The Rope Carrier (10 page)

Marianne fetched the sash, puzzled.

“Come here, Minnie. Put this over tha shoulder, good. Now wrap it snug round little 'un, then under your arm . . . like this, and I'll fasten it tight at the back. There now, you have your arms free and this child will feel as safe as if still in its mother's belly. Better than any cradle, that. Sit thee down and tell them one of tha tales. Aye, Jack can sit and listen, too. Tell about the cave. You know, the one they love to hear.”

“The shepherd boy,” said Marianne. “The shepherd boy had lost his sheep . . .”

So Minnie settled to the story that she'd told so many times, rocking gently to soothe the baby, and her own fearful self, glancing over at the woman in the corner who went about her task quiet and dry-eyed.

THE FILESMITHS' BENEFIT
Society came to their aid once more and saved the mester from a pauper's burial. It was all done with respect and decency, just as the Dame wished it. Josh wept over his files in the debtor's jail with only Jack, who'd grown unusually quiet, to bear witness to his grief.

Although none of them would say it, the old man's death brought them some relief. The Dame was free to visit the jail and to do short spells of file cutting, all the while shouting to Minnie to wash the children and mix the brine and mash the tea.

Netty was weak, but she began the slow stuggle back to strength and watched the tiny girl with wonder. Despite her size, the baby clung to life.

“Will tha give her a name, Minnie?” Netty begged. “'Twere thy hands that held her first.”

Minnie smiled with pleasure at being asked. She racked her brains, and thought of her grandmother, but then she thought of the poor mester who had just died.

“Call her Joanna, after Joseph Eyre,” she said.

The Dame took up her hand and pressed it.

“I thank thee kindly for that,” she said.

Minnie was back to the hated task of water carrying, dimly aware of something different in the city. There was little fighting now; quiet anger had taken its place. Minnie prayed for heavy rain, but she feared that what might come would be more like a storm of misery from folk who could bear no more.
It was very early one morning when Nathan Woodhouse came knocking on their door. Jack had spied him first and come flying in to tell the Dame.

“'Tis Nathan come looking to call in his debt.”

Nathan hammered on the door again, but the Dame hesitated to answer it. Minnie turned sick in her stomach, for she knew that there was no money to pay him.

“Shall us hide?” said Jack. “I don't think he spied me.”

“Nay,” the Dame shook her head. “I'll not hide from Nathan. He's been a good friend.” She went to open the door.

“Will tha come in, Nathan,” she said, polite as ever, though her cheeks were red with shame.

Nathan came in, breathless and hurried.

“Don't tha fear, Dame Eyre,” he said. “'Tis not payment I'm after, at least it's not payment in money I'm asking of thee.”

“What then?” said the Dame, puzzled.

“Help is what we need. Thee'sens, as many folk as possible, to come out to Crookes Moor. We're determined to set our'sens in the way of the Commissioners' men. They have gone out this morning to fence off the common.”

They all stared in silence at Nathan. Minnie had heard of folk doing such things, but they'd always seemed far away and unreal, like something that happened in a story.

“Tha need not fear for the little 'uns, Dame Eyre, for we are determined that 'twill all be done peaceable. 'Tis not a fight we're for. If we come in numbers, no need for that. We shall have a fine outing with picnicking and singing and dancing. All we shall do is get in their way.”

“I'll go,” said Jack.

“Aye . . . tha'd be good at it,” the Dame said.

“Tha might think it's not thy quarrel,” said Nathan, “but there's many will be the worse for it. I'll not be fetching milk into town if my goats cannot feed on the common land. What work I'd turn my hand to, I don't know.”

“Aye, and we owe thee, Nathan, and have nowt to pay thee with.”

“I'd be glad for this help to take the place of payment, Dame Eyre. The Grinders' Society have given up work for the day. They're coming out to give us help. If we could get the file cutters to join us t'would be grand.”

Minnie's heart jumped with excitement at the thought of all those city folk leaving their work and surging out towards the commons. The Dame still hesitated. It was a hard thing for her to go against the law as passed by parliament. Never before had Minnie seen her undecided.

