The Rope Carrier (3 page)

“Where does this water come from? What river is this?”

“Why they call it Peakshole Water, sir, or sometimes they call it the River Styx.”

“The Styx? But that is the river that runs through hell.”

“Oh yes, sir. They say this is the devil's cave, though we live here comfortably enough. Now, sir, I must ask you to take this lighted candle to hold in your hand. It will light up the roof of the tunnel for you.”

He took the candle, fussing that it might set his wig alight, then ordered his servant to carry the wig for him and not get it wet. Josh took the wig and put it into a leather satchel. Minnie wrinkled her nose; she wondered how rich folk could bear to wear such things, smelling of grease and stale powdered cornflour as it did.

“How is this contraption to be moved?” The doctor's voice squeaked with anxiety.

“Why, sir, I'm to push it,” answered Netty, and she plunged into the water, not even gasping at the cold.

The doctor twisted his head around as best he could without banging it on the roof of the tunnel. Then the manservant plunged in after Netty, though he
did
gasp and shudder at the shock of the water, and took hold of the boat's side.

“Here, let me do the pushing for you.”

“Nay,” said Netty. “For I'm used to doing it, though I thank thee kindly for the thought.”

“Leave the girl be,” the doctor ordered. “You take good care to keep my wig dry or it'll be the worst for you.”

So up to their waists in the water, with Netty pushing and the young man following, they disappeared along the tunnel. Minnie watched them go, then turned to the low opening of the rocky hole. She got down onto her hands and knees and gritted her teeth. At least she could remain dry; it would be trouble
enough to sort out Netty's soaked petticoats. She stuck her head into the gravelly tunnel, holding one lighted candle ahead, and weaseled her way forward, grumbling at the sharp stones that grazed her hands and cheeks and cursing at the hot fat that spilled onto her fingers, for she must keep at least one candle alight. At last she had covered the ten-yard crawl and was able to pull herself up. She dusted herself down and prepared for the scramble up the rough cave side that would take her onto the high ledge they called the orchestra.

Quietly she set herself out with three candles lit at her feet, while voices and splashing and, at last, footsteps sounded from below. The lights of Netty's candles appeared down in the dim distance. Minnie waited; waited while the doctor exclaimed at the wonder of the constant stream of water that pattered down from high in the cave. She heard Netty's voice clear and strong.

“We call it Roger Rain's House, sir.”

Then, choosing her moment when all had gone quiet, Minnie took up a candle in each hand and chimed in a sweet high voice, her chin lifted to the roof, moulding her features into a mask of innocence, a face like an angel's,

While she sang, she thought with relish of the farthing that she hoped might come her way.

The doctor paid them well and pinched her cheek when he left. He kept laughing and talking about the dinner that was being prepared for him at the Castle Inn before he set off on his journey back to Sheffield. Relief made him jolly. He had fine stories to tell of his dangerous exploits in the cave, though
Minnie could be sure that he'd never repeat the experience.

Netty stood around in her wet skirts talking to the manservant Josh, though her mother fussed that she should set her petticoats to dry. Then at last they were gone, and Minnie was sent to help Sally on the ropewalk while Netty went to the fire to dry her skirts. Sally snapped and complained at the way her sister twisted the yarn but Minnie refused to get angry, for she had a farthing in her pocket.

THE GRUELLING WINTER
months came. Icicles dripped from the mouth of the cavern, and the roof and walls ran with water. The ropemakers' fires filled the cave with smuts and thick, choking smoke. The pigs that could not be taken out to graze on the common added to the stench and the mouldering rushes strewn on the damp rock floors grew thick with the filth of human living.

Minnie looked forward to the clean fresh air that her wood-gathering expeditions brought, even when she had to tramp through snow and ice. Sometimes she'd walk further than she really needed to. Then she'd return with raw chilblained fingers and feet, and blinded with tears which the cold brought to her eyes. For a little while then the smelly, smoke-filled, damp recesses of the cave took on a welcoming aspect.

Certainly Minnie had no wish to live in one of the small lead-miners' cottages that filled the small town of Castleton, in higgledy-piggledy rows. She often called in on her oldest sister Sarah and took the three middle children back to the cave with her, where they spent the day with Grandma Annie, learning to card the ropemakers' hemp.

Minnie grew sad at the sight of Sarah who was turning into a thin, haggard old woman – at the age of twenty-four. She'd had seven children, and six of them had survived, but now that Sarah was expecting her eighth, they were cramped and miserable in the two-roomed cottage that they shared with Matthew's parents. Even though Sarah's eldest lad had started
to work at the mine with his father, they still could not afford to rent a second cottage. Sarah dragged herself through the work of the day looking sick and exhausted.

The children loved it when Minnie took them to the cave, for there they had room to skip and play chase. They laughed and ducked away from the quick cuffs and kicks that came from their gran as they scrambled around her fire.

Annie would sit at her spinning wheel, shouting orders and instructions to her husband and the girls on the ropewalks below.

“Step out faster,” she would snap back at anyone who had the cheek to complain of the cold. “Step out faster then, and get those threads turning.”

Sometimes she would start to sing in a strong deep voice, exaggerating the rhythm, and wagging her head in time:

She would put into the song the name of the person who had complained. It was usually Sally, but sometimes Minnie; or she would use the name of anyone whom she thought might not quite be pulling their weight. All the other workers would take up the song and laugh and stare at the person named until they blushed for shame and quickened their pace. Sarah's children adored their grandma, and egged her on by pointing out anyone who might be lagging a bit.

