The Buffer Girls Read online

  ‘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 glori
ous 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?

  Thomas Trippet was a handsome young man in anyone’s eyes, not only in Emily’s. He was tall with black hair and warm brown eyes. His skin was lightly tanned from roaming the hills and dales near his home – he loved the outdoor life – and the lines around his eyes crinkled when he laughed. And he laughed often, for he was forever teasing and joking. Emily knew the friendship between the four of them was strong, but did Trip feel as much for her as she now knew she did for him? It was a question she often asked herself, but one she could not answer. When he’d left that weekend, he’d hugged her and kissed her cheek but there’d been no promise to meet again, not a hint that he wanted her to be ‘his girl’.

  Her thoughts were brought back to the present with a jolt. Suddenly, Josh jumped up from the table, sending his chair crashing to the floor behind him, making them all jump and agitating Walter. His shaking was suddenly worse and he clasped Emily’s hand, his eyes wide and pleading. ‘It’s all right, Dad,’ she whispered, trying to reassure him, but she couldn’t make her voice sound convincing.

  ‘I’m not going, Mam.’ Josh was shouting now. ‘You do what you like, but I’m staying here, making my candles and marrying Amy – if she’ll have me.’

  ‘She’ll have you right enough,’ his mother snorted. ‘She knows a good catch when she sees it. And I expect her father’s pushing for the two of you to get wed, just so’s he can keep her close by and looking after him. He’ll want you moving in there with them, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  Josh bit his lip. The matter had already been talked about between them when Josh had asked Amy to marry him on the day when the four of them had walked to the viaduct. Falling behind Emily and Trip, he and Amy had paused beneath the shadow of the arches. He’d kissed her and asked her to be his wife.

  ‘Oh Josh, yes.’

  ‘Let’s keep it our secret for a while, shall we?’ he’d whispered. ‘I’ve got to get my mother used to the idea first.’

  Amy, a pretty girl with delicate china-doll looks that belied an inner strength, had giggled and shaken back her fair hair. ‘Well, there’s no need to worry about my dad. He can’t wait to walk me down the aisle and he’s already said we can live with him.’

  ‘That’s settled, then.’ Josh had hugged her again. ‘And how do you feel about a spring wedding in the village church?’

  ‘It’s what I’ve always dreamed of.’

  ‘Marrying me, I hope,’ he’d teased her, but Amy had been solemn as she’d said, ‘Of course. There’s never been anyone else for me, Josh.’

  He’d kissed her again, his kisses becoming urgent with desire now that they were promised to each other. Since that day, they’d met often, just the two of them. With Trip gone, Emily didn’t seem to want to go with them.

  ‘I’m not playing gooseberry,’ she’d laughed.

  Though nothing had been said, Emily could see the love between her brother and Amy blossoming and she wasn’t going to stand in their way. But now it seemed as if all Josh’s plans lay in ruins as he stood glaring at his mother across the table.

  ‘I’m not going,’ he declared again. ‘I’m not leaving Ashford – or Amy – and that’s final.’

  Three

  Martha lay in her single bed, her eyes wide open and staring towards the ceiling in the darkness. She and Walter had separate beds now for his constant restlessness disturbed her sleep. But tonight it was not Walter who was keeping her awake far into the night; it was her guilty conscience. Martha couldn’t remember ever having told lies in her life, except perhaps a little white one when Mrs Partridge had bought a new hat and asked Martha’s opinion. Of course, she’d said it was lovely and most appropriate for the woman with a surname like hers. The hat had been swathed in flowers with a tiny bird nestling in the crown. But it had been like a creation a music hall star might have worn! But tonight, even the memory of that moment could not bring a smile to Martha’s lips as it normally did. Her lie to her family had been a whopper. She had, indeed, spoken to Mr Trippet as she had told them but his reaction had not been one of kindness and a promise to help Josh find work in the cutlery manufacturing trade for which Sheffield was justifiably famous. His answer had been the opposite. Arthur Trippet was a large man, overweight through years of good living and self-indulgence. Although his sleek hair was thinning, he sported a well-trimmed moustache. His heavy jowls were speckled with tiny red veins and his blue eyes were cold and calculating, yet he always dressed like a smart Edwardian gentleman in morning coat and striped trousers, a waistcoat and white, wing-collared shirt and bow tie. The motorcar he drove to and from the city each day was more up to date than his mode of dress; it was a black and yellow 1919 Silver Ghost Rolls-Royce, complete with the flying lady emblem on the bonnet. It was the object of admiration or envy when it passed through the village.

