A New Home in the Dales

A New Home in the Dales Cover Title Page Dedication Dialect glossary Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 A letter from Betty Acknowledgements About the Author Copyright Cover Table of Contents Start of Content Dedication This book is dedicated to two former editors of The Yorkshire Dalesman magazine: Adrian Braddy, who first suggested to me the premise of this book, and the late WR ‘Bill’ Mitchell, whose wonderful memories of his early days as a cub reporter and interviews with Dalesfolk of the past provided much of the inspiration for this story. Dialect glossary Afore = before Allus = always Any road = anyhow Aye = yes Badly = ill Bairn = child Beck = stream Bonny = pretty A brew = pot/cup of tea Canny = sensible Capped = pleased Clout = a slap (or a cloth/item of clothing) Dale = valley Favver = father Fell = hill or mountain Fettle = to fix or put in order Flayed = afraid Flit = move house Frame thissen = get to work; get on with it Gang = go Grand = excellent Gruver = old term for a lead miner Lad = boy/man Happen = perhaps; possibly Herssen = herself Hissen = himself Laiking = playing Lass = girl/woman Lish = nimble, strong Mam = mother Mardy = grumpy Missen = myself Mourngy = sulky or miserable Mun = must Nay = no Nithered = feeling the cold Nobbut = nothing but; only Nowt = nothing Oss = horse Owd = old Owt = anything Shippon = cattle shed Sin = since Sithee = goodbye/look here Snicket = a small path or alley between buildings Summat = something Swadi = Swaledale sheep T’ = the Tha/thee = you Thi/thy = your Thine = yours Think on = watch what you’re doing; be careful Thissen = yourself Thrang = busy Tup = stud ram Tyke = someone from Yorkshire Us = our Yon = yonder/over there Yow = ewe Chapter 1 October 1940 Bobby Bancroft tried to shut out the sound of Billy Ternent and his dance orchestra playing Music While You Work as she concentrated on the story she was typing. Don would insist on having the wireless on. After all, he said, you never knew when there might be an important announcement. If Tony or Jem, the younger reporters, tried to object to the noise – which they did, several times a day – he pulled rank on them as deputy editor. If the war ended this afternoon, did the editorial staff of the Bradford Courier really want to be the last to know? They were reporters, weren’t they? They were supposed to have their fingers on the pulse of the nation – or as much of the nation as existed within the boundaries of the newspaper’s circulation area. But the war wasn’t going to end this afternoon, and it vexed Bobby no end to have the chirpy fairground jingle of ‘Don’t Dilly Dally On The Way’ or ‘Sweet Georgia Brown’ getting into her head and messing with the clack-clack rhythm of her fingers hitting the keys of her Remington typewriter. She didn’t dare to complain though, lest Don tell tales on her to Mr Clarke, the Courier’s grumpy editor. Old Clarky, as they liked to call him when there was no chance of him hearing them, had no idea that Tony sometimes let her write his copy for him while he was out ‘chasing down a story’ (which seemed to be code for taking his girl to the pictures on the newspaper’s time). All right, it was only the occasional report on a WVS cake sale or something else Tony would describe in a derisive tone as ‘girl stuff’, and yes, it carried Tony’s byline and not hers, but it was real reporting work. When Bobby held the printed newspaper in her hands and saw her words, right there in black and white for all the world to see – or a sizeable portion of Bradford, at any rate – she felt a surge of pride unmatched by anything she’d achieved so far in her twenty-three years on the planet. Tony wasn’t at the pictures today. He was idling back in his chair with his feet up on his desk, sucking on a Capstan with his eyes blissfully closed. There was no joy like the joy of knowing other people were doing the work you were being paid to do. Eventually, he finished his cigarette, sighed deeply, and opened his eyes. ‘Do we have to have this racket on?’ he asked Don for the umpteenth time that morning, jerking his head towards the wireless. Bobby tried to ignore them, focusing her attention on the page of Pitman’s shorthand she was referring to as she typed her notes up into a story. ‘It helps me think,’ Don said, not looking up from the galley proofs he was checking. ‘Well it doesn’t help me think,’ Tony said. ‘It gets right on my nerves.’ ‘You don’t need to think, you lazy loafer. You never do any work. Why don’t you write that piece for tomorrow’s edition instead of making Bobby do it?’ ‘It’s all right, Don,’ she chimed in quickly. ‘I like doing it.’ ‘That’s as may be, but it’s not your job. It’s his,’ Don said, jerking a thumb at Tony. ‘You’re paid to type, not to write.’ ‘I can do both. I do a good job, don’t I?’ ‘Aye, not bad,’ Don agreed grudgingly. ‘Better than Tony. Doesn’t change the fact he’s drawing a salary he doesn’t earn. He’ll be for it if