Christmas brought some relief from the hardness of life. The gypsies arrived as they did each year at that time, bringing their wagons and carts to rest under the shelter of the cave and letting their horses loose on the commons that surrounded the village.

Work was set aside for a short time; the cave-dwellers much preferred to listen to the gypsies' news and excitement, their stories and songs. The cave was crowded and noisy with it all. There were feasts and singing and dancing each night.

Queenie Wood was especially welcomed by Annie. The two were almost the same age and had known each other through these annual visits since they were little children. A great deal of hugging and kissing went on at first and then the two women would send Minnie off to Dame Alice's to fetch jugs of ale while
they settled themselves by the fire to smoke pipes of tobacco, and talk and laugh long into the night.

Minnie curled herself up close to the fire, quiet and still, like a cat, so they would forget that she was there. She loved listening to Queenie who spoke loud and fast and smelt deliciously of the herbs that she gathered and sold. Queenie could cure a fever, or cramps in the stomach, or even mend a broken heart.

“Aye, Annie, we've seen some strange goings-on lately. They're digging away at the land, making these great long straight rivers. They call them canals.”

“What?” said Annie. “What the devil are they doing that for?”

“They make 'em so as to carry heavy loads along in boats. Right into the big towns the boats go, all loaded up with I don't know what.”

“They've no business doing that,” Annie insisted. “Rivers should be where God puts 'em, that's what I say, like our river. God put it here and we use it, that's how it should be.”

“I thought it were the devil made your river, Annie,” Queenie cracked out, laughing.

“I think 'twere neither god nor devil made our river. 'Twere someone much older . . . the earth herself.”

“Aye,” Queenie nodded, her voice soft with reverence. “The earth herself. That is something the gypsies have always known. Why else would we come?”

Minnie listened wide-eyed and silent to these two fierce women who feared neither god nor devil.

Queenie told of the great buildings she had seen being built close to the rivers to house the new spinning and weaving machines. They'd heard that someone had made a weaving loom that did not even need a man or woman to work it. Soon there'd be no work for weavers or spinners who did their work at home. Folk would have to get up early and set off to these
great buildings, these enormous factories, to serve the new machines. Minnie looked over at Marcus the weaver who sat with his loom pulled up to the fire, close enough for some warmth and a little light. Though close enough, too, to hear what was being said, he never paused in his work, just smiled sadly, swaying gently in time to the clack of his treadles.

The gypsies had seen other things, dreadful things. Some of the places they'd travelled through were suffering from famine. What food there was had become expensive, so that the poorest people couldn't buy it.

Minnie listened, fascinated, promising herself silently that she would one day leave the cave and the small town which was all she knew, and go away to see for herself the amazing things that Queenie had seen. Perhaps she would go off with the gypsies. Yes, that's what she would do! She would hide herself in Queenie's wagon and only show herself when they'd gone many miles from Castleton.

The day that the gypsies left was freezing cold and the top of Mam Tor, the mother mountain, was hidden in mist. Minnie decided that she'd stow away with Queenie another year. She'd put up with the dreary round of work and the dampness of the cave a little longer to stay by the fireside and her sisters' warm bed.

AT LAST, SHARP
spring sunlight came creeping into the cave. Thin pointers of dust-filled light pierced the dark corners of the underground village. Fetching the firewood was a pleasure, and Minnie went even more eagerly, glad of a good excuse to get into the warm sunlight. The younger children were sent out to take the pigs to graze.

Easter came and the children were given a holiday from their work. They went rushing around the village, searching for bottles which they scrubbed and cleaned. When all the containers were ready, they climbed the hillside beneath the castle to fill them with clear, cold water from Russet Well. Then there was the fuss and excitement of “the shaking”. Each door in the village must be knocked on as the children begged little bits of liquorice and sugar to add to their bottles. Slowly the mixtures got stronger and sweeter. The bottles were shaken vigorously all the time, and even taken into the church on Easter Sunday, ready for the delicious drinking which happened when the service was over.

Minnie looked forward to the end of May for it was then that the celebration of the Castleton Garland took place. The Whittingham boys were already practising their dance steps with solemn concentration on the ropewalk below, while Minnie and Sally smirked and giggled.

The day before the ceremony saw the whole village humming with busyness. A huge wicker beehive was built and decorated with flowers that the children had gathered. There
were bluebells, red campions and oak leaves, all tied and woven into the wickerwork with the greatest of care. This was the Garland, the very centre of the ceremony, ready to be placed over the head and shoulders of the Garland King.

Village women were engaged in a frantic session of brewing and baking, for when the serious work was over, there would be joyful celebrations.

Folk were up early on Garland Day and dressed in their best. The King of the Day was in old-fashioned clothes of the type King Charles would have worn when he came back to England. He'd come to restore the monarchy, but he'd also restored the ancient customs that had cheered the lives of ordinary folk. It was a great honour to be the Garland King. He climbed onto the best and most valuable horse that the village could provide. Then slowly he processed through the village streets, stopping at each public house where the landlord presented him with a drink.

Minnie and Sally pushed forward through the quiet crowd to see the dancers who followed the King. They did not laugh now at the Whittingham boys who were dressed in criss-cross ribbons and carried staffs of oak decorated with flowers, for this was their moment. The intricate steps were all-important, they must be performed just right.