Tales of the Ridings Part 7

"What do you want t' windey openin' for, mother? You'll give me my death o' cowd."

"I thowt I heerd t' soond o' t' reaper."

"Sound o' t' reaper! Nay, 'twere n.o.bbut t' tram coomin' down t' road.

What makes you think o' reapers? You don't live i' t' country any longer."

"Happen I were wrang, but they'll be cuttin' corn noan sae far away, I reckon."

"What have you got to do wi' corn, I'd like to know? If you wanted to bide i' t' country when father deed, you sud hae said so. I gave you your choice, sure enough. 'Coom an' live wi' me i' Hustler's Court,' I said, 'an' help me wi' t' ready-made work, or else you can find a place for yourself 'i Thirsk Workhouse.'"

"Aye, I've had my choice, Mary, but it's gey hard tewin' all t' day at b.u.t.ton-holes, when September's set in and I think on t' corn-harvist."

There was a pause in the conversation, and Mary, to humour her mother, threw up the window and let in the roar of the trams, the far-off clang of the steel hammers at the forge, and the rancid smell of the fried-fish shop preparing for the evening's trade. The old woman listened attentively to catch the sound which she longed for more than anything else in the world, but the street noises drowned everything.

She sank back in her chair and took up the garment she was at work on.

But her mind was busy, and after a few minutes she turned again to her daughter.

"Thoo'll not be thinkin' o' havin' a day i' t' c.o.o.ntry this month, Mary?"

"Nay, I'm noan sich a fool as to want to go trapsin' about t' lanes an'

t' ditches. I've my work to attend to, or we'll not get straight wi' t'

rent."

"Aye, we're a bit behind wi' t' rent sin thoo com back frae thy week i'

Blackpool."

"Now don't you be allus talkin' about my week i' Blackpool; I reckon I've a right to go there, same as t' other la.s.ses that works at Cohen's."

"I wasn't complainin', Mary."

"Eh! but I know you were; and that's all t' thanks I get for sendin' you them picture postcards. You want me to bide a widdy all my life, and me n.o.bbut thirty-five."

"Is there sae mony lads i' Blackpool, that's thinkin' o' gettin' wed?"

"By Gow! there is that. There's a tidy lot o' chaps i' them Blackpool boarding-houses, an' if a la.s.s minds her business, she'll have hooked one afore Bank Holiday week's out."

Again there was silence in the workroom, and the needles worked busily.

The daughter was moodily brooding over the matrimonial chances which she had missed, while the mother's thoughts were going back to her youth and married life, when she lived at the foot of the Hambledon Hills, in a cottage where corn-fields, scarlet with poppies in summer-time, reached to her garden gate. At last the old woman timidly re-opened the conversation.

"We couldn't tak a hafe-day off next week, I suppose, and gan wi' t'

train soomwheer oot i' t' c.o.o.ntry, wheer I could see a two-three fields o' corn? Rheumatics is that bad I could hardlins walk far, but mebbe they'd let me sit on t' platform wheer I could watch t' lads huggin' t'

sheaves or runnin' for t' mell."(1)

"Lor'! mother, fowks don't do daft things like that any longer; they've too mich sense nowadays."

"Aye, I know t' times has changed, but mebbe there'll be farms still wheer they keep to t' owd ways. Eh! it were grand to see t' farm-lads settin' off i' t' race for t' mell-sheaf. Thy gran'father has gotten t'

mell mony a time. I've seen him, when I were a lile la.s.s, bringin' it back in his airms, and all t' lads kept shoutin' oot:

"Sam Proud's gotten t' mell o' t' farmer's corn, It's weel bun' an' better shorn; --Shout 'Mell,' lads, 'Mell'!"

Mary had almost ceased to listen, but the mother went on with her story: "A canty mon were my father, and he hadn't his marra for thackin' 'twixt Thirsk an' Malton. An' then there was t' mell-supper i' t' gert lathe, wi' singin' an' c.o.o.ntry dances, an' guisers that had blacked their faces. And efter we'd had wer suppers, we got agate o' dancin' i' t'

leet o' t' harvist-moon; and reet i 't' middle o' t' dancers was t'

mell-doll."

"Mell-doll!" exclaimed Mary, roused to attention by the word. "Well, I'm fair capped! To think o' grown-up fowks laikin' wi' dolls. Eh! country lads an' la.s.ses are downright gauvies, sure enough."

"Nay, 'twern't a proper doll, nowther. 'Twere t' mell-sheaf, t' last sheaf o' t' harvist, drissed up i' t' farmer's smock, wi' ribbins set all ower it. A bonnie seet was t' mell-doll, an' if I could n.o.bbut set een on yan agean, I'd be happy for a twelmonth."

"You'll see no more mell-dolls, mother, so long as you bide wi' me. I'm not going to let t' la.s.ses at Cohen's call me a country gauvie, same as they did when I first came to Leeds. But I'll tell you what I'll do.

Woodhouse Feast'll be coomin' on soon, and I'll take you there, sure as my name's Mary Briggs. There'll be summat more for your bra.s.s nor mell-suppers, an' guisers an' dolls. There'll be swings and steam roundabouts, aye, an' steam-organs playin' all t' latest tunes thro' t'

music-halls--a lot finer than your daft country songs. An' we'll noan have to wait for t' harvest-moon; there'll be naphtha flares ivery night lightin' up all t' Feast."

"Nay, la.s.s, I reckon I'se too owd for Woodhouse Feast; I'll bide at yam.

I sal be better when September's oot. It's t' corn-fever that's wrang wi' me."

"Corn-fever! What next, I'd like to know! You catch a new ailment ivery day. One would think we kept a nurse i' t' house to do nowt but look after you."

"A nuss would hardlins be able to cure my corn-fever, I's thinkin'. I've heerd tell about t' hay-fever that bettermy bodies gets when t'

hay-harvest's on. It's a kind o' cowd that catches 'em i' t' throat. So I call my ailment corn-fever, for it cooms wi' t' corn-harvest, and eh, deary me! it catches me i' t' heart. But I'll say nae mair aboot it.

Reach me ower yon breeches; I mun get on wi' my wark, and t'

b.u.t.ton-holes is bad for thy een, la.s.s. Thoo'll be wantin' a bit o' bra.s.s for Woodhouse Feast, an' there's noan sae mich o' my Lloyd George money left i' t' stockin' sin thoo went to Blackpool. Nay, don't start fratchin', there's a love. I's not complainin'."

(1) The mell, or mell-sheaf, is the last sheaf of corn left in the harvest field.