The Girl from the Tanner's Yard

DIANE ALLEN
The Girl from the
Tanner’s Yard


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Dedicated to the memory of Ellis Irene Allen.
You left this world too soon but you have left behind you six sons that you would have been proud of.


1
Flappit Springs, Denholme, West Yorkshire, 1847
‘Don’t cry, Lucy, take no notice of them.’ Ten-year-old Archie Robinson scowled at the three girls who had just called the girl he had known since birth horrible names, teasing her with hurtful taunts and jeering. Archie tried hard to console Lucy by putting his arm around her shoulders to hug and comfort her.
‘Leave me be, Archie. You aren’t helping. You are even worse than me – look at you!’ Nine-year-old Lucy Bancroft pulled a face at her companion and glared at him. ‘I’m fed up of being called names like “Stinky” and hearing, “Hold your nose, Smelly is here” every time I try and join in with some of them.’ She looked back at the three girls who always ganged up together, leaving her out, when she attended Sunday school in Denholme. Despite her tears, Lucy turned and retaliated by sticking her tongue out at the giggling trio, then marched off sobbing, with the penniless but faithful Archie by her side.
‘They are not worth your tears. You are loads prettier than any of those three. They are only jealous. And besides, you don’t smell. It’s only because you live at the flay-pits that they yell that at you. Betty Robson can’t say anything to anyone – her father’s butcher’s shop, when he’s slaughtering in his yard, smells just as bad as the tannery.’ Archie put his hands in his pockets and looked across at Lucy, who had now stopped crying and had decided to sulk.
‘I hate the three of them. They all look alike anyway, with their fancy bows in their hair and their sickly smiles. I’d rather be on my own than pretend to be something I’m not. Anyway, one day I’ll show them. I’ll be far more important than all of them put together,’ Lucy mumbled as they crossed the wooden bridge over the stream to the place where she lived. She stopped in the middle of the bridge and looked around her, then glanced at her friend. ‘I’m sorry, Archie, I didn’t mean to upset you. You can’t help being badly dressed; after all, you’ve no father to look after you.’ Lucy regretted her hard words to the lad who was always by her side. She shouldn’t have let the three empty-headed, spiteful girls get to her.
‘It’s alright. We all say things we shouldn’t. Besides, you’re right: I do look like a scarecrow. I haven’t even any boots to put on my feet at the moment.’ Archie looked down at his bare feet and remembered the better times when his father was alive, before an accident at the nearby quarry where he worked had taken his life. ‘My mother’s trying to save enough money to buy me a pair. She’s just glad it’s summer now and that I’ll manage for the next few months.’
Archie smiled and looked at Lucy. He was right when he said the other girls were jealous of her. Despite their families having more money, Lucy Bancroft was the bonniest lass in the Worth valley, and it made no difference to him that she came from the nearby flay-pits, where her father worked as the tanner. They were alike, he and Lucy: both had been handed a bad deal in life, but he had a feeling Lucy would not let that stand in her way – unlike him.
‘I’m sorry, you must miss him, and your life must be hard. I shouldn’t feel so sorry for myself.’ Lucy leaned over the wooden bridge and looked down into the stream; the woods around it were full of bluebells and white wild garlic, the smell of which filled the air. ‘I’ll ask my father if he can make you some boots, or at least something to cover your feet for the summer. We’ve plenty of leather about the place – it’s about the only thing we do have. Mam says we’ve no money, and she’s worrying because she’s got another baby on the way.’ Lucy sighed and threw a twig into the stream from an overhanging tree and watched it float downstream.
‘No, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine until autumn comes, and then I’ll be old enough to go and work for somebody, and can bring some money home for my mother. I can just about read and write, so that’s a lot more than some can do at my age.’ Archie leaned over and looked into the river, then turned and smiled at Lucy. ‘I’d better get back home – my mam will be waiting for me. We always go and see my grandmother on a Sunday, and she’s an old stickler and we will both get a good tongue-lashing if we are late for our dinner. It’s the only decent meal we get all week, so I’m fair looking forward to it. I can almost smell that boiled brisket, and happen she’ll have made Yorkshire pudding, if we are lucky.’
Archie slurped as he nearly dribbled into the stream, thinking about his one good meal of the week. Lucy waved as she watched him take off back through the spring undergrowth to his home, high up on the windswept moor. He was a good friend to her, and she felt pity for the near-penniless soul that he was.
‘Well, has the church saved your soul again for another week?’ Bill Bancroft looked at his daughter as she kicked off her boots and sat down next to him in the small kitchen of Providence Row. ‘I don’t know why your mother makes you go. It’ll not help you in any way – God’s never done owt for me.’
‘Be quiet, Bill Bancroft, and