The Girl from the Tanner's Yard

Bancroft out of the reach of her father and the leering Thomas Farrington, and she was near him and would be for two days a week from now on. Now was the time to pick up the courage and ask her to walk out with him on a Sunday, if he dared do so. The trouble was, he knew he wasn’t good enough for Lucy, and that she simply teased and flirted with him because she could. Besides, her father hated him, and he’d never agree to Lucy walking out with him. So, for now Archie would just have to be content with Lucy flirting, and himself looking at her like a love-struck fool. His hard life since his father died had worn him down, and gone was the optimism of his youth; he’d no money, and nobody with any sense would look twice at him. He looked down at the white sharp-edged stones and decided to get on with the job in hand. At least it gave him satisfaction, and some money to take home to his mother. She loved him, if no one else did.

8

It was Sunday, and Adam sat back in his chair by the fire, content with his lot in life. Things were going to plan, he thought, as he listened to the sound of the church bells being carried up from the church at Denholme upon the wind. He had no time in his world for religion, but realized that some people needed its comfort and the hope of everlasting life, and that there was something much greater that they yearned for than the miserable lives they had on earth.

He leaned forward and stoked the fire. There was no Lucy to keep him in order today, as he had arranged that each Sunday she would stay with her family and not bother seeing to his needs. He smiled as he remembered the shocked look on her face when she had been asked to milk the cow, and how angry she had got with herself when she tried the first time or two to squeeze the teats, only for no milk to appear. Now, a few days on, she was managing well and had made her first batch of butter, which he had enjoyed spreading on the toast that he had made himself, by placing a slice of bread on a brass toasting fork and holding it close to the fire’s embers until it turned a golden brown. It was something his mother had done many a morning, and he still loved the smell and taste of newly toasted bread with creamy butter on it. Sunday he still respected as a day of rest, a day to write letters, sit and contemplate the week just gone and the week ahead of him, or to visit friends and neighbours, and that was what he planned to do with his day. He’d milked the cow and there was nothing more to do, so he had decided as he banked the fire up to visit Haworth and spend a little time with the elderly parson at the parsonage, and now made to saddle his newly acquired horse.

The cobbled streets of Haworth were quiet as he rode up the slight incline to the parsonage and church, where he knew he could find the ageing parson. An abundance of shops, selling anything from sweets to everyday essentials, lined the street sides, and Adam noted the sight of new water pumps and drinking troughs. The village was more pleasant than Keighley, set on the moorside with the view over the other side of the valley clear to see, and the houses were more of a cottage style than some of the slum-like dwellings in neighbouring Keighley, although the soot and smoke from nearby woollen mills and forges had blackened their stone exteriors, giving them an aged, dirty look.

Adam made his way up to the church and churchyard, tethering his horse outside the wall that surrounded the long Georgian parsonage. It was one of the grandest houses in Haworth, showing how much respect was shown to the clergy of the area. He looked across to the church of St Michael and thought about the family of his dear friend, all buried there in the vault deep below: the rector’s wife, Maria, and his four daughters, along with their wild and wilful brother. Only the youngest daughter had chosen to die and be buried in a place she loved, by the sea in Scarborough, when the family curse of consumption had taken her. How could anyone still keep their faith, after losing so many loved ones, Adam wondered. He himself struggled most days with the thought of the death of his beloved Mary, but the parson had lost everyone dear to him. His family had been struck down one by one – the death of his five daughters being the cruellest blow, as three of them had just found fame in the literary world before their individual deaths, brought about by the dreaded consumption.

He breathed in deeply and opened the metal gate, then followed the flagstone path that led to the steps up to the grand front door. He’d stood there many times previously in his policing times, when he had to come and inform the good parson that his son was the worse for drink and laudanum, and had got himself into a spot of bother with the locals. The parson had always taken it in his stride, while his sisters beseeched their sibling to stop his wicked ways and become the brother they craved. His shocking mop of auburn hair had always made him stand out in the crowd, and he was easily spotted and named when any trouble erupted. He’d been a wild one, that was for sure, and not the kind of man a parson would want as a son.

Adam lifted the heavy brass knocker and waited for a reply. It was a little after one; dinner should