“I would not care so much,” said Nathan, “if the land were to go where it's needed, but who is going to be gettin' it besides the Noble Duke, who owns all else, and those who work for him, and of course his friend the vicar.”

“What? The vicar's to gain more land?”

Nathan nodded.

The Dame's mouth dropped open, and Minnie knew that her mind was made up.

“Jack, tha must take a message to Jem Kilner and get him to fetch the file cutters and their families out to Crookes Moor. Minnie, run up to the jail and explain to our Josh. Netty and the child must stay here, and the two little lads, but we'll take Marianne and the rest of us will go.” The Dame unfastened her apron. “Don't tha worry, Nathan, there'll be no file cutting done today.”

“I thank thee, Dame. 'Twill pay off all debts in my eyes. Might tha have such a thing as a good strong rope to bring with thee?”

Minnie was out of breath before they'd even started. She'd been up to the jail and then to the well, but she was not the only one. The whole of the city was full of bustling folk, bright with purpose and energy, setting off for Hallam Commons.

It was almost noon by the time Minnie, Marianne, the Dame and Jack joined the crowd who were tramping through the town and along the bridle path to Crookes Moor. The Dame was laden with bread and cheese and water, and Minnie grumbled and rubbed her shoulders beneath the weight of her father's coiled rope.

“I might have known,” she muttered. “Always the rope carrier.”

“What's tha on about now, lass?” the Dame asked, and Minnie found herself telling the story of her grandmother's death and the prediction she'd made. The Dame listened and smiled.

“Tha grandmother spoke true,” she said. “Tha's a good rope carrier, and a grand strong lass to have around.”

Minnie strode on smiling, the warmth of the Dame's approval pushing her forward.

There was a geat deal of shouting and angry fist-waving as they passed Broomhall, the stately house lived in by Vicar Wilkinson, who had disdained the vicarage overlooking the big church in the grimy centre of town.

Minnie had never seen so many people all hurrying along in one direction with one purpose in mind, but there was plenty of fun and laughing, and Joseph Mather's songs were bellowed out with gusto whenever spirits flagged.

Gangs of young 'prentices had been sent ahead as runners to spy on the Commissioners' men and carry messages so that the crowd could follow where they went. Already cheers and clapping could be heard as the upright poles for the fences were pulled out no sooner than they'd been hammered into place.

“There's the big man, the one we see at the well,” shouted Marianne, pulling away and wanting to run to him.

John Bennet followed a group of workers and, as they hammered a pole into place, he took hold with his bare hands and heaved it out, throwing it aside. Each time he did so, the folk
around applauded as though it were a show. John bowed to them, excited and smiling. The Commissioners' workmen shouted at him and waved their fists, but none of them dared tackle a man of such obvious strength.

“They've no idea what a great daft thing he is,” said the Dame. “That poor lad doesn't know what he's doing.”

“He's our friend,” said Marianne.

“Aye,” Minnie told the Dame. “He saves us a place in the water queue.”

The Dame held Marianne's hand tightly and Minnie stuck close to them both. Only Jack plunged in amongst the crowd. He took the rope from Minnie, and made a slip knot in the end of it.

Two of the Commissioners' men were hammering poles in place. Jack ran fast with the rope and put it over the top of the pole they'd just set in place. Quick as a flash a gang of young lads had picked up the rope and heaved the pole out.

The two men were furious, but couldn't decide whether to chase the culprits or stick at their work. They snarled at each other, while the crowd chanted with wild joy:

“Where's our Jack now?” the Dame asked.

“He's there,” said Minnie, pointing.

Jack dived between the legs of one of the men and snatched away the hammer.

“Oh no,” said Minnie. “Now he's for it.”

Jack threw the hammer deep into a gorse bush, then hurled himself down a sharp slope, head over heels.

“Jack, Jack,” shrieked Marianne. “See him roll.”

