William Bradley's Handcart E-Book

D. W. Bradley

• Herausgeber: novum publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 502

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

In rural Great Ayton, William Bradley is sent to live with his ageing grandparents, away from his burdened mother, who has too many mouths to feed and a drunken husband to support. Adjusting to a new life, William aspires to follow in his grandfather's footsteps in the mining business. He also falls for a beautiful girl, Susan, but heartbreak is in store when Susan reveals her own ambitions for advancement in life. William makes his mark in the mining business but discovers that his vocation may lie elsewhere than in mining whinstone. When William is struck by a series of tragedies, he is forced to evaluate his future and make some challenging decisions. Full of the vigour of youth, William leaves the safety of everything he has known and forges a new life, with surprising results.

Leseprobe

Imprint

All rights of distribution, also through movies, radio and television, photomechanical reproduction, sound carrier, electronic medium and reprinting in excerpts are reserved.

© 2024 novum publishing

ISBN print edition:978-3-99146-408-2

ISBN e-book: 978-3-99146-409-9

Editor:Charlotte Middleton

Coverphotos:D. W. Bradley, Mircea Bezergheanu | Dreamstime.com

Cover design, layout & typesetting: novum publishing

Internal illustrations: D. W. Bradley

www.novum-publishing.co.uk

Dedication

To my family and friends,

past and present,

and my late wife,

Vicki Anne Bradley,

who galvanised me into action.

Acknowledgement

Sincere thanks to John Bradley, Jeff and Chris Loy for original artwork and support; the late Vicki Bradley for her tireless family research and encouragement; Katie Bouché for her humour and encouragement; Sarah Davey for her patience and support, and Doug Jordan, author, for his long-distance mentoring.

Preface

This novel is a work of fiction. It was sparked into life by a few photographs and some oral family snippets about my paternal great-grandfather. Sadly, as far as I know, he never knew his father.

I have kept the family name of Bradley throughout because it has strong connections with the two locations of Great Ayton and Lincoln, where William grew up, became a flintworker and then a successful businessman. All the other names are fictional.

I love history but too much of it is about the rich and famous; too much of it is London-centred. I wanted to write a story about a ‘little person’ in Victorian Yorkshire who succeeded even though the odds were against him. It is not a ‘rags-to-riches’ story but a journey where tough but caring grandparents nurture their grandson to a point where he has the stamina, tenacity, and belief to pick himself up every time he stumbles.

My book focuses on the first twenty-five years of William’s life, a time when William struggles to discover who he is, who loves him and what his destiny might be. His grandfather, Michael, is a constant support but his strict adherence to Wesleyanism instils a deep moral purpose in William. Gradually, both grandparents take on the mantle of parent to William and recognise that they may have made some mistakes with their own children.

After the deaths of both grandparents, William begins his own business from a handcart in Lincoln market.

D. W. Bradley

23rd January, 2022

Prologue

A Meeting of MindsYarm: 24th April 1764

Michael Bradley was pleased to find a seat in the new house at Yarm. He had watched the octagonal building rise from the ground for over a year. In his opinion, it was the newest and grandest building in Yarm. He was proud of the part that he had played in its construction. Although he was not responsible for the design, he had dressed the stone and his hands had built his place of worship. It was “his” church. Others could take credit for drawing up the plans, raising the money and promoting the cause but he and some of his contemporaries had made it. He was eighteen years of age and felt that he had done something worthwhile for the community.

It was early evening, and the house was filling up. He could see George Merryweather at the front nearest the lectern. He led the Methodists in Yarm and was responsible for purchasing the land. Michael could see him smiling at all the local dignitaries and no doubt congratulating himself on engaging Mr Wesley for tonight’s service. Wesley had visited Yarm before, and he had advised Merryweather on the design for the house. Michael had been told that Wesley wanted an octagonal shape so that ‘there are no corners for the devil to hide in’. It was an idea that Michael liked but he suspected that the novel shape of the building had more to do with breaking with normal church design and helping the preachers to be heard.

Tonight was special. Wesley had been unable to attend the opening because of commitments in Bristol but one of his preachers, Peter Jaco, had led the opening service. Michael had heard about Wesley but never seen him. All of the pews were now full and people continued to flood into the rear of the house. Members of the growing crowd whispered to each other about Wesley’s previous visits and speculated on his chosen topic for tonight. Little by little the whispering withered on the air as the great man entered the new house.

Michael strained to see round the shoulders of the crowd. Wesley’s bright blue eyes darted round the crowd and building. He missed nothing. He could see that his audience was large and mixed. Just the way he liked it. Farm workers, miners, builders, landowners, and businessmen had been drawn to hear him. There was also an assortment of rivermen who plied the River Tees. Yarm was a thriving inland port. Wesley was smaller than Michael had imagined, and he had to bend and twist to catch sight of the famous man. Michael could see him scanning the wooden roof timbers, the semicircle of pews and the upper gallery. The corners of Wesley’s mouth rose into a half smile as he absorbed more details about the building. Most of his advice had been accepted. He ascended the stairs to the pulpit, and it was only then that Michael could see him clearly.

Michael knew about the long hair, the distinctive nose, the flowing cloak, and the long rides on horseback but he had expected someone much taller. Tinged with guilt, he hoped that Wesley would not notice his ever-reddening cheeks.

The great man began.

“My text is taken from Saint Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians, chapter thirteen verse three.” His voice was neither loud nor soft. It was warm and invited attentiveness. “Though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and have not love, it profiteth me nothing.” As he spoke, Wesley eyed his audience so that every member of his congregation felt that he was being personally addressed. They hung on every word. His charisma sprang from a sincere belief in his own words and an unflinching desire to assert that he was no better than those that listened to him. “Nor am I that speak the word of God any more secure from these dangers than you that hear it. I, too, have to bewail ‘an evil heart of unbelief’. Believe in the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved.”

