Captain Swing and the Blacksmith

By Beatrice Parvin

In a world of relentless poverty and harsh punishment, 17-year-old Sue Trindall scratches a living selling buttons and dreams of a better future. When she is deceived by the dark charms of blacksmith Jack Straker, her life is torn apart and she is banished from her home. Sanctuary in the remote village of Imber gives an opportunity to seek retribution - but an enchanting pearl button twists her life on to a path she could not have imagined.

Steeped in the rich lyricism and storytelling tradition of British folk songs, this haunting tale of love and tragedy is played out against the notorious Swing riots of 1830, when the quiet fields of England blazed with violence and fires in the night.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Aug 10, 2022
• ISBN: 9781803133546

Book preview

Contents

Acknowledgements

1st Verse

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

2nd Verse

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

3rd Verse

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

4th Verse

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

5th Verse

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

6th Verse

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

7th Verse

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

8th Verse

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Amesbury, 1845

About the Author

Acknowledgements

This book would not have been possible without the help and support of many people.

A big thanks to all my fellow students and tutors who pushed me further and gave so much encouragement on the MFA Creative Writing course at Kingston University, especially Dr David Rogers, Alan McCormick and Andrea Stuart.

Thanks to Rebecca Johnson, Catherine Elvey and Polly Tuckett who gave the thumbs up to early, very scratchy extracts; Lucy Kettlety for her Wiltshire wisdom; John Farndon, Lena Augustinson and John Eacott, Karen Vost, Lil Sullivan, Louise and Ghassan Nehaili, Amanda Rodgers and Alice Cescatti for keeping the faith; Sara Rennie, Helen Lindsay and Adrian Palka, for their inspirational country retreats; Friederike Huber for her fabulous design of the cover and CD; Ruth Underwood, author of ‘Forever Imber’ and the British Library; Torla Evans and Meriel Jeater at the Museum of London, for arranging access to the Tony Pilson collection of buttons; Alison Craig for all her enthusiasm and everyone at Matador.

The recording could not have happened without the talent and knowledge of Emmie Ward and Gili Orbach who first introduced me to the songs and thought it was a good idea; Rebecca Hollweg, who miraculously condensed 365 pages into eight verses; Pete Watson for his inspired piano improvisation and accordion; Frank Biddulph for his dedication to the project, soulful violin and for writing the perfect waltz.

A huge thanks to Simon Christophers, Yazid Fentazi and Andy Hamill for their skill and generosity, without whom we could not have produced the album.

And finally to all my family, especially my children Evelyn and Nico.

1st Verse

Imber, Salisbury Plain 1843

Chapter 1

I have been told that I am a glass-half-full person. I suppose that I am but it depends on the size of the glass. Before I ever came to live in Imber, and bad luck followed me, I would have agreed with all my heart. Not only did I tend to see the joy in any matter but my glass was more of a tankard: a great big pewter tankard that the landlord of the Coach and Horses would keep by for my father’s many visits. Of course, on the occasion when I did ponder on the wretched side of life my grief would be great but as those times were fewer than they are now, it was of little consequence. Now my glass is a tiny measure, the sort that gentlemen use after dinner for a small, strong sip of liquor. When half full I can barely taste the joy and when I see it empty, bitterness creeps down my throat. No forgiveness lingers in my heart, only the desire for retribution.

I was born in the year of our Lord 1822 and raised in the town of Amesbury, a place of middling size and respectability. A river, not too broad, circled the southern edge of the town like a necklace and pearls of the feathery kind glided upon the surface. Their long thin necks, coral and jet beaks, brightened the grey skies and soft greens of the willows giving the town a veil of tranquillity that hid discontent behind closed doors. They slid beneath the arches of our bridge ignoring the clatter of coaches passing above, to and fro on the Salisbury Road.

