret Dickinson
Through narrowed eyes, Emily watched her mother go into the cottage by the back door, but even though she knew her father would need attention, the girl made no move to help. Her mind was
working feverishly. Not for the first time in her young life, she was about to disobey her mother.
The Ryans lived in the picturesque village of Ashford-in-the-Water in Greaves Lane. Stone cottages and houses lay beside the River Wye as it meandered towards Bakewell, just
over a mile away. The village had, in its time, boasted several small industries; the quarrying, cutting and polishing of black marble; lead mining; and cottage industries of stocking making and
candle making.
A member of the Ryan family had been the village’s chandler for at least four generations. No one was quite sure when the small business had begun, but the Ryans knew that
Walter’s grandfather, Luke, had certainly been the first in their family to take it on in the mid-1800s. Since then, each successive generation had continued with the profession. Now it had
fallen to a very young Josh to
carry it on. And it was what he wanted to do. He loved the work; he even gloried in the strong-smelling tallow, rendered from animal fat, though now he experimented
with a refined form called stearin, which gave off a more pleasant odour. Special candles for the church or for the wealthy houses in the district were made from beeswax and Josh still made these
too. But the young man was full of
other ideas to move the business into the twentieth century. Next door to The Candle House was the village smithy, with its wide door open to the street whenever
Bob Clark was working at his anvil with the glowing coals of the forge behind him. And next to that, on the corner of the lane, was the building that had once been a beer house.
After the confrontation with her mother, Emily walked
through the cottage, passing her father still sitting in his rocking chair by the kitchen range. She didn’t even glance at him, so
afraid was she that he might see the anger in her eyes. She entered the front room, which their great-grandfather had made into a workshop for the candle making, on the right-hand side of the
cottage’s front door. In that way, customers could visit the small workshop
without disturbing the rest of the family. Emily sat down beside Josh. He glanced up at her with a swift grin
before carrying on with the intricate carving of a large, thick candle with a thin-bladed tool.
‘I’m still working on it, Em, but I’ll get it right one day. I’m getting better at it.’ It was something new that Josh was trying and one of several ordered by Mrs
Trippet, the lady
in the big house near the Sheep Wash Bridge over the River Wye that flowed beside Ashford.
Emily glanced at her brother, resisting the impulse to ruffle his tousled hair. She loved him dearly, even though she’d always been aware that he was their mother’s favourite –
a fact Martha had never even tried to hide. He was a good-looking boy, who was swiftly growing into manhood. He was thin,
but deceptively strong and would grow taller and broaden out. Soon, he
would look very like their father had once done, with light brown hair, hazel eyes and a merry face that always seemed to be smiling. But Emily knew that the news he would receive this day would
wipe the smile from his face. The thought brought a lump to her throat and her voice was a little husky as she said softly, ‘Josh,
Mam is going to tell you something tonight so you must
promise to act all surprised when she does.’
With a sigh, Josh laid aside the tiny knife, stretched his shoulders, yawned and then turned towards her with a wide grin. ‘What is it, Em? Out with it.’
Emily licked her dry lips. ‘She’s planning to move us, lock, stock and barrel, to Sheffield.’
‘Eh?’ Josh dropped his arms, the smile
disappearing from his face. ‘What did you say?’
‘She’s planning to move us to Sheffield.’
For a stunned moment, he stared at her. ‘Whatever for?’
‘She doesn’t think there are enough opportunities here for you to go up in the world.’
‘But I don’t want to go up in the world. I’m perfectly happy here. I like making candles and I like the villagers dropping in to buy them and have
a natter. And I’ve a
regular order for plain candles and tapers from Mr Osborne at the corner shop.’ He nodded his head towards the window to the shop across the road. ‘And besides, there’s Amy.
I’m not leaving Amy and she wouldn’t come because she won’t leave her dad. So that’s it.’ He picked up his knife again. ‘We’re not going.’
Emily sighed. There were going to be ructions in this
house tonight and no mistake.
‘I’ve made your favourite for tea, Josh,’ Martha smiled at him as she placed a plate of steaming food in front of him, ‘stew and dumplings.’