Michael had heard similar phrases before, and they were often delivered with more power, variety and colour but Wesley’s words were carefully chosen, and each seemed imbued with total belief. He was no actor, and his gestures were not histrionic like so many others that Michael had heard from the pulpit. He found himself warming to this man and his words. According to Saint Paul, Wesley affirmed that helping the poor was not a matter of simply being virtuous but more a question of making a choice coolly and from a right principle. Michael agreed with these sentiments and welcomed them in the knowledge that many sought to help the poor purely to serve their own vanity. He had no time for such people. It was precisely this preoccupation with self-interest that had driven him from the established Church of England and into the arms of the Methodists.

“He that hath ears to hear, let him hear.” Michael heard, understood, and accepted.

“Love suffereth long or is longsuffering. If thou love thy neighbour for God’s sake, thou wilt bear long with his infirmities; if he wants wisdom, thou wilt pity and not despise him; if he be in error, thou wilt mildly endeavour to recover him, without any sharpness or reproach; if he be overtaken in a fault, thou wilt labour to restore him in the spirit of meekness.” Many of Wesley’s words rang true for Michael.

There was an almost imperceptible increase in the volume and capacity of Wesley’s delivery. The crowd were with him, and he drew strength from their tacit support.

“Does any man find in himself ill-will, malice, envy, or any other temper opposite to kindness? Then is misery there; and the stronger the temper, the more miserable he is. If the slothful man may be said to eat his own flesh, much more the malicious, or envious. His soul is the very type of hell – full of torment as well as wickedness. He hath already the worm that never dieth, and he is hastening to the fire that never can be quenched.”

Michael was resolved. He would never return to the Church of England, and he would support the Methodist movement for as long as he lived.

Chapter 1

The OutcastGreat Ayton, 1856

The blankets made young William’s skin itch and it was cold, very cold. The room was dark and unfriendly. He knew that he was at the top of the house but that was all he knew. He slipped out of bed and prayed that the creaking floorboards would not wake his grandparents. Crossing to the window he carefully eased the curtains to one side. The sun was about to raise itself above the silhouetted Hambleton Hills, which rose to the side and back of Quarry House like a battered and broken serrated knife. He waited, tired after a sleepless night. Gradually, the sun inched its way above the line of hills.

It was January and the sun was low and watery. The grassy slopes and track behind the house were fringed with frost. He pulled his grandfather’s large shirt closer to keep out the cold. Why was he here? What had he done? What would happen if they found him out of bed? Where was his mother?

The room contained little decoration except for two framed embroideries declaring that “God is Love” and “Blessed are the Pure in Heart”. He knew that both had been made by his mother for his grandmother. One was a Christmas present, the other a gift on Mothering Sunday. To the side of the bed was a large chest of drawers made of dark oak. A well-thumbed bible and a book of hymns by Charles Wesley, John Wesley’s brother, took pride of place in the centre of the polished top. William opened the hymnal and discovered an inscription on the inside. It read: “To Michael, in gratitude for helping to build the elegant house at Yarm, J. Wesley.” There was a dresser on the other side of the bed and in front of that a small rag rug which had been made by William’s grandmother. A small stool had been set on the rug so that he could reach the washstand.

William tugged at the curtain and looked out of the window and saw that the dawn had bathed Roseberry Topping in light. That was familiar and welcome. He could see the hill from his own home in Newton. He traced the shape of the landmark in the condensation on the dull and misshapen windowpane. The hill resembled the head of a sleeping man with a large nose but that was probably because his mother had tried to tell him that a giant had scooped some earth from the moors and thrown it a great distance and this was why the top of the hill was such a strange and unique shape. He loved his mother. She was kind and soft. Why hadn’t she told him about going to grandfather’s house? She kept saying that it would be best. She had always listened before, but this time was different. Very different. He heard noises downstairs and quickly got back into bed. He pulled the rough blankets over his shoulders and closed his eyes. He could hear footsteps on the stairs. The latch on the bedroom door clacked and the door swung open.

“Now, young William, how are you this morning?” He didn’t stir. His grandfather lingered at the door. Silence reigned. William wondered why he didn’t go. What was he waiting for? “I’m surprised the light from this window hasn’t woken you?” he said with just a hint of humour in his voice. “Well, I’ll leave you to sleep a little longer.” William did not move a muscle. His grandfather turned quickly in his leather boots and strode through the door, closing it firmly before descending. William regretted not replacing the curtain. He regretted pretending to be asleep. Not for the first time he had clung to a deceit in the foolish belief that he could outwit his grandfather. Now he would have to stay in this cold bed for a little longer. He blamed his mother; it was all her fault.

He longed to be in his normal bed back at Newton. It was only down the road, but it felt like it was hundreds of miles away. The sunlight was making shapes on the ceiling, and he tried to turn them into faces but with little success. His concentration was disturbed by the sound of men’s voices passing the house. They were low, gravelly voices, which hovered above the steady rumble of leather on stone track. The ironstone workers were making their way to Cliff Rigg Quarry.

He took the stool to the window so that he could see more clearly and balanced there with his nose pressed against the glass. The younger men talked and laughed as they made their way up the track. There was some teasing and bad language, but the older ones were much more taciturn. They were saving themselves for the shift ahead and could not be bothered to waste their breath so early in the morning. With bait boxes under their arms and scarves around their necks they coughed and spat their way to work. William noticed that all of them wore hats and most sported bushy moustaches. His grandfather had told him that the work at the local quarries was hard.

