William Bradley’s Handcart

Prologue

A Meeting of Minds
Yarm: 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 Outcast
Great 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.
…