The town was chiefly known for a string of public houses that served these travellers and also its inhabitants who made generous use of their services. Drinking Lane, we called it. Here children found their entertainment; ragged boys would wait barefoot in the shadow of stable doors waiting for the sound of high wheels cutting through mire and gravel. When the horses came to a halt, sweaty and frothy at the bit, they darted forth, jostling and scrabbling with one another while Lord Such-and-such and Lady So-and-so descended briefly into the muck and disorder of our world.

‘If you please sir, a penny!’ they’d cry.

The coachman would raise his whip, snapping the air in mock anger. Once the tip of the whip had come close to filthy toes they would scarper up alleys and over walls waiting till they could next try their luck, though I don’t remember the glint of a coin ever coming their way.

We older girls gawped at a distance, taking in brief glimpses of fashion and colour. Like sponges we absorbed every seam, cut, lace, bend and flow of the fabric that covered the splendid creature. On worn stone steps or with arms folded while we waited our turn by the well we argued with one another over who had the better eye.

‘It were taffeta.’

‘No it weren’t. Chinese silk, I’d bet on it.’

‘I saw three frills, and another set in yellow peeping underneath.’

‘There were more than four. I counted six.’

‘I’m sure she was from London with such high fashion.’

‘She’s from abroad.’

‘How so?’

‘The funny cape she was wearing is known as a peleeze – from Paris.’

‘Oh, is that right?’

‘That’s right.’

And so it went on.

Sisters or friends or any distant connection to the chambermaids at the Coach and Horses, the inn favoured by persons of quality, would be questioned about the said lady. Where she hailed from, how she spoke, moved and breathed was of interest. Any detail gleaned was gold and those possessing such nuggets of information used them as a kind of bargaining tool and were temporarily admired for the knowledge they held. Hannah, a scullery maid at the inn, was a keen informant – knowledge gained by carousing with young gentlemen. She told us all sorts, though I’m sure the only true information she could have been relied upon was the contents of their chamber pots.

The Coach and Horses was the largest and oldest inn on Drinking Lane, spilling rooms and outhouses by the side of the pavement like a paunchy squire. Buttresses and beams, walls and chimneys bulged and bent with the sheer weight and age of the place. Windows had no scheme or reason, scattered without order on the dirty cream walls. Grand glass panes sat with the commonplace, the leaded by the sashed. It was difficult to know how one room was linked to another, passages led to dead ends and doors led to cupboards. I did not know the inn personally but only from hearsay. My father was a regular customer at the Coach, but at the south end – quite another place from the north end where strangers dined at their leisure. The landlord, Mr Fothergill, knew his business and despite his efforts to attract a better class of customer kept this bar a going concern for any money earned is better than none. But he did not welcome the general riff-raff of the town. They found cheer at the other end of the lane at the King’s Arms or the New Inn. My father, though humble, was a man of letters which set him above the average customer and was always welcome as he had a talent for badinage. Indeed, he had his very own tankard brought out on his arrival. Though in my last years in Amesbury that welcome was not quite as generous as once it had been.

I worked as a presser and mender of linen. Tablecloths, nightgowns, shirts and ladies’ frocks were my living. I picked up the damp washing from the laundry and took it back to my cottage because that’s how I liked to be: on my own and not with some old girl breathing down my neck telling me to work faster. I would never have liked to work as a laundress because I wanted to keep my hands as smooth as I could till after I was married. You should have seen those girls that worked for Mrs Ainsworth; their hands were all raw and red from the suds. Sure enough, I got burns from that hot iron from time to time, but they were nothen like the hands of those washer girls.

It was a rum little establishment, cramped and not really fitting for the task. She had ten or more girls at a time all squashed together inside a room not much bigger than our scullery.

When I came to pick up my load at the hatch I’d see them out back, all of them bent over double, shoulder to shoulder, scrubbing and beating, moaning and gabbing behind Mrs Ainsworth who wasn’t that tall. The top of their white caps bobbed up and down in the damp steam like swans in the mist. One odd time a girl looked up to meet my eyes; I gave her a smile but not for long.

‘Get back to it!’ cried Mrs Ainsworth and down they bobbed.