His grandfather, Michael Bradley (the younger), the son of Michael the stonemason, had moved to the area from Yarm and begun as a quarryman himself. He owned the Langbaurgh mine. William’s uncle, Michael John, worked part-time at the quarry and was the innkeeper of The King’s Head in Newton-under-Roseberry. William didn’t like him. He was always correcting him, and he went out of his way to embarrass him in front of his friends. He didn’t know why but it may have had something to do with his mother, Jane.

The men disappeared up the hill and William decided to change and make an appearance downstairs. His shorts and shirt were under the mattress, and he was pleased that he had remembered to keep them away from the cold air. He recovered the stool from the window and poured some water from the ewer and into a bowl on the dresser. He sluiced his face and flattened his hair with his hands. “Don’t forget to make your bed in the morning,” his mother had said, so he straightened the blankets as well as he could, but they were heavy, cold and damp and it didn’t matter how hard he tried, the horse-hair mattress was lumpy and unwelcoming. It would have to do. William was conscious that if he took too long to dress, breakfast would have been cleared away by the time that he went down. He turned his attention to his socks, which he remembered kicking off in anger the previous night. They were under the metal bedstead. He summoned up the courage and crawled underneath. Why hadn’t he put them in his shoes like he had been taught? The wool was hard and coarse, and he could feel the cotton threads where his mother had darned the heels. With a sigh he slid his feet into brown leather boots, which pinched his toes. No mother to fasten them this morning. He scanned the room and saw the half-open curtain. He returned to the window once more and opened the curtain fully. The landscape that he had traced in condensation with his finger was now a stream along the sill and he could hear it waterfalling to the floorboards. He took out his pocket handkerchief and mopped the sill and floor. It made his pocket wet but that was better than some harsh words from his grandmother. He opened the door and went downstairs.

The kitchen was large and warm. A heavy wooden table was surrounded by six chairs with brown leather upholstered seats. William slid quietly onto one of the chairs in the hope that he would go unnoticed. His fingers played with the shiny upholstery nails which secured the leather. At the head of the table sat his grandfather. His grandfather stared at him over wire spectacles. He had been reading some figures in a ledger. William found it difficult to meet his grandfather’s eyes but when he summoned up the courage to do so, he was pleased to see the old man smile back. His grandmother, in contrast, stood behind her husband with tight lips and arms folded. She eyed William with poorly disguised resentment. He could feel his face growing redder. He wondered why that always happened. His grandfather sensed his unease and smiling once more he broke the silence.

“Well, young William… did yer sleep well?”

“Yes, very well, thank you, Grandpa.” The smile nearly turned to a laugh. He knew the truth of it. It had been the worst night of his grandson’s short life. He continued with the pretence.

“That’s good, because you’re goin’ to be stayin’ wi’ us for a little longer,” he said firmly and without hesitation. William tried to speak but his grandfather continued.

“Yer mother thinks that it would be for t’best if you stayed here for the moment.” William could contain himself no longer.

“Why? I want my mother! Where is John? It’s not fair.”

“Be silent, you ungrateful boy! Don’t you realise how lucky you are?” his grandmother lashed at him.

“Now, now, the boy doesn’t know everything, does he? Let’s tek our time. Trust yer mother; she knows best, William. John’s older than you; he can help your mother.” Grandmother disappeared into the scullery and Grandpa put his arms around his grandson’s shoulders. “You’re a good lad and you are going to help me down at the quarry today.” William buried his head into his grandfather’s chest so that he would not see his tears. Michael knew all about a child’s tears. He had cradled the children from both of his marriages in his arms when they were upset or ill. Taking care of his grandson came to him naturally. It was not an effort or an inconvenience; he knew and understood that a small act of love would help to heal the wounds now and in the future. He had learnt this at the hands of his own father all those years ago in Yarm and he was proud to bear his name. Michael Bradley was proud of his history and equally proud of what he had become. How he wished that his father could see him now – quarry master and owner of Quarry House! As he held William he thought about his father’s kindness, beliefs, principles and skills as a stonemason. This emotional history flowed like a river through his strong arms and into William. Michael said nothing; he did not need to.

William’s grandmother remained in the scullery. William was hungry but now was not the time to ask for food.

It seemed to the young William that his grandfather knew everything. Gradually the tears subsided. Michael pretended not to see William wiping his face on his sleeve and as if nothing had happened Michael rose from the table with a “Well, off we go then.”

Chapter 2

The Truth of the Matter

William was kept away from school for more than a week. Most days he followed his grandfather to the quarry, where Michael supervised the whinstone workers. His grandfather was more than seventy years old, but he moved around the site with great vigour. He was of average height and build but muscular in his movement and gait. His sharply defined widow’s peak gave him an air of distinction and clearly marked him out as a member of the Bradley family. The men liked and respected him. He had gained his position through hard work, and he had no airs and graces. He could be stern but most of the time this was not necessary. In the afternoon he would return to Quarry House to do his paperwork and rest.

William dreaded the afternoons. His grandmother insisted that he should do some writing and arithmetic, but these sessions usually finished in tears because his grandmother had no patience. At the end of the week, William overheard raised voices in the front parlour. His grandmother declared, “But Michael, I’ve dun all o’ this before an’ I’m too old anyway!” She stormed upstairs and did not return for several hours. William did not understand what she was saying, and his grandfather caught him lurking in the hallway.

“What are you doing there?” he asked sternly.

“Nothing.” William knew at once that he had uttered yet another stupid thingto his ever-patient grandfather.

“Yes; you were listening, weren’t you?”

“Yes, Grandpa.”

“Well don’t waste my time with lies.”

William could feel the tears welling up again and blurted out, “Is it my fault?”

“Of course not. Now go outside and play.” He didn’t need to be asked twice.

