The Buffer Girls Read online

  ‘I’ve got a skill now,’ Josh muttered, his normal happy-go-lucky smile wiped from his face.

  ‘Pah! Makin’ candles! And how long d’you think folks are going to want them? We’re moving into a new age of inventions that folk like us have never dreamed of. Candles will be a thing of the past, but cutlery and the like will always be wanted.’

  ‘You sure, Mam? Maybe some clever feller will invent something that feeds us without us having to use knives and forks.’

  ‘None of your sarcastic lip, my lad,’ Martha snapped. ‘I’m only thinking of you and your future.’

  ‘Candle making is the family business, Mam, a business that our Great-granddad Ryan took on and Granddad and then Dad continued. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?’

  ‘Not much, no. Not when it’s your future at stake.’

  And then, Josh blurted out the news that he had been trying to keep secret, but now found impossible. ‘I’ve asked Amy to marry me and she’s said yes. We’re going to be married in the spring.’

  Emily’s head jerked up. For a moment she gaped at Josh and then her attention focused on her mother. What would she do now? To her surprise, Martha was smiling smugly.

  ‘Has she now?’ Martha said slowly. ‘Josh, you’re seventeen and so is she. What do you think her father’s going to say to that?’

  Josh shrugged. ‘I’m eighteen in three weeks’ time. Besides, her father’s all for it. He’s even said we can live with him.’

  Martha nodded slowly. ‘Of course he’s for it. It’ll keep her at home, won’t it? Looking after him. Oh, you’re the perfect match for her as far as he’s concerned.’

  ‘I’m the perfect match for Amy, an’ all.’

  ‘Of course you are,’ Martha said again. ‘Nice little business already going—’

  ‘Exactly. Now you’ve said it yourself.’

  ‘And how d’you think that little business is going to support two families?’

  Josh stared at her for a moment and then was forced to look away. The income from candle making wasn’t vast by any means and some weeks the Ryan family only just managed to scrape by. If he married Amy, he would obviously be expected to contribute to their household expenses too.

  Emily rose from her chair beside her father where she’d been sitting holding his hand and patting it absently as she listened to the quarrel. She’d kept silent until now. Pushing aside her own secretly held reasons for wanting to move to the city to be nearer Trip, she said, ‘We can increase output. I could have a stall in Bakewell Market on a Monday. We used to do that years ago. You ran it yourself, Mam, before – before the war.’

  ‘You keep out of this, miss. It’s none of your business.’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Emily said hotly, ‘if I’m to go to Sheffield too. And what sort of job can I get? I only know candle making, like Josh.’

  Martha rounded on her. ‘You can pick up a job anywhere.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Martha snapped impatiently. ‘But there’ll be plenty of jobs in the city.’ She turned her attention back to Josh and Emily knew that she was forgotten.

  ‘Listen to me, Josh.’ Martha’s tone took on a gentle, almost pleading tone. ‘Don’t you think I have your best interests at heart?’

  At the expense of everyone else, Emily thought, but now she said nothing.

  ‘I know that, Mam, but I don’t want to go “up in the world”. I just want to be happy. And I will be – with Amy.’

  ‘She’s not the right wife for you. She’s no drive, no ambition. You could do far better for yourself.’

  ‘I love Amy and she loves me.’

  ‘And when did all this happen, might I ask?’

  There was a moment’s pause before Josh muttered, ‘We’ve been walking out together for over two months.’

  ‘And you never thought to say anything? You left it to your sister to tell me and that was only yesterday.’

  Slowly, Josh raised his head. ‘I – we wanted to keep it to ourselves.’

  ‘Because –’ Martha nodded knowingly – ‘you knew that I wouldn’t agree to it.’

  ‘No – that wasn’t the reason. I didn’t know you wouldn’t be happy for us. I thought you liked Amy.’

  ‘I do like her. She’s a nice girl, but she’s not good enough for you.’

  Josh gaped at Martha and gasped. ‘That’s a horrid thing to say. Who on earth do you think we are to be so high and mighty?’

  ‘Nobody – yet,’ Martha said, ‘but you’re going to change all that.’