There was just this one room, see, so it was no good trying to iron and dry the linen with the water running down the walls and the small windows shut to keep the warmth in. Mrs Ainsworth were fair, I’ll give her that. Three shillings I came home with and more for my skills with a needle – at least a shilling more than a laundress. I don’t know if those girls knew of this; if so it might explain how things worked out. Mind you, I don’t think badly on them, considering at the end of each day they came out coughing and spluttering their guts out. I have my health and I intend to keep it.

There was another, Sally, who took home the linen to press and mend who swore she’d never wash neither. Couldn’t stand being at the beck and call of another. There was talk of making space for us to work at the laundry – I was glad that never happened in my time. Those girls would glance over if they dared and see us collecting our linen, strolling out into the sunshine, while they stood sweating and chattering in the steam as the soap scrubbed their skin away. It was tiring on our backs though. I had a great big yoke across my shoulders and on either side hung two large baskets; we were like oxen in the field, me and Sally. I had longer to go than her and while that washing was still damp it pulled me down sommat rotten. But better that than stuck indoors wasting my days away.

While I was walking to and fro I had some freedom. With the pole taut and straight across my shoulders the only way to look was down towards the ground where the odd coin and keepsake turned up below my gaze. Once home I’d work all hours to get that day’s load done. I was quick and tidy with my pressing and took pride in making those fine tablecloths and whatnot neat and square. On light summer nights, I’d stroll out to the meadows and streets of the town, for there were treasures to be found that you would not believe.

Money! That was the best, but a rarity. Plenty of pipes turned up as Amesbury once was famed for its pipe making. But it was the buttons that kept me looking. I would find them all over the place: made of mother-of-pearl, carved wood, metal, tiny little pearl buttons for a baby and painted buttons. Big, round flat buttons made of horn or ivory turned up on occasion – that was a real find, my ivory button. A beauty with intricate diamonds cut one way and the other. I had a few hunting buttons made for gentlemen’s waistcoats. I’d look longtimes at these; artists, those button makers. Metal buttons I discovered mostly made of brass, pewter and copper, often turned green at the edges if long buried. But those found near the riverbanks, deep in mud, had kept their colour.

I found heaps of pewter buttons of the sort my father wore. Plain, brass buttons were commonplace but a few had a sign of a lion perhaps, or crossing swords. Chequerboards, spirals, stars and crosses, you find everything on buttons. I’d plenty that suited cloaks: big brass domed discs and many large, plain buttons with a tiny mound in the middle. I had a swan, her head bowed and curved into her chin, her mouth wide open as if crying a lament. Her wings were up as if agitated, alarmed at sommat. It was the best button I’d found for a long time; a very handsome specimen and I was sure it was silver.

Around nine perhaps, I can’t recall, was when I first started finding buttons. It was when I began to look at the world with different eyes. There’s safety on a button. The world is small and contained – you can see the edges. I put them first in an empty cup and from time to time I’d get them out and admire their pretty colours. I’d spit and polish the brass ones so they came up like mirrors and I gave them names; some were princes and some were queens. It went in batches, my finding of them. Weeks would roll by, sometimes months with not a button to be seen then out of the blue, one then another would appear in front of my eyes and make me smile. It was funny how often I’d find two together and began to expect it. By the time I was fifteen or so, my buttons filled a big glass jar.

I had become accustomed to watching Dad drink through his wages, earned from odd bits of labouring, down the King’s Arms. My wages covered my keep, but with nothen left over my future was uncertain. A few buttons matched or sort of matched and I decided to sew them on to squares of card to see if they’d sell on market day. My aspirations were high and I considered myself a cut above the usual – I’d had an education see, not much, but enough to reckon myself better than humdrum and cleverer than most. This earned me the title of Miss Hoity-toits, said with good humour but with a trace of resentment that now I can clearly recall.