The man followed him, hopelessly outpaced, then turned back frustrated and out of breath. Cursing and growling, he set about retrieving his hammer from deep inside the gorse.

“Fancy! Our Jack,” said the Dame, laughing in a way that Minnie couldn't believe. “The little devil. Still, if anyone can create chaos it's our Jack, I should know. I never thought I'd live to be glad of it.”

“He's found what he's good at,” said Minnie. “He's good at nowt else.”

“Aye, well,” said the Dame. “Best let him run wild while he's got the chance. He's having to work hard enough with our Josh just now.”

The Commissioners' men struggled on for a while, shouting at the crowd and arguing with each other, but every way they turned, their tools were taken, the poles were pulled out and insults hurled. When one group of protesters wore themselves out with their tricks, a new group of 'prentices would take over with wild, fresh vigour. Well before dusk the Commissioners' men gave up their efforts, leaving the grass and gorse to the dancing crowds. They were chased back to their carts and wagons, so tired, so defeated that Minnie had a moment of sadness.

“I could almost feel sorry for them. Look at them run.”

“Aye,” said the Dame. “Just working folk like the rest of us, trying to earn their way. Not really them that's to blame.”

Some of the young lads went daft with delight at their winning and ran around setting hayricks afire. The Dame called Jack away from them, insisting sternly that it was time to go. Minnie was glad; she was exhausted and longed for her bed. It was only the cheering sense of a small victory and Marianne's excited chatter that kept her going till they reached the cottage and the glad sight of a candle, which Netty had set in the window, burning in the dark.

THE NEXT DAY
was Saturday. Jack was sent up to the jail to help Josh and the Dame worked continuously at the file cutting, trying to make up for lost time.

That morning Minnie didn't mind going to fetch the water, for the town was alive with laughter and gossip and tales of Friday's doings.

But when Minnie went out in the evening, she found that the mood had changed. Fearful whisperings told of a meeting between the Duke of Norfolk's agent, the Master Cutler and Vicar Wilkinson. There'd been angry agreement between them that the enclosures must be enforced and those who objected brought to heel.

“They've sent some message off to the Home Office,” Dame Furniss told Minnie. “They're asking for milit'y aid, so they say. You know what that means? Soldiers. Hundreds of 'em, riding into Sheffield. There'll be no stopping them fences going up then.”

Minnie reported it all to Dame Eyre but she refused to get angry or worried and just worked doggedly on.

“Well, we did what we thought right,” she said. “It's all in the hands of God now. We must just go on working, and try to earn enough to buy our Josh out of that filthy hole.”

It was the first time ever that Minnie had known the Dame to miss her Sunday Methodists' meeting. She worked on at the file cutting all through the day. When Minnie took her a candle as
the light faded, she heard her muttering to the rhythm of the hammer: “He will forgive, he will forgive.”

Later that evening Dame Eyre sat counting pennies by the fire.

“I think we can do it,” she said. “If we can keep going at this rate for the next three weeks, with me cutting and thee to help, Minnie, I think we might make enough to have him out. I've never seen our Josh look so worn and sick. I fear for his health if he stays in that place the full three months.”

“Aye,” said Minnie. “I doubt he gets much of the food we take; those miserable snatchers around him get it. And the stink!”

The Dame shuddered. “And the dust,” she said. “All that lead dust from the cutting block flying up into his face and mouth, and he's no means of cleaning himself.”

“We'll do it,” said Minnie. “We'll get him out. We'll work like the very devil.”

The Dame frowned. “With God's help, we'll work,” she said.

So the family set themselves to work harder than ever. Netty saw to the children's feeding and washing. Minnie ran back and forth, and round in circles, fetching and carrying for the Dame. She must have no need to stop work for anything other than her own desperate weariness – which was all that prevented her candling right through the night.

The three women were so busy that they took little notice of the continuing rumours that filled the town. When the news was out one Wednesday morning that a detachment of Light Dragoons were coming from Nottingham, they shrugged their shoulders and got on with their work. But that evening, when Jack returned, he was wild with excitement.