  Leaning back in the swivel chair in the room set aside in Riversdale House as his study and puffing on a huge cigar, Arthur Trippet had pursed his thick lips and shaken his head. ‘Oh no, Mrs Ryan. I don’t think it’s the kind of thing your son would take to. Besides, he’s doing very nicely with his own little cottage industry.’ The words – and his tone – were condescending. ‘And what about your poor husband? Here, he has friends and neighbours to help you should you need it.’

  This was true and Emily had touched upon the same thing. Walter was well known and respected in the village. He had been born here, in the very house they still lived in, for whilst it was rented accommodation, the tenancy had passed down the generations to him and would one day likely pass to Josh. But Martha was not willing to see Josh as the next generation of chandlers. She had visions of his name being on one of the panels in the Cutlers’ Hall in Sheffield and of him living in a big house like the Trippets.

  Martha had no intention of taking Arthur Trippet’s advice. He’s jealous, that’s what it is, she told herself. Just because his lad has had to start at the bottom in the business – not bright enough to be given a decent position from the off, I expect – he doesn’t want my Josh outshining his own son.

  Thomas Trippet was a nice boy, a good boy, and Martha had been pleased enough that he was a friend of both Josh and Emily. She had seen it as a way for Josh to go up in the world. For her son to be friends with the offspring of the wealthiest man in the village had been a feather in her cap.

  ‘Master Thomas is coming to tea with us tonight,’ she would say loftily to Mr Osborne, who ran the corner shop just opposite the Ryans’ home. ‘A nice piece of your best cooked ham, if you please. Yours is so much nicer than I can cook myself,’ she would add with a smile that was almost coquettish, hoping her flattery would earn her a few coppers’ discount.

  But they saw little of Trip now and it was not only Josh and Emily who lamented his absence; their mother, too, was frustrated at the severing of ties between the two families. She took it as a personal affront, believing that Arthur Trippet thought the Ryans were not good enough company for his son. Martha’s ambitious nature had been thwarted when she was young. She had been brought up in a large family, one of nine children, none of whom, in her words, ‘had amounted to much’. Being the eldest girl, she had often been obliged to stay home from school to help her mother with the younger children. As soon as she was old enough, she’d been sent from Over Haddon where she lived to Ashford to work in a small stocking mill there and that was how she’d met Walter Ryan, son and heir to the village candle maker. To Martha’s young mind, Walter, with his own business, would hold a respected position in the village. Pretty and vivacious, she had set her cap at Walter, sweeping aside any competit
ion from the village girls and ensnaring him almost before he had realized what was happening. She had been a good wife and mother – no one could deny that – but from the day that her son had been born, she had become a boastful mother and soon the locals grew tired of hearing about how Josh had walked and talked earlier than any other child, how he could read even before he started school and knew his times tables by the time he was seven. Even then, she had firmly believed that her boy was going up in the world.

  We’ll show Arthur Trippet, she told herself softly in the darkness. Josh will prove he’s ten times the man Thomas is. One day Josh will be ‘someone’ and where will young Trip be then? Nowhere, that’s where. But how am I ever to persuade Josh to move?

  She lay there for a long time, twisting and turning as she thought over the problem. Sleep was impossible until she— and then she thought of something; something with which Josh could not possibly argue.

  Her determination strengthened as she turned over onto her side, closed her eyes and pushed away her guilty thoughts. It would all be worthwhile in the end. What was the saying she’d heard? ‘The end justified the means.’ Yes, that was it. Well, the end of all this would be that her Josh would rise in the world. He would rise so high that he’d leave all the Thomas Trippets on this earth wallowing in the mud at his feet. But first, they were all moving to Sheffield and now she knew how she was going to bring it about.

  Her decision made, Martha slept.

  The argument raged on for days and into weeks. Emily watched as Martha launched a tirade of reasons why the whole family should move to Sheffield. She hardly dared to look at her father, whose ravaged body seemed to shrink even more. He hadn’t spoken since the day he had come home from France, but Emily was sure he understood every word that was spoken in his hearing.

  ‘Just think of the opportunities you’d have in the city,’ Martha persisted, trying to wear Josh down. ‘You’d have a skill and a job for life.’