Once a month Amesbury held a Saturday market and there I sold my buttons. I spread a piece of linen out on the ground given to me by Mrs Ainsworth and arranged them in patterns or letters to catch the eyes of passing trade. It was a good bit of Irish cloth, embroidered with silk daisies and big enough to just cover our kitchen table. She was not the generous sort but she gave this unclaimed piece to me after Mother died. After all, I was deserving after an evening with sore eyes mending chain-stitch stems. I could see she wasn’t sure if she should but those washer girls were looking over at the time. She had witnesses and could not go back.

Traders had to pay for a pitch so care was needed. If Mrs Ainsworth knew of it I was sure to be let go, for the time I spent selling I should have been pushing that hot iron. If a constable came strolling I could gather my buttons up in a trice and carry them safely away from view inside the linen. I didn’t make much money – but the little I did, I saved, for I had a scheme. One day I would have my own stall and on that stall I’d sell bits of pretty things: ribbons and lace and coloured thread, as well as buttons of course. Once, a girl from the laundry saw me sitting on the ground, my buttons all spread out and said,

‘So, selling buttons on the sly are you? How comes you find them all over when I’ve never found not even one in my whole life?’

‘I keep my eyes on the ground,’ I replied.

She sneered sourly and picked one up after another, settling on a red velvet-covered button I’d found a year before near St Mary’s churchyard. It was a fair price but she bargained me down for it.

‘Better watch yerself, Sue. One day some lady will see you selling her buttons and might say you’ve taken them like.’

‘Well, give it back then,’ I said.

Of course she didn’t. Kept it in her fist and slouched off, muttering unpleasantries under her breath.

Sometimes May can cut up rough. Rain came as soon as you opened your door and turned Amesbury’s thoroughfares into squelching mires. Girls forgot manners and tied skirts between their legs; it’s no joke scrubbing inches of dried mud off your hem. Not ladies of course – they don’t care where they trail a hem as someone else cleans it for them.

Ladies had been visiting the town hall that held musical concerts from time to time, I figured, the night before. I crouched down beside a puddle and squinted at the brown sludgy water. Small and pale but not the smallest I’d seen was a button floating on the surface. I picked it up and looked up close: a fine jewel of a button, white pearl, slightly curved across the surface and decorated with dainty strokes showing a lady and gentleman in old-fashioned costume. Their hands were entwined drinking from the same cup. Tiny, precise strokes they were – it was a wonder that two eyes could have seen to paint them. At the edge of the water, sommat flashed white. Rain started falling heavier, splattering on the brown sheen of the puddle. Another button, just as fine, was imbedded inside the mud, a hint of creamy pearl glimmering in the dour light. I dug my hands in the squelchy earth prising it free then swished them both in the dirty water. The second button showed a tower with the same man lying in bed, ill I supposed, and another lady looking into the distance at a boat with a white sail. I reckoned, it was likely that they had both fallen from a lady’s cuff while she was fiddling with her gloves. Her hands rubbed against the buttons and off they had popped.

Once home I took a match to them and tried to clean up the silver filigree that surrounded the pearls. It wasn’t fine enough so I used a drake’s feather to try and budge the stubborn mud. It took some time but they brushed up well and I spent an evening by firelight admiring them, imagining myself dressed in silk with this pair of beauties at my wrists.

It was that same May when I first spied my lad. On a Sunday before church, my friend Eleanor had a habit of swinging by. She was as a sister to me then and knew all my secrets and I believed I knew hers. We had a good gossip on those mornings – the whole week to tell in one day.

I was dressing her hair, one Sunday, and Eleanor was fussing over mine. ‘You’ve such pretty yellow locks, Sue. Wish I had your thickness.’

‘Yours is just as thick, Elly,’ I told her, for it had a chestnut glow, long and glossy.

‘Maybe,’ she said.

‘At least yer eyes match yer hair. Mine are too dark for fair hair I’ve always thought – charcoal amongst corn.’

‘Nonsense, yer eyes shine and steal looks and admiration. Well you know it.’

And she carried on plaiting and weaving my hair; she was good at that, nimble and quick.

We spent some time pinching our cheeks and rubbing tincture made of Lord knows what to make our skin glow more. Eleanor had brought along her pretty ribbons which we played about with.