He wandered up the track behind the house called “Thief Lane”. William felt like he had committed a crime. He had wondered many times how the track had got its name but today he was too busy with his own guilt to think about anything else. He was sorry that he had let his grandfather down again but that was as far as his thinking could stretch. Why wasn’t his brother John at Quarry House with him? It didn’t seem fair. He had heard nothing from his father or mother for days.

He took a turning to the left and started to climb. The grassy slopes had begun to dry out in the bright January sunshine. He looked back and could see the track to Cliff Rigg Quarry to his left and then behind Quarry House the track to Langbaurgh Quarry, where he had been with his grandfather for more than a week. Both disappeared behind him as the need to get away from the house gnawed at him. The men in both quarries would still be working, he was confident of that. There was a wooded area in front of him, but it was still light, and he was confident that he could find his way through it. He followed the path through the wood and started to climb a steep and stony path on the other side. He had walked through Newton Woods before. This time there were no bluebells or primroses to frame the twisting path through the woods. The path levelled out and he found his usual resting place, a large flat boulder shaped like a large stone table. He climbed on top of it and grabbed at the branches of an isolated tree, which seemed to stop the boulder from spinning to the bottom. He put his right foot into a hollow where the narrow trunk divided into two and raised himself up into the tree. The tree was at right angles to the slope and with his arms outstretched and clinging to the branches, he felt like a bird in flight. For a moment he felt free, released from his crimes. There he was, beneath the summit of Roseberry Topping, looking down on Newton – his home. Why wasn’t he there? Why didn’t someone explain? He had upset his grandmother; perhaps he had upset his mother as well. The tears started again. How he hated himself. At least up here it didn’t matter. Nobody could see him, except for God, of course.

The tears dried in the cold air and he took a few deep breaths. He began to feel better. He could just make out the cluster of terraced houses which had been his home for as long as he could remember. It was then that he noticed that the light was beginning to fade. It was time to go. He pushed with his arms and got himself into an upright position. He needed to lower himself onto the stone table but he couldn’t. The boot on his right foot had wedged itself between the two trunks. He pulled and pushed but the boot was stuck. The more he struggled, the more he felt his foot swelling inside the boot. He clung to the tree with his left hand and tried to undo his boot with his right hand, but it was too difficult, and he was afraid of falling onto the boulder with his foot still stuck in the tree. He needed to take the weight off his right foot. He used both hands to haul himself back up into the tree. He could see Newton and he was flying again. He took the weight away from his right foot and it began to feel a little easier. The light was fading quite quickly now, and he began to worry.

“So, this is where you are. Are yer ready to cum ’ome now?” Grandpa said with a smile.

“It isn’t home,” he snapped.

“Oh, I see. I’d better leave you here then.”

He turned on his heel and began to walk down the slope. William’s pride would not let him explain that he was stuck.

“Grandpa!”

“Changed your mind, have yer?”

“No, it’s just that… well… have I upset Grandma?”

“You don’t need to worry about that; forget it. Come on, it’s getting dark, the bogeyman’ll be gettin’ yer. Get yerself down, quick sharp.”

“Oh.”

“What’s keepin’ yer? I haven’t got all day.”

“I’m stuck.”

“You’re what?”

“Stuck.”

William’s grandfather threw his cap to the ground and convulsed with laughter. William had never seen him like this before. He would certainly never show this side of his character to Mary, his wife. It was several moments before he was able to compose himself.

“Well, I suppose we’d better get yer down.”

He climbed onto the stone table and knelt down. His large hands enveloped William’s right boot and bit by bit he manipulated the leather sole and upper until the foot was freed.

“I suppose yer foot hurts now?” he enquired. His eyes were a steely blue colour and William couldn’t help noticing the red blood vessels, which indicated a man of greater age than he appeared.

“Yes,” he answered rather limply.

William’s grandfather was down from the table in one movement and then, without hesitation, he lifted William onto his shoulders and strode down the stony path and back through the wood. His grandfather never said a word to his grandmother about the incident. It was their secret.

The afternoon lessons suddenly stopped. It was quite some time before William discovered that these sessions had been his grandpa’s idea. He was keen for William to do well at school, and he showed more interest in William’s schoolwork and well-being than his father had ever done.

On Sunday morning William’s grandmother put his best clothes out. She insisted that he had a good wash and threatened to check behind his ears. He appeared downstairs for breakfast with pink cheeks and scrubbed nails and that prevented any further scrutiny by Grandma. William was beginning to learn how to cope with his new domestic situation. All three sat round the kitchen table and a bowl of hot porridge was served.

“Mek sure that you eat it all up. It’s cold outside an’ you’ll need something warm inside yer,” said his grandmother, trying to be a little more sympathetic. Coats and scarves were found and all of them strode down the road towards the River Leven. They turned onto Race Terrace and walked to the Wesleyan chapel at the west end. William found the hearty singing overwhelming and could not read the words quickly enough. The congregation was always two or three words ahead and he kept losing the tune. A lot of the adults did not seem to use the books at all and several of them stared at him whilst singing at the tops of their voices. He quickly realised that many of them knew the words by heart and he later discovered that most could not read at all.

At the end of the service several of the older women tried to engage with his grandmother and there was much whispering. He heard the name “Jane” and knew immediately that they were talking about his mother. One woman said, “That’s a blessing for you!” but he couldn’t understand why. His grandmother was quick to move away, and she took his grandfather’s arm to steer him away, but he resisted and took William’s hand instead. William was quite pleased with himself and enjoyed listening to the gossip. It was clear that Michael Bradley was held in some esteem not only because he was a local employer but also because he was a good God-fearing man.