  Josh shook his head. ‘No – no, I’m not. I am staying here and—’

  ‘You are not. You are moving to Sheffield and one day you’re going to make even the likes of Arthur Trippet sit up and take notice.’

  ‘You can’t make me.’ Josh was showing stubbornness that none of them had ever seen in him before and whilst it frustrated Martha, it filled Emily with pride and admiration. She’d thought she was the only one who ever stood head to head and argued with their mother. Now she was a mere bystander as Josh remained adamant.

  But Martha had a trump card up her sleeve and now she played it.

  ‘You’re not of age yet, Josh. You’re not even eighteen. You need my consent to get married before you’re twenty-one.’

  Josh stared at her, dumbstruck now in the face of her declaration, which he knew to be no idle threat.

  ‘You – you wouldn’t?’

  Martha smiled as she said softly, ‘Oh yes, I would, Josh. It’s for your own good. I’m not letting you throw yourself away on the likes of Amy Clark when you can do so much better for yourself. Do you think Arthur Trippet would let his son marry Emily? Of course he wouldn’t and I’m not going to let you marry beneath you either.’

  At her mother’s words, Emily’s heart constricted. It was like a physical pain in her chest. She’d never stopped to think for one moment that Trip’s family would be against their friendship, but now her mother was voicing it.

  ‘I shouldn’t wonder if that’s not why he’s sent young Thomas away to work – and live – in the city. To get him away from the village and prepare him for his rightful place in the world.’

  Emily felt her legs weak beneath her and she sank back down into the chair beside her father. To her surprise, Walter reached out a shaking hand and put it over hers. She turned to face him with tears in her eyes and though he did not speak she could see his features working with emotion and the anguish in his eyes broke her heart. She knew that he understood every word that was being said, but was helpless to do anything about it. Though his hand trembled against hers, his touch and his obvious understanding comforted Emily, even though, in that moment, hope died within her. Emily loved and respected her mother, but she had always idolized Walter. He had always been a kind and loving father, never too busy to mend a broken toy, to join in a childish game or to bathe a scraped knee. Martha had been the one to discipline their children, to teach them right from wrong and instil in them the right values and morals – a good code of life – but it had been Walter who had brought fun into their lives. Sadly, now he could only sit and listen to the raging argument, unable to voice his point of view, at the mercy of Martha’s sharp tongue.

  Josh was still not ready to capitulate. ‘Dad would sign for me. I know he would.’

  ‘No doubt,’ Martha said tartly. ‘But, even if he could still sign his name properly, which I doubt, who is going to take the word of a broken man against mine?’

  Now Josh had no answers left – and neither, sadly, had Emily.

  Four

  ‘Now, is everything on the van?’ Martha said, bustling around the empty house, leaving it neat and tidy for the next tenants. ‘Emily, take your father out. He can sit by the driver. We can climb in the back.’

  The candle shavings – the greaves – had been swept up and all Josh’s tools had been carefully packed into crates and stored in Mr Clark’s garden shed.

  ‘I’ve got to do what Mam says, Mr Cl
ark,’ Josh had told Amy’s father. ‘But I promise you – and Amy – I’ll be back when I’m twenty-one and we’ll be married. You’ll keep all my tools safe for me, won’t you? I’ll be wanting them when I come back.’

  ‘I will, lad, but your business might have gone in three years’ time. How will you ever pick it up again?’

  ‘I don’t know, but if I can’t, then I’ll find something else to do. But it’ll be here, not Sheffield, I promise.’

  ‘If your mother had said Amy could go with you, I’d’ve let her go, lad. I want you to know that.’

  Josh shook his head. ‘Even if I could persuade her to let Amy come with us, Amy herself wouldn’t leave you. You know that.’

  ‘I do, but I don’t want to stand in the way of her happiness.’

  ‘She wouldn’t be happy leaving you or living in the city. I doubt I’m going to be, but we’ll just have to be patient and wait three years and then I’ll be back.’

  ‘I’d like to wish you happy birthday, Josh, but it isn’t, is it?’

  With cruel irony, their moving date had fallen on the day of Josh’s eighteenth birthday.

