Remembrance Day. Leah Fleming

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СКАЧАТЬ Essie at the sight of her elder son strolling out of the forge,covered in soot. ‘Go and scrub yoursel’ down in the sink. There’s hot water in the kettle.’

      ‘Do I have to go?’ he moaned, pumping the well handle and dunking his head in cold water.

      ‘Yes, you do, and, our Frank, get into your Sunday best. It’s all laid out upstairs. Sharp on! I’m not having her ladyship peering down her nose at my family for want of a bowl of hot water. It’s half-past already, get a move on.’

      She’d laid out clean shirts and their serge chapel suits. Selma was already dressed in her white cotton best with the pintucked bodice and lace frill. They’d put rags in her hair last night to coil into ringlets. She had white canvas shoes and white socks which she was under pain of death not to get dirty. Everything was a little tight and short for her but it’d have to do until next year when a parcel of hand-me-downs from Essie’s married sister, Ruth, in Bradford, would augment Selma’s meagre wardrobe. There was no money for frills.

      This presentation at Waterloo was a belated thank you to the Bartley family for the rescue of Angus. He was making excellent progress and now back at school, according to Bert Smedley, who worked in the grounds. Asa was all for refusing to send them, seeing that a whole month had passed since the accident. He stood by the forge door looking like thunder, his black brows clenched, but even he recognised that as the Cantrells were their landlords, things must be done proper.

      When they were all tidied up and respectable, Frank’s hair plastered down with water, Essie lined her children up against the wall. Where had her babies gone? These three were all she had to show for six labours of love; three of her babes already buried in St Wilfred’s churchyard—nothing unusual in this village but still, precious lives lost before they were two years old—and there were the other two who never made it into the world. Such was life. Two fine sons and a clever daughter made up for all those other losses. And now a public thank you for her brave children. Her heart was bursting with pride at bringing three bright stars into the world.

      How handsome they all were. Newt tall, broad-shouldered like his father; Frank softer round the edges and as fair as Selma was dark; Selma herself sprouting fast, sharp as a brass tack at her schooling. They all needed kicking with a different foot but they knew how to toe the line when it came to family matters.

      Everyone was proud of their part in the rescue. They had saved a life and deserved a treat. Why shouldn’t her ladyship receive them with gratitude? Working folk or not, they knew what was right and proper.

      ‘Don’t forget your manners and bob a curtsy when you’re spoken to. Hold your head up and don’t mumble. Remember, in the eyes of the Lord, we’re all equal so no slouching.’ Essie wished she could go with them and have a peep inside Waterloo House. Everyone knew it was very grandly furnished,with a beautiful walled garden,hidden from village eyes, but the invitation was addressed only to the children.

      ‘Three o’clock sharp, and come by the side entrance through the door in the wall and not up the front drive to the grand entrance,’ said Beaven, the coachman. What an experience to be received as guests. Selma would be full of it when she returned, Essie thought. Wick as weasel, the girl missed nothing.

      The Bartleys were an old Sharland family, not offcomers like many of the cotton millworkers who kept the machines at High Mill on the go. There was a pecking order in any village: parish councillors, church wardens, school master, shopkeepers, tradesmen and farmers. Everyone came to them sooner or later for horseshoes, repairs of tools and harnesses, chains, pots and pans and iron bars. The Bartleys had been blacksmiths for three generations and Asa was a reliable fettler of anything reusable. He didn’t waste his brass at the Hart’s Head of a night that put so many families short of food and clothes. He liked to support the chapel reading room and took a men’s Bible class.

      Selma was the clever-clogs of her brood. Mr Pierce, the headmaster, was suggesting she become a pupil teacher when she was fourteen. Essie was so proud that her daughter might get the chance she never had. Not for her the grind of the mill or going into service but a proper training on the job

      Selma was first to the side door of Waterloo, her brothers dawdling along as if they had all day. It was still warm for September and they were red-faced in their Sunday best, playing football with fallen conkers, scuffing their polished boots.

      ‘Hurry up, or we’ll be late,’ she yelled.

      ‘So what? Let ’em wait. I’ve not heard the church clock chime the hour.’

      ‘But I want to see inside…oh, do shift yourself,’ Selma cried. Why did her brothers spoil everything? She was so excited to see where Guy lived.

      Only last week he’d called in person at the forge with a horse, admiring the other beasts waiting in the paddock behind the cottage. Newt had shown him round and she’d hung on the gate, hoping for a chance to show off her own riding skills. He’d waved and then Mother had called her in and when she’d run back, he’d gone. She hoped against hope he’d be waiting behind the high stone wall with the copper beech hedge that divided the Cantrells from the village. This was her chance of a glimpse into another world and she promised Mam to notice every little detail so she could enjoy it too.

      The side door was unlocked, a dog barked at their entrance and they crossed the cobbles of the yard, hearing horses neighing in the stable. The back door was opened by a stern woman in a black dress, whom Selma knew as Mrs Arkholme. She looked after the house while the Cantrells were away from Yorkshire.

      ‘Wipe your boots on the mat,’ she ordered, looking them up and down. ‘Follow me and don’t touch anything.’ Her long black skirt swished in front of them, swaying from a gathering of material over her ample bottom.

      Selma swallowed, awestruck, her eyes adjusting to the dark passageway. Would Guy and Angus be at the other side of the door? She hoped so. How she wanted Guy to see her looking her very best.

      On and on they marched until they came through a green door into a wide hall and staircase that spiralled up into the sunlight, which beamed down through rays of coloured glass like a kaleidoscope.

      ‘Take your caps off, boys,’ said the housekeeper. ‘Wait here until you’re called. I’ll tell her ladyship you’ve arrived.’

      Even Newt and Frank were silenced by the echoes of their boots on the marble floor, the grandeur of the carved furniture, the foot of a real elephant full of walking sticks, vases the size of great copper boilers, and the face of the tiger sprawling at their feet. There was a smell of rose petals and polish. It felt a bit like the inside of the parish church, Selma thought. They seemed to wait for hours until the double doors to another vast room opened and a maid in a stiff white apron ushered them inside.

      A lady sat before them, her back as straight as a chapel pew. She wore a lavender dress with ruffles round her bosom, a choke of milk-white pearls, her face was pale and her white hair coiled high above her head like a helmet. She didn’t rise but gestured like a queen receiving courtiers in one of Selma’s old picture books.

      ‘So here you are…the Bartley brood.’ She examined each of them in turn. ‘Sturdy workhorses, by the look of you…Your names?’

      Selma bobbed a curtsy, suddenly struck dumb by the grandeur of the room, the marble fire surround, fine brass irons and a fire shield. Her dad would like the metalwork on display. There were silken rugs and cushions, silver candelabra and ornaments, draped curtains of heavy rust velvet, framed photographs gathered in a cluster. There was the scent of wood smoke and tobacco, and on the sideboard crystal bottles full of Satan’s brew. Such luxuries she’d never seen before.

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