Nancy Carson - A Family Affair

‘Mmm…’ Clover mused. ‘Does she work?’

‘She’ll work here – serving, helping out in the brewery.’

‘While I have to work in a foundry.’

The main room of the Jolly Collier was the taproom, but it also boasted a snug with a fireplace where the women were more likely to congregate on Saturday and Sunday nights. The taproom was devoid of a bar counter; the beer pumps were built into a wooden construction that hugged one wall. So, when you wanted your glass refilled you hailed Mary Ann, or Clover, or Job Smith or whoever was serving, ordered your drink and they would deliver it to your table. A low, cast-iron fireplace framed a hearty coal fire at one end of the room, around which the older men huddled for warmth in winter.

Clover realised that running a busy public house and brewing sometimes in excess of thirty barrels of beer each week had indeed tended to keep Mary Ann at full stretch. But Clover did her bit to help despite her day job. By five each morning she would be up, lighting the fire in the taproom ready to receive the first ironworkers and miners when they called for their threepenny rum and coffee on their way to their morning shift. They would yawn and gossip like old biddies with their colleagues who also called in for a drink when returning home, tired from the night shift.

That evening, Jake Tandy turned up in the taproom with his younger brother, Elijah.

‘How am yer, my flower?’ he greeted.

Mary Ann smiled with pleasure at seeing him. ‘Rushed off me feet, as ever. But all the better for seeing you, Jacob,’ she replied. ‘Usual?’

Jake nodded. ‘And a pint of pale for our Elijah. Here, I’ve bought our Elijah to meet you, Mary Ann, seeing as how he’s gunna be me best man.’

Elijah stood erect and held out his hand formally. ‘I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Mrs Beckitt. Jake’s said some fine things about you.’

‘Well, that’s just as well in the circumstances.’ Mary Ann replied. She turned to Jake. ‘And now is as good a time as any for you to meet our Clover properly. She’s always gone to bed by the time we’ve finished serving, so there’s never been a chance for her to get to know you.’

So Mary Ann issued them with a pint of beer each and led them into the living quarters, leaving Job Smith, the part-time bartender, to serve the customers.

‘How do you do, Clover,’ Jake said agreeably when he saw her.

Clover smiled back and blushed. ‘Nice to see you again, Mr Tandy.’

‘Hey, Mister Tandy, eh? Now that’s summat as’ll have to change. It’ll be no good calling me Mr Tandy when me and your mother am wed. Why not call me Pop and start right off? Sounds better than papa , I always reckon.’

Clover continued to smile politely.

‘I bet you’m wondering what sort of a chap I am, eh, Clover?’

‘I’m bound to wonder, Mr Tandy. I hope we can all live together contentedly.’

Clover had been aware of Jake Tandy for months, serving him pints of bitter in the taproom of the Jolly Collier. He had started loitering after closing time, collecting glasses, washing up, sweeping up the old sawdust and putting the spittoons out to wash – generally currying favour, by which time Clover had usually gone to bed ready for her early start next day. It galled her that she had not known he was to be her stepfather till today. Even though the banns must have been read, nobody had thought to mention the fact to her. Typical. Still, Clover couldn’t help wondering what Jake saw in Mary Ann and her stone-faced demeanour.

‘I’ve got a daughter meself, you know,’ he said and took a swig from his glass.

‘Mother said.’

‘Ramona. You’ll like her. There ain’t that much difference in your ages.’

‘I’m sure it’ll be very nice having a stepsister,’ Clover said equably. ‘Especially if she’s of an age.’

‘Well, she’s a nice lass, though I say so meself…And this is me brother, Elijah…’ Jacob turned to him. Clover shook his hand and said hello. She guessed him to be in his early thirties. He was smart, with dark hair, engaging brown eyes and a confident smile. ‘He’s going to be me best man at the wedding, Clover. I hope you’ve got a nice new frock to wear for it. Has your mother treated you?’

‘We’ve been today to order it, Mr Tandy. I’m sure it’ll be very suitable.’

‘It’s costing enough,’ Mary Ann commented typically. ‘But the wench has got nothing else.’

‘I bought one for our Ramona,’ Jake said. ‘Cost me a fortune, it did. But what’s money? Why worry about it?’

‘It’s only them as ain’t got money what worry about it,’ Mary Ann remarked. ‘And you know how we’ve been fixed, Jacob.’

‘And all that’s coming to an end, Mary Ann,’ Jake declared with a grin. ‘All that’s coming to an end.’

Good Friday in 1907, as well as being a holiday, was a perfect day for flying. A light south-westerly breeze was panting warmly as it ran up the side of Rough Hill, where Ned Brisco sat apprehensively in a weird contraption he had built, hoping it would fly. His older brother, Amos, sat crouched beneath the fragile wings on its port side waiting for Ned’s signal.

Ned gazed into the distance. Distance was his challenge. From these heights he overlooked the Clent Hills to the south, lush and green in their spring finery. In the far distance he could discern Worcestershire’s Malvern Hills, colourless on the hazy south-western horizon. Towards the north-west, beyond the furnaces of Ironbridge and Coalbrookdale, the Wrekin lay like a stone pushing up through Shropshire’s greenery. Ned imagined himself flying effortlessly in his machine over the vast expanse of gently undulating terrain that lay between himself and these yet unvisited outposts. Once beautiful countryside, it was now pockmarked by scores of pit-heads and slag heaps and quarries, and by chimney-stacks that spewed endless palls of filthy smoke into the hazy, white sky that was struggling to turn blue in the spring sunshine. As well as these effigies to the industry and enterprise of man, the inevitable stone structures loomed that were erected to the greater glory of God. The spire of Top Church in the middle distance to the north-west pierced the atmosphere like a tintack, while St John’s and its square grey tower occupied a ledge on Kates Hill to the north. Beyond St John’s stood Dudley Castle, hoary, crumbling, derelict, yet defiantly majestic.

The girl with him looked striking, despite being plainly dressed in a home-made blouse and skirt. Her eyes were intelligent, as blue as summer cornflowers. Her skin was fair yet her lush hair was as dark and shiny as the coal they mined thereabouts. When she smiled her face lit up and you couldn’t help but smile with her, for she seemed then to throw off the shackles of reserve and shyness that normally confined her. Clover Beckitt was Ned’s soul mate.

As well as Clover and his brother Amos, both of whom gave Ned much needed encouragement, a smattering of ragged children had attached themselves to the band and their cart. They looked on in incredulous silence and wonder, hoping they would witness the miracle of man and machine in flight.

‘All right, Amos,’ Ned called. ‘Let her go.’

Amos quickly pulled a chunk of wood from under one of the thin, spoked bicycle wheels on which the contraption stood. The ensemble began to roll downhill over the stubbly grass that cloaked that side of Rough Hill between two disused quarries, gathering speed quickly. Ned held his breath as his stomach seemed to rise into his mouth.

‘Be careful, Ned!’ Clover called, hearing the creak of struts and wire and stretched canvas. ‘Don’t crash into the pepper-box.’

‘Let’s hope he gets that bloody far,’ Amos said dubiously, seeing that the Dudley Tunnel’s air shaft of which Clover spoke was directly in Ned’s path, but unreachable. ‘If he ended up in Warren’s Hall pond, even that would be summat to crow about.’