Michael could see that his wife was growing impatient, and he announced to the throng around him, “We’d better be going, so I hope that you will excuse us.” With that, the three set off on the return journey to Quarry House.

It was about two o’ clock in the afternoon when William’s father, mother and John came to the front door. As soon as his grandfather heard the knock, he asked William to go upstairs. As he reached the top floor he opened and shut his bedroom door but remained on the landing. Then he knelt and peered through the wooden spindles into the hall on the ground floor. His father came in first, removing his hat before entering the front parlour. His mother followed, carrying a bundle, and John brought up the rear. She looked thin and tired. His grandmother glanced up the stairs before entering the parlour but did not see William. The parlour door was firmly shut.

They were there for at least an hour and William could not make anything out. Voices rumbled up and down, but he could make no sense of them. He crept into his bedroom for fear of being found in the wrong place. Eventually he heard the sound of his grandfather’s boots on the stairs. “Would you like to come down, William? We’ve got a pleasant surprise for yer. Yer mam and dad are here with John.”

William hurtled down the stairs, only to be slowed by his grandfather’s voice saying, “Steady down, little fellow.” His father was standing behind his mother, and she was sitting very still.

“William… look here… we’ve got a little brother for you. This is Thomas,” his mother said in a quiet voice and then she held him up for William to see. He was stunned. His brother, John, did not look at him, and William was desperate for him to do so. John was embarrassed by the situation and felt as if he had betrayed his younger brother.

They only stayed for a few more minutes. His mother explained that she had not been well and that he was to stay with his grandparents for a little longer. William’s eyes never met his father’s, but his mother glanced between Thomas and William throughout those few precious minutes. William’s grandmother seemed to scowl throughout the conversation, but grandfather kept saying to William, “We need to look after yer mam.”

William did not understand. Surely, he could go back to Newton and help his mother? Grandfather could see that he was troubled and gestured to his daughter so that she would not linger. There was a long silence. Grandfather cleared his throat and began with, “It isn’t just that your mam isn’t well. You see… your father has got his own son now… and it’s probably better for you to stay here.”

“But… Grandpa—”

“No buts. It’s for the best. When you’re a little bit older I’ll explain it all.”

Chapter 3

Truth and Lies

William could not get those words out of his head. What did his grandpa mean? “Your father has got his own son now.” William wondered why he had stressed the word “own”. If he wasn’t his “own son”, what was he? His mother had left in a hurry and without even a hug. Why didn’t she want him?

He stayed in his room all evening. His grandfather busied himself with papers and his grandmother was even quieter than usual. Quarry House was dead.

At about eight o’ clock his grandfather came up the stairs and told him that he should have some supper. William told him that he was not hungry, but it was a lie. His grandfather knew it was a lie. About an hour later he returned with a crust of bread and some warm milk. William told him again that he was not hungry. Michael Bradley left them on the dresser next to the blue-and-white jug and bowl that his first wife had bought when they were first married and then sat down on the bed. He wondered what his father would have said. “Think before you speak,” sprang to the forefront of his mind. There was a long silence. Eventually Michael cleared his throat and tried to reason with his grandson.

“Look, William. There are some things in life that we can’t do anything about. One day I’ll explain why you have to be here and not in Newton.”

“What did you mean when you said father’s own son?”

“No, I said ‘new’ son.”

“You didn’t.”

Realising that William was adamant and knowing that he had indeed said “own” in error, he tried to cover his tracks.

“That’s enough of that. Tomorrow’s another day and you’ve got school to go to. You’ve missed enough. Now get yersel’ into bed and don’t forget to wash.” His tone was harsher than normal, and he was out of the door before William could blink. Michael was angry with himself and felt sorry for his grandson.William was convinced that the word “own” had been used. Why was his grandfather covering up? He had always told him not to tell lies but now he was lying. The words and deceits tumbled round and round in William’s head. Were all adults like this or was it just his family? Or was it him? He suddenly found himself choking on the bread that he had rammed into his mouth in anger. He swallowed some warm milk to soften it. Now he was glad that his grandfather had left him some supper. The truth was that he did not want to show any weakness even though he was hungry.

Exhausted by events, it was not long before he was washed, changed and in bed. He thought about friends at school and warmed to the idea that at least he would be away from Quarry House for a few hours each day.

He was woken up by his grandmother. “Time you were up, young man. Your grandfather’s taking you this morning and he’ll not want to be late. He’s got things to do and people to see. If you’re to be with us from now on, we need to get a few routines sorted. I’ll expect you down in five minutes and not a minute after.”

He was out of bed like a shot. His grandfather might have been short with him last night, but he knew better than to upset his grandmother. She was quick with her tongue and even quicker with a slap across the head or legs. A bowl of thick, warm porridge was waiting for him downstairs, and he quickly spooned it into his mouth, knowing that it would soon warm him through. His grandfather had only just lit the kitchen fire and he could see his grandparents’ breath in the air as they decided what they needed to do with the day. His hands were cold, and he put them round the breakfast bowl. The porridge did warm his chest and he was relieved to see his grandparents in a better humour with each other.

“Right, it’s time that we were off, young William.”

“I’m ready,” trilled William. He was eager to please.

“Good,” said his grandfather with a smile.

His smiling grandmother held his coat and scarf out and he was bundled out of the door. She was reconciled to her new role and relieved that William would not be under her feet all the time.

Michael and William strode down the steps and into the yard. Michael’s large right hand clenched William’s left hand. His grandfather’s grip was like a vice and William could feel his rough, leathery, calloused palms against his soft skin. Michael Bradley strode down the track with purpose and William had to trot to keep up with him. As they made their way to the British School, Michael whistled some of the tunes that had been sung in chapel the day before. He had a tuneful whistle and a good bass voice; the former was reserved for walking in the open air and the latter for the chapel. William remembered being chastised for whistling in the house. According to his grandmother it was bad manners, and it would bring the family bad luck. Perhaps that was it. If he had not whistled, perhaps he would be living at home in Newton instead of at Quarry House. After all, he had only been copying his grandfather and now he had lost his mother.