She had plenty of trinkets and it’s true I fought my envy. Her father owned a farm that lay on the edge of the town and having no brothers she was due to inherit the tenancy. She weren’t a lady as such; that’s why she spent time with me. But like her I’d had an education. She were caught in between like, not being gentry nor common folk neither.

After church, we wandered along the streets. It’s a small place, Amesbury, and it didn’t take us long before all its joys were seen. There were two hand-me-down shops in the town and in the window of Mrs Evers’ there hung a shawl that I coveted sorely, taunting me with its rich colours and silky folds. The shapes were in the paisley style, I believe, all the way from India and could have turned the plainest girl into a looker.

‘Oh Elly,’ I said once. ‘It has all my favourite colours: the blues of forget-me-nots and the reds of the prettiest roses. I’d give anything to have that shawl’

Mrs Evers had by far, hand-me-downs of a superior sort to ol’ Mrs Kinney. Pinnies and drab worsted skirts were the best she could offer and there were complaints of bugs and itching by unsuspecting customers who thought they’d got a bargain. The whole place smelt of armpits and privies, which she attempted to diffuse with bowls of lavender. Mrs Evers’ establishment, in contrast, had a window display that in my unworldly opinion rivalled Piccadilly. I never had the pluck to enter – I never had the money.

That shawl was the best thing in the window. It was not true red – not like blood, but a soft, warm red that embraces you. A thick border decorated with teardrops filled with embroidered flowers meshed together in every colour. I ignored the moth holes and saw it next to my yellow hair creating a stir. The lady who had owned it probably wore it to a candlelit banquet and carelessly draped it over her chair. Her glass, full with rich red wine, shone with the wavering flames reflected in her eyes. As she rose, a gentleman taking the opportunity to be near, put the shawl around her shoulders and she smiled demurely pulling it close.

‘Oh Sue – you never know, maybe one day it will be yours,’ Elly said. ‘Just keep on dreaming.’

Then we linked arms and strolled about the streets, having a laugh when cheeky words came our way from passing lads. Eleanor had a prettier figure by far, but most of the looks and whistles were aimed at me. She was such a true friend she never seemed hurt by it for we loved each other’s company and I wished her all the happiness that life could bring and believed she did mine.

We walked back towards the bridge, down Drinking Lane, past the New Inn and Coach and Horses. At the end sat the King’s Arms and I’d always cross over as I was afraid to catch a glimpse of my father staggering about the doorway, as he liked to sometimes finish off a few closer to home after he’d left the Coach. We didn’t see my father but someone quite different. Propped up on a bench outside, his legs stretched out before him, looking up at the sun, was a lad.

‘What a lush,’ I said to Eleanor but she’d turned dumb and couldn’t move.

‘He’s so handsome,’ she whispered. ‘I cannot bear to look.’

Eleanor insisted that we climb over a wall, walk the field and hide under the bridge until he’d gone. Fool. But I couldn’t change her mind. Once we were safe under the bridge she started gushing about the times she’d seen him and how she couldn’t get him out of her mind. She’d been several times like this about other lads so I didn’t give it much notice or consideration.

‘I don’t know who he is or where he comes from but I’ve seen him three times now and I can’t stop myself, Sue. His face is in my mind wherever I look.’

‘Must be a problem. All those walls you must be bashing into.’

‘Don’t mock, Sue!’

‘Well, I have to agree he is a vast improvement on some of yer other fellows. Problem being, I’d like to get home and I don’t intend to wade across.’

‘Maybe he’s gone. Why don’t you check?’

This got me huffing and puffing. The amount of times I was put in this position, having to give the all-clear in order that Eleanor’s nerves could settle down. I went anyway, bending low behind the wall, my hem trailing in hoof-churned mud. I cursed my lot in life as I dared to peep above the craggy ledge of the wall and there I saw him still lazily drinking and looking straight at me. I ducked down sharpish; my heart going ten to the dozen and dared not move. If I was not mistaken, he was smiling at me – and what a smile! Smiles don’t come like that, not on lads in Amesbury. He weren’t from here, that was for sure. Amesbury lads don’t smile at you. If at all, they smile to the side, with their heads bent low – but never straight at you like they can see yer insides on full display.