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ Josh said shortly. The two men shook hands solemnly and as Bob Clark and his daughter stood watching their neighbours depart, Amy with tears streaming down her face, the older man doubted they would ever see Josh again. Oh, he believed the young man was sincere in his promise, but he recognized ruthless ambition when he saw it. And he saw it in Martha Ryan. Robert Clark – Bob to his friends and neighbours – had not fought in the Great War, for which he was thankful. As he was the village blacksmith, he had fully expected to be conscripted for his skill with horses, of which a great many had been taken to the Front, but it seemed he was of more value at home looking after the local farmers’ horses. He’d still had to run the gauntlet of the jibes of cowardice, but, a widower, he had been desperate that his young daughter, as she had been in 1914, should not be left an orphan. Amy’s welfare had been paramount to him, and it still was. If Martha Ryan had given the slightest hint that Amy could go with the family, then Bob would have given his consent. But the hard, selfish woman had only one thing on her mind: Josh’s advancement, and Amy did not figure in her plans.

  Emily came to them and held Amy’s hands tightly for a few moments. ‘I’ll see he comes back to you, I promise,’ she whispered so that her mother would not overhear.

  Amy could not speak but shook her head. She was small and slight, with fair hair and delicate features, and though she truly believed Josh loved her – the desperation was plainly written on his face this morning for all to see – she had the same misgivings as her father. Three years was a long time in their young lives. He might take to the city life. He might like the job his mother was determined to find for him and, worse still, he might meet another girl who would capture his heart.

  Josh hugged Amy one last time and turned away before she could see the tears in his eyes. His mother had always taught him that it wasn’t manly to cry and he wouldn’t let Amy or anyone else see his weakness. Emily was dry eyed. She was distraught at leaving the village, her friends, especially Amy, but she clung to the hope that maybe, just maybe, she would see Trip more often. It was one of the first things she intended to do when they arrived in the city; seek out young Mr Trippet.

  ‘Where exactly are we going, Mam?’ Emily asked as the removal van bumped and bounced over the uneven roads, chugged up the steep hills and then down again into the city, which was covered by a pall of grimy fog from the tall chimneys that belched smoke day and night. Emily was appalled. This would kill her poor father. His breathing was difficult even in the clear, country air of Derbyshire. To bring him here to this was a death sentence.

  ‘We’re going to live in an area where all the little mesters are, though I want Josh to find work in one of the big cutlery businesses. Viners, perhaps, but I thought living amongst the folk who work in the industry we’d hear about any jobs going.’

  Josh was silent. He asked no questions; he wasn’t interested. His mind and his heart were still back in Ashford.

  ‘Maybe I could find work there. At Viners, I mean.’ Emily said, but her mother only murmured absently, ‘Perhaps.’

  The van pulled up in a narrow street of terraced houses with courtyards behind them. A series of passageways ran between the houses, every so often opening up into courts. A warren of alleyways, dark and dangerous, ran amongst the courts.

  ‘This is it, missus,’ the van driver, Mr Rivers, said. ‘This is t’address you gave me. Court Eight, Garden Street. What number’s t’house?’

  ‘Number four,’ Martha said.

  Emily jumped out the back of the van and stood looking about her. The air was thick and heavy with smoke and smuts. There were no children playing in the street and only a handful of women scrubbing their front step or cleaning their windows and eyeing the new arrivals.

  Mr Rivers climbed out of his cab. ‘’As tha got ’key?’

  ‘No. Someone called Mrs Dugdale has got it for us. Emily, go and see if you can find her.’

  ‘Go through t’eight-foot, lass –’ Mr Rivers jerked his thumb towards one of the passageways – ‘an’ tha’ll see ’court.’ He glanced around him. ‘Nice little street, this. Tha’s got a few shops and one or two little mesters, I can see. Tha’ll be orreight here, missus.’

  ‘What’s a “little mester”?’ Emily asked, intrigued, before she turned away to do her mother’s bidding. It was the same phrase her mother had used and now Emily wanted to know what it meant.