They joined Newton Road and William noticed the entrance to the quarry opposite. A large sign declared, “Langbaurgh Quarry – No Entry – Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted”. William knew the words; he just didn’t understand them. He recalled the Lord’s Prayer that they had all recited the day before. “And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us.” It didn’t make sense.

“Penny for them?”

“Sorry?”

“What are yer thinkin’ about?”

“Oh, nothing.” Why did he do that? Why didn’t he tell him the truth?

“I see.”

They were nearing the school gates and William could see some of his friends in the yard. “Look, William, you go and play with your friends, and I’ll go an’ speak to yer headmaster.” William’s grandfather squeezed his hand, smiled and then strode to the front door. William didn’t know what he said to Mr Morley that morning, but Mr Morley was unusually gentle with him throughout the rest of the day.

Chapter 4

Back to School

William was pleased to be back at school. He enjoyed the lessons and was particularly interested in arithmetic and reading. However, the best thing about it was seeing his friends again. They were all pleased to see him and wanted to know why he had been away. He explained that his mother had been ill and that he had a new brother. This seemed to satisfy everyone’s curiosity and he made a point of not saying anything about Quarry House and his grandparents. His grandfather never visited the school again, but he always asked William what he had been learning.

Most of William’s friends lived near High Green, and Quarry House was on the outer edge of the village and most of them did not know that he was with his grandparents. at Quarry House. As he walked home each day he made sure that none of the children from Newton were nearby. He decided that if he was seen by any of them, he would simply say that he was visiting his grandparents.

It was February and the snowdrops had begun to poke through the soil, and William bobbed down to examine them. As he rose, he became aware of two older boys following him home. Both were thirteen and from Newton. He knew them as Thompson and Smith from the school roll call. They had never spoken to him before and that was not unusual, because they were much older, but he was surprised when the taller of the two called across to him.

“Well, if it isn’t young Billy Bradley goin’ to see his gran! When you comin’ back to Newton, Billy boy?”

“Tonight,” he lied.

“Are yer sure about that, Billy boy?”

“Yes.” He was nearly at the gates to Quarry House. “And, by the way, my name’s William.” He walked briskly into the yard.

“Oooooer… lard-di-dar… William! See yer tomorrow… William!” they trilled.

His face was bright red. Why had he corrected them? They were bound to follow him tomorrow. He worried all night about Thompson and Smith and did not get much sleep. What was he going to do? They were bigger and older than him and they would not let the matter rest.

It was a long night for William. He replayed the conversation with Thompson and Smith a thousand times in his mind and rehearsed his apology to them, but he knew that it would do no good. Thompson and Smith were not going to suffer cleverness from a boy of eight.

“What do you mean, you don’t feel well? You were perfectly fit yesterday,” said William’s grandma. “You can’t keep taking time off. I’ll speak to your grandfather and see what he thinks.” William’s grandpa had never taken a day off work in his life, and he thought that everyone should follow his lead. William was, therefore, packed off to school as usual, complete with his usual bread and dripping for midday.

William’s school was an impressive stone building with a slate roof. The non-conformists had built it for children from poorer families and given it the grand title of the British School. There were six large sashed windows at the front, a large front door with a clock above it and higher still was a horizontal stone bearing the name of the school and the date it was established. Students were not allowed in the front door but entered the school at the rear of the property through separate gates for girls and boys. William unlatched the boys’ gate to the school yard and immediately noticed Smith and Thompson talking to his friends and glancing over to him. They were all sniggering. William was irritated that his friends should so quickly appear to change sides. It did not occur to him that they too might be frightened.

Thompson walked towards him. Out of the corner of his eye William saw Mr Morley. Thompson was too busy playing to his audience to notice the headteacher. He stopped midway between William and his friends and very loudly announced, “Where’s yer father gone, Billy boy?” The friends began to laugh but it was soon interrupted.

“Thompson, get yourself here!” boomed Mr Morley. The friends quickly dispersed, and Thompson was taken inside. By morning break it was clear that Thompson had been caned. Mr Morley took William into the corridor and assured him that Thompson would not be troubling him anymore. Mr Morley was a tall man with grey hair swept back from his face. He wore spectacles and had a beak of a nose like a bird of prey. Students and adults feared to challenge his imperious manner, but William discovered there was more to his headteacher than he had thought. He made William promise to tell him if there was any more unpleasantness from Thompson and Smith either in or out of school. The rest of the school day passed without incident.

William walked home looking over his shoulder all the way. Nobody was following him. He neared Quarry House and saw Thompson and Smith waiting for him on the other side of the road. Thompson was clearly giving instructions to Smith. William tried ignoring them and walked towards Quarry House. They crossed the road but were behind William. “Now then, little Billy boy… where’s yer father gone?” Thompson teased.

“Calling for tea again… are yer, Billy boy?” said Smith. William could feel the anger surging inside him. Suddenly, the small but wiry Smith leapt onto his back and started to pull his head back. Thompson shouted encouragement. Next, Smith dug his nails into William’s neck and then began to strangle him. Struggling for breath but furious, William raised his arms, grabbed Smith under his arms and swung him over his own head and onto his back on the floor. Smith was shocked and winded, and Thompson stared in disbelief. William was pleased with himself and glared down at Smith but said nothing.

