So today has been officially designated as the day to celebrate my home county. That’s not a bad thing as we’re pretty poor at celebrating our achievements in these parts. Perhaps it’s a Midlands thing. Birmingham is a great city with fantastic food, culture and industrial history but it always seems to be – in the words of Jona Lewie – in the kitchen at parties, while noisier northern conurbations are better at shouting louder and dancing.
Stuart Maconie describes our county as a bit of an enigma. It is. We’re not really the West Midlands although we’re in that government region. We used to have Wolverhampton and Walsall in the old county and even Birmingham suburbs, but they’re now West Midlands. This means (old) Staffordshire actually has an impressive 6 professional football teams – Wolves, WBA, Stoke, Walsall, Port Vale and Burton Albion. And a much larger and diverse population than the current 1 million. Our diversity in accents is pretty impressive too. A Stokie sounds worlds away from Cannock despite growing up just 25 miles apart.
Perhaps we’re a bit of a staging post. Unless you’re stopping for Alton Towers you’re likely to be hurtling through on the West coast mainline or the M6. But we have beautiful parkland and countryside. Quite a bit of the Peak District is in our county. We have our religious and spiritual places – the wonderful Lud’s Church, Lichfield Cathedral and ancient houses where persecuted Catholics hid between walls and stairs. We have a reservoir which gave its name to (Rudyard) Kipling as his parents courted there.
We have riverbanks where Izaak Walton fished and a young Carol Ann Duffy wrote verse. The Gunpowder Plotters hotfooted it here for their final shootout. We’ve got miles of canals, a terrific heritage of arts and crafts. We make amazing beer and we eat food made for the Gods – bacon and cheese oatcakes.
We gave the world Josiah Wedgwood and Reginald Mitchell, the designer of the Spitfire.
And Sir Stanley Matthews, and Robbie Williams and Shane Meadows. And Olympian swimmer Adam Peaty and actor Paddy Considine.
Without Staffordshire there would’ve been no Men Behaving Badly (Neil Morrissey) or Sweet Child O’ Mine (Slash). Try to imagine that.
I’ll leave you with a few snaps of the place rather than the people. You’re welcome to visit. We might call you duck (a term of endearment), but really we’re happy without too much fuss. Have a beer. Munch on an oatcake. Simple pleasures. Perhaps we prefer it that way.
A few images of a walk along the Trent and Mersey canal in Stone….
It was bitterly cold but the sun was shining. It’s a popular, busy section of the cut between the Potteries and the open fields and heathland of mid Staffordshire.
On the brown tourist signs Stone is marketed as a canal town and indeed the pics above are just a hundred metres or so from the High Street. Interestingly Tom Fort, writing about the Trent, thought Stone had turned its back on the county’s biggest river in favour of the cut.
It’s an interesting point but the cut brought industry and jobs and now brings leisure. The Trent, of course, was vital to that industry too and suffered at the hands of it. But that’s for another time.
This is a short story I wrote called Adrift. It’s inspired by the tragic tale of Christina Collins, who was murdered in 1839.
I’ve become increasingly interested in ‘place’ in writing. Within a short distance of my home is the fascinating post-industrial landscape of the Potteries and the Black Country – bottle kilns, warehouses, canals and chapels – and then there is the wonderful heathland of Cannock Chase and hills of the Moorlands, and the windmills, almshouses, pubs and halls of ancient market towns and villages. But beyond the physical there is another sense of place. We often take history for granted in this country but it is the lives and stories of those who went before us that add another dimension, an atmosphere or a mood, perhaps, to the landscape. Within a few minutes of where I write Izaak Walton fished and Norman cavalry brutally suppressed a Saxon rebellion. A doctor who poisoned those in his care was hanged in front of a crowd of tens of thousands and a wall was built around a town hemmed in by marsh where the bodies of executed men were thrown in a ditch.
These stories add to our landscape and our understanding and experience of it. Areas of towns and cities can be demolished and rebuilt but they may still retain a sense of what went on before. It was with this in mind that I wrote the short story ‘Adrift.’ Christina Collins (previous blog here) was murdered on a stretch of the Trent and Mersey canal in 1839. Christina’s tragic tale has become part of our landscape and the stories we tell each other. I hope Christina rests in peace, that I’ve been respectful to her memory, and that her spirit no longer wanders the towpath in search of help.