Josh breathed in deeply. ‘Smells wonderful, Mam.’ He picked up his knife and fork and began to eat hungrily whilst, by the range, Emily gently spooned stew into her father’s
mouth. There was nothing she could do to
prevent Walter hearing Martha’s plans and, whilst he could not speak, she knew he would understand. Just occasionally, she could see a look of
comprehension in his eyes or a faint smile on his lips. She smiled at him tenderly, knowing that in a few moments his whole world, such as it was now, was going to be shattered.
Martha sat down at the table, but she was not eating. She faced her son
across the snowy tablecloth and took a deep breath.
‘I’ve been talking to Mr Trippet.’ Martha cleaned at the Trippets’ home, Riversdale House, two days a week. It was unusual – but not unknown – for her to talk
to the master.
Josh looked up and Emily, glancing briefly towards him, marvelled at his acting prowess. ‘Oh, he’s home at the moment, is he? Is Trip here too?’
Thomas Trippet
– ‘Trip’ to his friends – was the son of Arthur Trippet, who owned a cutlery-manufacturing business in Sheffield but lived the life of a country gentleman
in Ashford. At nineteen, nearly twenty, Trip was only a few months older than Emily and almost two years older than Josh. The four children, for they’d always included Amy Clark, had been
friends since childhood, running wild and free through
the village and roaming the hills and dales close to their home. They loved to stand on Sheep Wash Bridge, near to Trip’s home, watching
the farmers, who still used the river to wash the sheep before shearing.
‘Oh, look at the poor lambs,’ tender-hearted, six-year-old Amy had cried the first time the children had seen the old custom. ‘They’re crying for their mothers. Why are
they being
penned on the opposite bank?’
‘To make the ewes swim across to them,’ Josh, two months older and so much wiser, had laughed. ‘That way they’ll be all nice and clean when they scramble out the other
side. Come on, I’ll race you home. Your dad will be watching out for you.’ And then he’d taken her hand and they’d run down the road towards their two homes that stood side
by side. Two years
older, Trip and Emily had lingered by the bridge until dusk forced them home too.
At other times, the four of them would fish from the bridge with home-made rods and lines or throw sticks into the flowing water and then run to the other side to see whose stick emerged from
beneath the bridge first, to be declared the winner. Often, they would beg chopped vegetable scraps from the cook at
Riversdale House or birdseed from Mrs Partridge, who kept a bird table in her
garden, to feed the ducks that always gathered around the bridge. One of their favourite spots was Monsal Head, where they looked down on the viaduct and watched the trains passing between Rowsley
and Buxton. A rare treat for the children had been to catch the train at the little station halfway up the hillside of Monsal
Dale and ride to Buxton, the two girls clutching each other as they
travelled through the dark tunnels on the journey. One of their favourite times of the year – and one in which the children would all be involved – was the thanksgiving for water
celebrated on Trinity Sunday and accompanied by the dressing of five wells dotted about the village.
Grace Partridge would always be the one
to dress the well in Greaves Lane and each year she would say to Amy, ‘I need you to help me. Your dad and Uncle Dan –’ Grace referred
to her husband, Dan Partridge – ‘have got the bed of clay ready for me and now we must pick the flowers and press the petals into the clay to make a picture. What shall we do this year?
A picture of the church, d’you think? We could use seeds to make the walls
and cones for the trees. We can use anything we like, Amy, as long as it grows naturally.’
Sadly, since the Great War, the custom had ceased.
‘I reckon folks don’t feel like merrymaking just now,’ Grace had said wisely. ‘But I expect they’ll revive the tradition one day. I do hope so.’
And with the end of the dreadful war that had left so many grieving, those idyllic childhood days
were gone and now, since leaving boarding school, Trip had left the village to work in his
father’s factory in Sheffield. Arthur Trippet was a strict disciplinarian and had made his son start at the very bottom and work his way up in the business. There were no privileges of
position for young Thomas Trippet. He even had to stay in lodgings in the city rather than travel home each night in his
father’s grand car.