‘He’s still there,’ I told her after I’d crawled back. ‘We’ll have to wait.’

We waited, a full hour, marked it by the striking of St Mary’s. Eventually, I checked again and the bench was empty and now in shadow. We crossed the bridge, arm in arm, giggling away about who he might be.

‘Soup’s up,’ I said knocking on the parlour door.

No answer, as was usual, and I returned to the range. I served myself and waited for Dad’s hulking form to make its presence known. Each time he sat down at the table my heart lurched at the sight of him. His hair, which in the past he had combed back into slick brown waves, had gone to madness. It was mostly grey now and stuck out in wiry spirals around his furrowed face.

‘Turned out nice again,’ I said.

He bent over the bowl and stared at the contents. I stopped eating and held my breath. He put the spoon down on the table and shuffled back to his room. I’d lost my appetite but remained a while staring at his uneaten soup. I didn’t like food to go to waste so returned the contents of his bowl to the saucepan. I did what had to be done in the kitchen then pulled my mother’s black shawl around my shoulders. The mending I’d done on several holes had come asunder. I fiddled with the loose thread then walked out to our garden and leant against the pole of the washing line. The rain-soaked earth had dried quickly with unexpected sunshine that afternoon and I felt the ease of summer shyly whisper. A pigeon clumsily fluttered above me, breaking my reverie, and I turned to melancholy thoughts.

I knew the love that Dad had shown when I was little was still there. Where to find it was the problem. I had ten shillings and sixpence from the sale of my buttons but that had taken me three years. My stall appeared before me: the ribbons in their rolls, all the lovely shades of summer, and then the blues, the cotton reels neatly stacked – and buttons. Every button you could dream of, sewn sometimes in pairs, or sets of six – maybe more. Then I remembered crouching behind the wall earlier that day and looking over at the lad outside the King’s Arms. His smile had burnt me, stamped my skin with hot iron. Made me blush to think on it, but think I did.

The days went by and it wasn’t long before we discovered more. He lived on the other side of the river from me and had come to work for his uncle, Mr Straker, at the largest smithy in the town. This meant I would see him every day as I crossed the bridge to collect the washing. It was my habit to stop a while for a rest on those old stone walls at the middle of the bridge. I took this chance to gaze across at the other bank so I could watch him working outside in the yard. Being a blacksmith, his arms were strong and I watched him while the sun beat down on his bare back, his shirt tied round his waist. His skin was deep brown and he looked so clever as he swung that hammer down and down again. For some days I did this till one time he stopped his hammering and his eyes wandered up and he saw me looking. I turned round quick as a die. Shyly I turned again to see him grinning from ear to ear. Well, I never carried my load so quickly, I was that ashamed.

I began to see him around the town. It became his habit to give me a wink as I passed him by. He watched me a whole morning from the opposite side of the lane while I sold my buttons.

All fingers and thumbs I was and couldn’t talk proper when someone stopped by for a chat. Finally, he went, but not before crossing over with his jaunty stride.

‘See you soon, sweet Sue,’ he said and tapped his cap.

I just nodded and looked down at my buttons. Any other lad I would’ve told to clear off but he, well, he was what you call easy on the eye and it was difficult to keep my composure. This were sommat I’d always had and I lamented the loss of it.

Sweetness sang in the air. The light was kind to my eyes even without a candle while I sat with my needle of an evening. Problem was, the warmth made it harder to carry the damp washing to and fro, and the need to rest on the bridge was stronger than ever. Passed the time though, watching him work below in the yard. Summer came too hot, too quick, taking us all by surprise. When dawn sank into day, the sun scorched the earth without pity and we were parched from heat even in the first shy hours of morn. Grass burned brown and deep fissures appeared in the ground. The river shrank its sides and became a shallow stream not worthy of its name. Cattle cowered under the boughs of oaks, too lazy to flick the flies away.