Yesterday was the facts, this piece is merely a work of fiction inspired by that story……
She kept walking alongside us, but she made no effort to talk. I coughed a couple of times and said ‘lovely day’ but she didn’t look up. When she kicked a stone into the water I put my book down, sensing an opening.
‘Are you OK?’ I said. ‘I mean do you need a lift or something?’
I don’t know why I said that. I mean who gives someone a lift at barely three-miles-per-hour? As we chugged ahead she straightened up, rubbing her spine. I hadn’t thought much of her clothes – perhaps that she was a bit dirty and dishevelled – as we trailed behind her. Now I had to make a conscious effort not to stare. Bedraggled. Dragged through a hedge backwards, Bill muttered. She wore a long black dress with a tatty overcoat, grubby grey shawl and scuffed boots. She brought to my mind a Victorian flower seller. She kept her head down as if she was looking for something – an earring or a coin – in the gravel of the towpath. I told Bill to pull in. He tutted and gave me that look he gives me when I buy coffee for homeless people or pet stray dogs. ‘Just for a minute,’ I snapped.
He steered into the side and I jumped off as Bill tied up. ‘What’s your name, luv?’ She sat down on a bench one of the boaters had put by his mooring. ‘Castaway’ was painted with daisies on the slats. Not original, but better than ‘Water Bored’ which we’d passed at the locks yesterday. She waved a grubby hand, muttered that she didn’t want to be a burden.
‘Can I get you a drink?’
Her throat was dry and hoarse. It had been a baking hot afternoon, close as we were to midsummer. Bill chucked me a bottle of mineral water. She looked at it curiously but didn’t drink. I unscrewed the cap, poured a little onto the parched grass and she snatched at it, guzzling it. She handed it back, half empty, apologising.
‘It’s no matter, luv. Where are you headed?’
She caught me glancing at her scuffed, broken boots and pulled them away under her dress. ‘London.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Bill spluttered.
She sipped at the rest of the water and dabbed at her lips with a handkerchief. ‘I’m going to see my husband. He works there.’
‘Has she not heard of the train?’ Bill whispered.
I glared at him as I took her hand. Her skin was pale as marble. Her fingers trembled, so I stroked her hand and asked her what had upset her.
‘I was travelling with men.’ She gave an involuntary shudder. ‘They were uncouth and they-’ I saw her eyes flick to Bill.
‘And they drank?’ She nodded, staring at the towpath.
‘What did they do to you?’ She shuddered. I’d seen it before. I knew what men were capable of. I rubbed her hand to warm it. I lowered my voice, so Bill could not hear. ‘When you want to tell me, I’m here. I’ll listen,’ I said.
She nodded, stretched, and set off along the towpath. ‘Now, where are you going?’
She frowned. ‘London.’
‘Hundred and forty, fifty miles. Got to be,’ Bill said.
‘You can’t walk to London, pet. Least of all in those boots.’ She dabbed at her nose and I knew she was stifling tears. ‘Hop aboard. At least take the weight off your feet for a bit.’ She didn’t want to, but she was weighing it up. Finally, sore feet and lack of puff won out and she stepped up. I guided her to the settee, while I filled the kettle.
‘Right, shall we crack on?’ Bill said.
‘Yes, you may proceed driver.’ I winked at her and she forced a tiny smile. Bill brought me his mug. ‘Shouldn’t you be watching for other boats?’ I said.
‘I haven’t cast off yet.’ He spoke in a whisper. ‘Got what you wanted, didn’t you?’ I shot him another warning glare. ‘Got yourself another pet project. Someone to rescue.’
I turned my back on him. ‘I’m sorry. We haven’t even introduced ourselves.’ I held out a hand. ‘I’m Ann Brookes and this is Bill, my husband.’
She took my hand, those trembling fingers still pale and cold as a pint of milk. I filled a hot water bottle and patted it, settling it down on her lap. She seemed grateful, yet embarrassed. She pressed her hands against the bottle. Her sleeve raised a little revealing yellowing bruises marked out like fingerprints on the inside of her wrist. She tugged down her sleeve. ‘I don’t mean to be a burden.’
‘You’re not a burden, Mrs-’
She gave her name. I poured tea for us both, asking if she took. ‘I can’t call you Mrs Collins.’