Trippets’ made penknives and pocketknives. Trip was first put to work as a grinder. It was a dirty job, sitting astride a seat as if he were riding a horse, with the wheel rotating away
from him in a trough of water. The cutlery industry had originally developed in Sheffield because of the waterpower available from the city’s fast-flowing rivers for the forges and grinding
wheels. The tradition of the ‘little mester’, often working alone with treadle-operated machines, but sometimes employing one or two men and apprentices, has always been an important
part of the city’s famous trade. With the coming of steam power, which could operate a line-shaft system to drive several machines at once, large factories were built, although these were
still made up of
individual workshops rented out. Trippets’ factory, built for one owner by Arthur’s grandfather in the nineteenth century, was a rare phenomenon at that time.
‘I’ll not have you treated any differently from my other employees,’ Arthur had told his son. ‘You’ll work your way up in the firm just like anyone else and, if you
prove yourself, one day you’ll take over, but only if you’ve earned
it, mind.’
Now, hearing his name mentioned, Emily’s heart skipped a beat. She’d been in love with Trip from the age of twelve. It had been then that she’d realized he meant more to her
than the other village lads. As she’d grown up, they’d become even closer. Emily believed they were soulmates and would never be separated. But they had been, for Trip had been sent
away, first to boarding
school and then to Sheffield. Hearing her mother’s plans now, Emily felt torn. She didn’t want to leave Ashford and she dreaded the thought of what such a move
would do to her poor father – and to Josh. But if there was a chance of being nearer to Trip . . .
Her wandering thoughts were brought back to what her mother was saying. ‘Never mind about Thomas just now. This is about you. About
your future.’
With a supreme effort, Josh kept a puzzled look on his face. ‘My future, Mam? What has Mr Trippet got to do with my future?’ Then his face brightened and Emily stifled her laughter.
Oh, this was better than going to the theatre in Buxton. What a star performer Josh was!
‘You mean,’ her brother was saying with feigned innocence, ‘he’s placed a huge order for candles for
Riversdale House?’
‘No, I do
not
mean that, Josh,’ Martha snapped, her patience wearing thin. ‘Will you just listen to me? I’ve been asking Mr Trippet’s advice and he says
that although he has no vacancies in his factory at the moment, he has business colleagues in the city and he’s willing to put in a good word for you.’ As Josh opened his mouth to
speak, Martha rushed on. ‘He was the
Master Cutler of The Company of Cutlers in Hallamshire for a year, you know, a while back. I expect his name is listed on a brass plaque somewhere in
Cutlers’ Hall in the city. Now, wouldn’t that be something if one day your name was up there too?’
Josh blinked. Now, there was no more need to pretend ignorance. ‘You mean you want me to go and work in Sheffield?’
‘We’ll all go. We’ll
move there. Emily will soon find a job of some sort.’ Emily was amused to hear how she was brushed aside as if she were of little or no importance.
‘And your dad will be nearer a hospital, so it’d be better for him.’ This was something Emily had not heard before; her mother must have come up with that persuasive argument
since they’d spoken in the garden. But it was all designed to bend Josh to
her bidding. ‘And I’m sure I could find cleaning work to keep us going until you earn a proper wage. I
expect there’ll be some sort of apprenticeship you’ll have to do.’
‘Aye, about seven years, I shouldn’t wonder, and an apprentice lad’s wage would be paltry, Mam. It would be years before I could hope to earn decent money.’
‘But it’d be worth it.’ Martha leaned across the table, pressing
home her point. ‘In the end. Don’t you see?’
Josh shook his head. ‘No, I don’t. We’re doing all right here. I’d rather be a big fish in a little pond than a sprat in a river. I’m a country bumpkin, Mam, not a
streetwise city lad. I’d be eaten alive.’
Martha sighed and shook her head in exasperation. ‘No ambition, that’s your trouble, Josh.’
‘It’s hard work, Trip was telling me the
last time he was home for a weekend.’
Emily wiped her father’s dribbling mouth as she remembered that glorious June Sunday when the four of them had walked from Ashford following the river’s twists and turns until they
had come to Monsal Dale and, this time, had walked beneath the viaduct to watch the fast-flowing water tumbling over the weir. They’d laughed and joked and had such fun. That
had been a few
weeks ago and she hadn’t seen Trip since. But he would come back, she consoled herself. This was his home. He’d always come back to Ashford. But would it be to see her?