  Mr Rivers wrinkled his forehead, lifted his cap and scratched his head. A Sheffielder himself, he knew exactly what they were, but he found it difficult to explain to outsiders. ‘They’re self-employed men, who work from their own little workshops. Outworkers, I suppose you’d call ’em. And a lot of them are in this part of the city. Rather than having a huge workforce, firms will farm out part of their work to these self-employed cutlers. Usually, the little mesters will carry out one step of production for a bigger factory. Mebbe grinding or finishing and then pass the work on to another self-employed craftsmen for the next stage. Then you’ll get the ones who assemble things.’ He gave a low chuckle. ‘I allus have to laugh when I hear talk of a “scissors putter-togetherer”. Comical, in’t it? Sometimes little mesters work on their own account, an’ all – mebbe even employing a few men themselves – mekin’ small items like knives or edge tools or pocket knives. Summat like that.’

  ‘I see,’ Emily murmured, but she didn’t really. Not yet, but in the coming weeks she was sure she would find out.

  ‘Little businesses. Just like making candles,’ Josh muttered beside her. ‘We’ll be no better off here, Em.’

  Emily didn’t answer – she had the horrible feeling he was right – but instead she went down the passageway that opened into a cobbled courtyard with buildings all around. Some, she could see, were homes and one or two three-storey ones looked as if they could be the workshops Mr Rivers had spoken about. But the courtyard was dingy and cold; it looked as if the sun never had a chance to warm the cobbles. And the brickwork on some of the buildings was crumbling, the windows rotten, the glass dirty.

  As Emily glanced about her, trying to guess which might be their new home, a large, round-faced woman in a grubby apron appeared out of one of the houses, beaming a welcome.

  ‘You must be the Ryans? I’ve got ’key for you, though there’s no need for doors to be locked around here. Come on in, luv.’ The woman turned towards the corner house, leading the way. ‘You’re younger than I imagined, but we’re all neighbourly in this court. My name’s Bess Dugdale, by the way.’

  ‘I’m Emily. My mother’ll be here in a moment. She’s just helping my father out of the van.’

  The woman looked back at her with startled eyes. ‘Oh, I see. I thought . . . Ah, well, ne’er mind what I thought. You come on in and have a look round. Me and my daughter, Lizzie, have cleaned it through for you coming. Rough lot, they were, that’
s just moved out. They’d left it in a right state, I don’t mind telling you.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Mrs Dugdale. Thank you.’

  She saw the woman’s glance go beyond her to the entrance to the alleyway and turned to see her mother and Josh coming towards them supporting Walter between them. He walked with a shambling gait, his head nodding, his hands shaking. Emily heard the woman’s sharp intake of breath. ‘Aw, poor feller,’ she murmured. ‘The war, was it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Emily said quietly.

  ‘Aye, well, all of us around here know what that’s caused. You’ll not be on your own, lass. Mrs Nicholson in t’house over there –’ Bess Dugdale nodded to the house in the opposite corner to the one where the Ryans were to make their home – ‘lost her husband and two sons to the war. There’s only her youngest left now. Billy. He works at Waterfall’s cutlery works. So does she, as a matter of fact. She’s the buffer missus in charge of about twenty girls and my Lizzie’s one of ’em. And then there’s poor Rosa Jacklin next door to her. She lost her hubby and she’s been left with two little kiddies. So, you don’t need to tell us about ’war, an’ if you want a bit of help –’ she nodded towards the threesome making their way carefully across the cobbled yard – ‘you only have to holler.’

  From one of the taller buildings opposite came a rhythmic tapping sound.

  ‘What’s the noise?’ Emily asked.

  Bess smiled. ‘You’ll get used to it. These courts and the streets all around here are a mixture of houses and little workshops. The noise you can hear is Mr Farrell. He’s a file maker. I work alongside him.’ Now she laughed and shook her dirty apron. ‘I don’t allus look like this, luv. You wait till you see me in my best bib and tucker on a Sunday.’

  Emily turned to Martha as her mother joined them. ‘Mam, this is Mrs Dugdale. She lives next door and has the key for us, though,’ Emily added with a grin, ‘she says there’s no need for locked doors around here.’

  ‘Well, we’ll see about that. Let’s get your father inside. Josh, go and help Mr Rivers unload the van. Bring your father’s rocking chair off first. Emily, see if you can light a fire and get the kettle going.’