‘Christina,’ she said.
‘What does your husband do, Christina?’
‘He’s an ostler. He works down there.’
I didn’t know what an ostler was but didn’t ask as I didn’t want to seem impolite. I’d ask Bill later. Bill was the king of trivia. I made sandwiches and, although Christina said she didn’t want to eat, she nibbled at her cheese and pickle.
When nightfall came, Bill fixed us up to a mooring. Christina stepped off onto the towpath. ‘Robert is waiting for me. I cannot tarry. I’m grateful for the refreshment and-’
I raised a hand. ‘Ah, ah, ah. No way are we letting you trudge off into the night. She can stay here, can’t she Bill?’ There was no answer. ‘I said can’t she Bill?’ Bill muttered he’d fetch the sleeping bag. ‘You could get the train to London. We’d be happy to lend you the money.’ Bill dropped a dish in the sink. Christina wasn’t happy but under sufferance she accepted the sleeping bag. She didn’t want to take a stitch off and seemed confused or unhappy at getting inside it. In the end, I unzipped the bag – an old, quilted variety we’d had for donkey’s years – and let her use it like a blanket.
Screams woke us in the early hours. At first, I thought we were being burgled or there was a fire. Christina was sprawled out on the cushions, wide-eyed. I calmed her before Bill brought sweet tea. She muttered someone had ‘meddled’ but as soon as she regained her senses she said it was just a bad dream. Bill checked all the doors and windows were secure. After sipping more tea, Christina drifted off, but I struggled to sleep, worrying something awful had happened to her and I must call the police. Perhaps she had mental health problems and should see a doctor.
I awoke to the spatter of fat, drift of smoke. Bill was frying bacon. A pot of coffee steamed from the worktop. ‘Where’s Christina?’ Bill shrugged. ‘Did you even try and stop her?’
‘She was gone when I woke. OK?’
Her sleeping bag was neatly zipped and folded on the settee. She’d washed her mug and left it upturned on the draining board. I got on my boots and jacket and ran down the towpath, but there was no sign of her. I passed ramblers and dog walkers, but no one had seen anyone matching Christina’s description. When I got back Bill had spooned out my porridge. ‘If she’s gone on we’ll catch her up.’
‘What’s an ostler?’
‘Someone who looks after horses at an inn.’
I said nothing. We never did see her again. No one else spoke of her.
Four years passed and when Bill retired he said a boating holiday would be the perfect wind-down. We stopped at a pub near Stone in Staffordshire for a proper warm beside a roaring fire and were getting all comfy and dozy when a man stood up to speak. Wednesdays were for swapping stories. He had a wispy white beard and wore a waistcoat and red knotted hankie tied round his neck. I glanced at Bill, who was frowning to concentrate as he sipped his pint.
‘It was June 1839, and unable to afford the coach fare to meet her husband in London, she had set out along the canal. A pretty widow, she’d soon attracted the unwanted advances of the narrowboat’s drunken crew.’
Bill set down his tankard.
‘Witnesses testified to their lewd language. She’d tried to report her fears, but no one had listened.’
The storyteller supped his pint waiting for his audience to ask for more.
‘As they passed this very pub a Mrs Brookes, wife of William Brookes, travelled alongside her for a few miles for support. Later, a few miles or so south of here, her screams might have woken the dead. The following morning, she was found floating in the water, drowned.’
The mention of our name, Brookes, made my spine tingle. He held up a pamphlet he’d written. ‘They say she still haunts the towpath. Ladies and gentlemen, the tragic tale of Christina Collins.’
I tell people this and they don’t believe a word of it, but we know the truth. I don’t care what they think. I only hope we provided some comfort for that desperate, frightened woman.
Stone has a magnificent railway station. I took a look the other day while wandering with my notebook and jotting ideas for future writing.
The station is a five minute walk from the town and in a conservation area. It’s very distinctive and beautifully designed. The sun and blue sky really showed it off, despite the thermometer being near zero.
Stafford, the nearby larger county town, had a station which was wonderful too but was shamefully demolished. Just a few yards from Stone Station is the Trent and Mersey canal. Although it’s a pleasant and peaceful area this was a transport super highway during the industrial revolution with the Potteries a handful of miles to the north (and then onto Liverpool and Manchester) and the steel, coal and manufacturing of the Midlands just thirty miles south.