His moment of glory was soon snatched from him when his grandfather shouted, “What’s going on, William?” from the other side of the gate. Thompson was up the road in a second and the winded Smith heaved himself to his feet and hobbled after his fickle friend as fast as his legs could carry him. Michael was through the gate and by William’s side. He could see that William was very flustered, angry and red-faced.

“What’s bin goin’ on?”

“Just a bit of fun,” he lied. He wondered if his grandfather had seen him throw Smith to the ground.

“What did they say? And I want the truth.”

“They’ve been calling me names.”

“What sort of names?”

“Billy boy.”

“Is that all?” Michael stared at him. “Look… something must have made you really angry, otherwise yer wouldn’t have thrown that little boy to the ground.”

“He isn’t little; he’s thirteen,” William said defensively. He was proud of his wrestling manoeuvre and did not want it to be so quickly dismissed.

“William… what did they say? An’ I want the truth.”

“They have been teasing me for the last two days. They called me Billy boy and lah-di-dar and then they kept asking me where my father had gone,” he blurted.

“Thank you. Good lad for telling the truth. Now come inside. We need to talk.”

William’s grandfather placed his hand on William’s shoulder and guided him through the gate and into the yard. Not a word passed between them. He guided him into the front parlour and sat him in the best armchair – the one that was usually reserved for adults. He strode to the door again and shouted, “Mary! I need you in the front room.” William’s grandma recognised the seriousness of his tone and was by his side almost instantly.

Neither of them sat down. William’s grandma said nothing at all. His grandfather spoke softly and clearly. It was as if he had been rehearsing this speech for several days. Each word and phrase had been carefully considered and each sentence was punctuated with a smile. William was told that the man that he had known as father was in fact not his father but his stepfather. The house that he had been living in was rented for his mother by his grandfather. His stepfather was keen to better himself and wanted to finish his work as a farm labourer and become an ironstone miner. They had moved to Guisborough with baby Thomas and his older brother John, who was about to leave school. It had been decided that William should stay with his grandparents at Quarry House and continue with his studies at the British School in Great Ayton. All of this was to be explained when his mother next visited but the fracas with Thompson and Smith had brought everything forward.

William felt very empty. It was like being in a glass bubble. He could hear the words splashing against the glass but there was nothing he could do about them. Decisions had been made and he was the last to know. How he hated being just eight years of age. John had known everything but had said nothing to him. How he longed to be thirteen or fourteen.

“Is there anything else you need to know?” concluded his grandpa. William was tempted to ask who his real father was but instinctively realised that this question would be side-stepped with, “We’ll talk about that when you are a little older.”

“No, thank you,” he said after a thoughtful pause. William watched the relief spread over his grandfather’s face. He was tired of the deceit and pleased to be rid of so many secrets.

“I think I should like to go to my room now,” William said quietly, exhausted by so much information.

“Please do,” said his grandfather.

“I’ll bring you some warm food and a drink in a little while,” said his grandmother with a smile.

“Thank you.” William looked away and with downcast eyes slowly mounted the stairs.

Chapter 5

Coming to Terms

It was Sunday again and William knew that he would be scrubbed, combed and polished in readiness for the weekly visit to chapel. His grandfather enjoyed the attention he received before and after the service. As a local employer, villagers appreciated the contribution he made to the community. They liked to be seen with him. His wife, Mary, was always by his side but she did not enjoy all the attention and became very skilled at steering him away from the fuss and gossip. In consequence Michael often found himself on his way home before he had intended. Going to chapel on Sunday was one the few social events in his life and it had not always been like this.

Michael’s first wife was called Elizabeth and she had died in childbirth in 1814. They had had five children and he had supported all of them on his own for three years before marrying Mary. By this time the family had moved to Great Ayton from Yarm. Although many families were moving into Great Ayton and Guisborough because of the development of ironstone mining, the local people were still suspicious of incomers. Michael worked hard to be accepted. It was clear to all that this was his second marriage, and some were quick to pass judgement. Mary brought greater stability to the family. She was strict, organised and a good housekeeper. Another four children were born in the next six years, William’s mother, Jane, being the last. Mary tried to treat all the children fairly, but she disapproved of the way that her husband indulged Michael John, the last child by his first marriage. In turn, Michael John took every opportunity to show his dislike for his father’s second family.

It was Mary who decided upon the daily rules and routines. She had a no-nonsense approach to child rearing. Much of her regime was grounded in non-conformist values and beliefs. “Cleanliness is next to godliness” and “Children should be seen and not heard” were not only quoted but observed at every opportunity. She seldom laughed but her sense of duty was paramount. She did not always agree with Michael, but arguments were always behind closed doors. Having made her point, she would purse her lips and then do as he asked without further comment. She respected his authority and understood his kindness but found it hard to share it.

This visit to chapel passed without incident. Mary had been known to be curt with some of the more talkative female villagers. With Mary’s urging, Michael did not linger at the door and William knew at once that visitors must be expected. It was less than a mile to Quarry House and the three set off briskly. Mary was pleased that she had avoided the usual throng of villagers with their difficult questions and repeated phrases from the minister’s address. “I think that he speaks very well,” she said, “and with such feeling, don’t you think, Michael?” William’s grandfather grunted agreement, but his mind was elsewhere. The walk home passed without further conversation.

As they neared the gate to Quarry House, William looked at the sign opposite – “Trespassers will be prosecuted”. He pulled on his grandfather’s arm, pointed and said, “They were in the prayer.” William’s grandfather stared back at him.

“Who?”

“The trespassers.”

“What?”

William thought hard and then, as though he were rushing to answer a question in class, “Forgive us our trespassers.”

Michael glanced at his wife and laughed. “I think you mean, ‘Forgive us our trespasses’,” deliberately emphasising the last syllable for the sake of clarity. William did not understand why they were laughing and felt embarrassed. Michael opened the gate and ushered his wife and William through.