The pole chafed at my shoulders and my skin blistered and would not heal. Sally suffered too, but I was worse. I was returning at a snail’s pace with my fresh load, trying to keep the pole as still as possible to stop the rubbing when I reached the bridge, desperate to stop. I was amazed: for there he was sitting all comfortable like as if waiting for my arrival. Up close his eyes were shiny black, darker than the deepest pool you would ever care to stare upon. His shirt sleeves were rolled up high so I could see his brown arms and the strength of them moving beneath his smooth skin.

‘Can I walk with you?’ he said.

‘I suppose you can,’ I replied, looking at the ground. Truth being, I was flustered and hot and couldn’t bear for him to see me like this.

‘Where’s yer buttons today then?’

‘All at home.’

‘Why don’t you give me yer load? It must be weighing you down.’

I wanted to say yes as I was finished, but hesitated as I knew my shirt was already covered in damp stains. Turned out I had no choice in the matter. He went straight to it and lifted the pole from my shoulders, swinging it swiftly over his.

Chapter 2

There is some satisfaction to be gained from seeing creases disappear under the smooth stroke of a hot iron. I liked getting those corners neat and straight while the steam rose and warmed my face. I worked with the same iron my mother used, and she taught me how to iron a man’s shirt so there was not a crease to be seen from wrist to shoulder. You have to go carefully though; irons are temperamental things that have a will of their own and figuring how long to keep it pressed down is an art – one second over and you will have burnt the cotton right through and your wages along with it. Tablecloths were the easiest. I had a method of ironing, folding, ironing, folding that took the time out of it, and I’ve pressed some very fine ones indeed.

Embroidery was a problem and I had to go lightly there and make sure I didn’t catch the thread with the point of the iron. The ladies that owned them must have had so much time on their hands, sewing tiny flowers on to their tablecloths. It was a pleasure to look at and I suppose if I had had the time I’d fancy stitching butterflies and buds on to a cloth. I would sew the most beautiful of gardens. Autumn leaves would be a nice thing to stitch with all their rusty reds and shades of yellow – ’tis a lovely season.

We got the odd reminder of what was coming when a cool breeze caught us unawares and we pulled our shawls close around our shoulders. We remarked that it was time to light the fires again and not just for cooking. But summer it still was; the sun shone bright and still on the land and lulled us in to thinking it would always be so.

My blacksmith began to wait at the bridge most mornings then carried my fresh load all the way to the beginning of my lane. I insisted no further, as I did not want my father getting wind of any goings-on. At first I didn’t know what to say to him, though I liked to be in his company. I learnt that his name was Jack Straker, his parents were both gone and his father, like his uncle, had been a blacksmith.

Then one Sunday after church I saw him leaning by the gate as I walked out with Sally and Eleanor. They were shy, like me, and started to giggle. It was common knowledge by then he was sweet on me and Eleanor’s affection had moved over, as I knew it would, to a soldier staying on leave in the town.

‘Best leave you now, Sue. We can see we’re not wanted,’ said Eleanor and started to giggle some more.

‘Oh no. Stay here with me!’ I said.

But they ran off all the same to some other girls and began walking. I had no choice in the matter as their way was not mine, and I did not want to start a stream of gossip and pestering on why I had decided to walk with them instead.

So by and by it happened that he walked me back that Sunday. To be truthful, I didn’t need much persuading. I was right proud sauntering down the road by his side and wanted everyone to see. He was of medium height I’d say – just right, so that our arms sat well as he linked his in mine. We got to the beginning of my lane and I turned to say farewell.

‘Let me find out your cottage, Sue,’ he asked.

‘I don’t think so. My father wouldn’t like it,’ I told him.

We paused by a wide grassy verge and he put my hand in his then led me gently underneath the branches of a chestnut tree. We stood side by side gazing at the trunk, covered with initials carved deep into the bark. My fingers traced