William’s stepfather, mother, brother John and baby Thomas were waiting in the yard, sitting in a horse-drawn carriage. “You should have gone in,” said Michael.

“We’ve only just arrived,” said William’s mother. Mary clenched William’s hand whilst his grandfather steered his visitors into the front parlour and then the door was swiftly shut. Meanwhile William was whisked into the kitchen. The “front parlour”, William mused, that was where all the big family decisions were taken, it seemed. For once his grandmother took pity on him.

“I wonder if your mother and father caught the train to Pinchin­thorpe from Guisborough?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m sure they will have done. It’s much quicker and cheaper than a carriage. The station has only just been opened. There’ll be a station here in Great Ayton one day. You mark my words. I’ve never been on a train. Would you like to go on a train, William?”

“Yes, I think that I would.” He smiled. His grandmother was trying to distract him from the conversation going on behind closed doors. She talked about the railways and how there were hopes of developing a line from Picton to Grosmont via Stokesley. She explained how more and more people were moving to the area because of the local ironstone mines.

“Our own quarry is producing ‘whinstone’ for road building,” she said.

“Yes, grandpa explained that to me when I was off school. I didn’t understand why the miners kept talking about being flintstone workers. Are the ironstone mines the same?” he asked.

“No, not quite. They mine ironstone to extract the iron. They use the iron to make steel in places like Middlesbrough and Sheffield. Do you know what they use iron and steel for?”

“No.”

He had no idea. She wondered why none of this had been mentioned at school. It was not long before he heard the familiar boots of his grandfather striding towards the kitchen door.

“It’s all right, Mary. Everything is just fine. Just as we hoped and expected.” Grandma breathed a sigh of relief. It seemed that his grandmother had been as pleased to talk as he was to listen because she too had been worried about the conversation behind closed doors.

William was allowed into the front parlour and for once it was smiles all round. His stepfather had found work in the new and soon-to-be-opened Belmont mines to the south of Guisborough. John had been given a job as an ironstone breaker and they had found lodgings in Belmangate on the southern side of the town. William’s mother hugged and kissed him, relieved in the knowledge that he might be able to join them soon. She had been ill again but now felt much better. She was sorry that she could not tell him all this before and she was sorry that he had found out through the unkindness of others. She promised that he would join them later, because there was no room for him now but there might be in the future. There was nothing new in this flood of information but there was a real sense of hope and optimism.

After an hour William waved his mother and family off in their carriage. William’s grandmother had correctly predicted that they had used the train to Pinchinthorpe and hired the carriage for three hours. It would be dark in less than two hours, and they wanted to get little Thomas home before it became too cold.

It seemed to William that things were looking up. At least he had heard the story from his mother’s lips. He reasoned that it was best for him to stay at Quarry House for the time being. His grandpa was looking after everyone as usual and there was more to his grandma than he had thought.

Chapter 6

The British School

Life at Quarry House became more bearable for William now that he knew where his mother was living and what was happening. He knew that he would be joining her as soon as possible and that was enough to satisfy him. He missed the warmth of his mother and the knockabout humour of his older brother, John, who loved to tease and playfight with him. John was altogether stockier than William and when a game ended in tears, John would soon put matters right by producing a fistful of sweets from his pocket. If that failed to please, he would hoist William onto his shoulders and charge up and down like a stallion carrying a brave knight. There were cries from William’s mother of, “Don’t you dare drop him!” but she was secretly pleased that John took on the role of surrogate father.

Life in Newton-under-Roseberry had been hectic, noisy and fun. Life at Quarry House was very different. It was quiet, ordered and there were rules. Prayers had to be said before bed, hands and face had to be washed every morning and night without fail. Silence reigned throughout the house when William’s grandfather “read the scriptures” for an hour every morning. This was followed by thirty minutes of thought and prayer. William knew better than to disturb this time and his grandmother was soon hovering and ready to cast a critical eye if there was the slightest suggestion of noise. Michael Bradley took his Methodism seriously.

It was after one of these periods of morning meditation that William dared to ask his grandfather about the hymn book.

“Grandfather?”

“Yes, William. What is it?”

“There’s a hymn book in my bedroom and someone has written inside it.”

William’s grandfather smiled and looked across to his wife.

“Do you remember what it says?”

“Yes, it says ‘To Michael’. Is that you?”

“No, I wish it were. It was written for your great grandfather, my father. You see, he was a stonemason and he built one of the first Wesleyan chapels. It was in Yarm, where I was born. John Wesley, the founder of Methodism, gave my father the hymnal to thank him for building the chapel.”

“So that’s who the J. Wesley is?”

“Clever boy. My father always said that Wesley had taken an interest in the design of the chapel, but I don’t know how far that is true.”

“Do you think he told a lie?”

“No, no, but sometimes people get carried away. He was so proud of the building and the fact that he had met John Wesley in person. I’m sure that your headmaster would be very interested to hear that your great grandfather built the chapel at Yarm but no showing off, William, do you hear?”

William did hear but he had not listened.

Later the same day he blurted out his claim to fame in class. There were cries of “Never!” and “Tell us another one”.

William bristled with anger at his classmates and said, “It’s true, honest.” He dearly wanted to be associated with a famous person.

“That’s enough, everyone,” said Mr Morley. The class subsided. “If my memory is serving me correctly, I seem to remember that your grandfather told me that he was born in Yarm and so that would seem to make some sense.” William’s face was bright red. Older members of the class knew that the headmaster had come to William’s rescue again. Mr Morley asked the class to stand and dismissed the girls into their yard for morning break.

“William Bradley, will you please stay inside this break and help to clear this room? Perhaps your cousin, George, would like to help you?”