Money For Old Rope by Diane Neilson, ginger hemp tea

Bert Marrison sat in the cave mouth on a rickety hazel stool. It was 1970 and he was 85 years old; too old to be a rope-maker any more, with his gnarled and deformed hands, but not too old to fend off the returners. In fact, his age – in this role – was a definite advantage, as even the roughest and most foul-outhed of the lead miners would stop short of hurling abuse at an old man – especially Mr Bert Marrison.

 

Bert was born in the cave. He had spent his early years exploring every nook and cranny of the caverns, screeching ghoulishly at the visitors to elicit coppers, and exaggerating the local folklore, just for fun. One time, a tourist called Carl Moritz had labelled Bert’s home ‘an abode of silent horror’ after being shown the Devil’s Arse  – out of it, a trickle of water, fondly regarded by the inhabitants as ‘The Styx’, disappearing towards the cave opening. It wouldn’t have been silent if the water level had dropped; God only knows what Moritz would have made of the unfathomably human sound that came from  the Arse, had that happened.

 

‘The Cave’, was a natural cavern and had the largest open entrance in the British Isles, although Bert wasn’t aware of that when he was a lad. It was just home, work and play; a hundred-metre-long, twenty-metre-high and thirty-five-metre-wide space where thirty or so families made up the Derbyshire rope-making community, spinning local grown hemp into ropes for the local miners.

It was a tough working life, from your eighth year ‘til you were ready for your coffin, and carrying no passengers; even the little ‘uns – the under 8’s – being responsible for the animals, feeding them twice a day and mucking out as needed, the main priority being fattening the pigs to ensure a supply of the tallow needed to proof the rope. The kids were also expected to scare the visitors ‘good and proper’, thus ensuring that plenty of coinage was thrown to chase away the perceived spirits.

Once you were eight, though, it was on to proper work. The lads would split the hemp, holding tallow candles, made from the pig fat, in their black-lipped mouths. It was intricate work requiring deft fingers and good eyesight, but not pleasant as you can imagine, with the candle heating the hemp and the stench of the tallow coating their nostrils; the lads would have been as high as a kite most of the time.

The girls had to tread the walkways, winding the hemp back and forth up to three hundred yards at a time, between the three-pronged-cog at one end and a single hook at the other, before the older lads would work in pairs to turn the cog to twist and braid the rope, inserting a top  to keep the strands apart until they came together to close the rope. Turning was a tough job, requiring both strength and stamina, whilst the walker would load the sled and inspect progress, halting and restarting the process as necessary to ensure the best strength and consistency. Once finished, the rope would be hung with rocks overnight, this stretching important if they were to get the best price per yard.

As if birthing, feeding and raising a large family was not enough, the womenfolk would also be kept busy spinning the raw hemp in preparation for twisting and braiding, then dipping the finished ropes in molten tallow to give it further strength and make it waterproof.    

Each family had their own walkway, and was responsible for preparing, making and selling their product, so it could get competitive. Large families were necessary to ensure a strong workforce, and living conditions were less than ideal, with families of up to eight people inhabiting a tiny hovel beneath the cave floor: one room with two purposes - sleeping and making new rope-makers.

Bert had never married. He had been born and lived in the cave his whole life, working the walkways alongside his uncle and in time, becoming an established craftsman. When his nephews and nieces married, they all received a rope washing line made by Uncle Bert, and he was also respected by the miners who appreciated an invention of his ‘The Marrison loop’ – an intricate knotting method, which involved splicing an ‘eye’ through taut rope and re-threading or looping the rope end back through itself creating a loop which could be attached to the miners’ belts, a safety feature that made the dangerous job of lead mining a little safer and saved many lives.

The world was changing though, with new modern technologies being developed. Soon there would be no room for artisans like himself and the cavern would only echo with the memories of the hustle and bustle of the rope-makers. Bert could remember when they were the ‘next big thing’. A curiosity. Indeed, he remembered his uncle talking of visits by royalty. Of Queen Victoria, no less, coming to see the caverns. In fact, the cave name had even been changed to Peak Cavern to save her blushes – well nobody would have been willing to welcome royalty to the Devil’s Arse now, would they?

Just like all the other visitors to the great cave, the Queen had been pushed by rope-makers into the large chamber beyond, lay in a straw-filled box resembling a coffin.

With a short, tallow candle on her chest (what could possibly go wrong) she was manoeuvred under a low archway into the vast space beyond, into the magnificent cathedral-like cavern, the enormous space lit only by candles, and silent apart from the ‘drip, drip’ of water from the ceiling.

Bert’s uncle had told tales of other visitors whose straw coffin-boats had been set alight by the flame of the candle, or who had been accidentally tipped into the water as the rope-makers tried to navigate the deep water and low ceilings. Almost without exception, the candles, made deliberately short, would have to be replaced – at a cost of course – several times during the journey. Well, a rope-maker has to find ways of making a living doesn’t he.

Roused from his reminiscing, Bert watched as a noisy gang of lead miners approached the entrance to the cave.

“Lads.” He greeted them touching his cap.

             One of the younger men approached him, visibly flustered. “Bert,” he replied, shuffling from one foot to the other and struggling to meet Bert’s eye. “No disrespect intended, but we want our money back.”

              Bert eyed them quietly for a moment.

“What’s this all about lads? Money back for what?”

“It’s not waterproof. We’ve had two ropes fail this week. Could have caused a nasty accident.” Sounding braver now, the lad continued. “The boss has sent me to ask for replacements or we’ll go elsewhere.”

Bert laughed and patted the lad on the shoulder. ‘Go where?’ he thought. They were the only rope-makers this side of Manchester.

“Don’t be so serious lad, it’s probably just a damp batch of hemp. Bring ‘em back and I’ll sell you another batch for half price.”

Obviously relieved that a confrontation was not going to be necessary, the lad started to breathe easier, and an hour later, returned with the box of ropes.

Bert took payment, at half price, and handed him the new box, sending him on his way with a smile and a twinkle in his eye.

Turning into the cave, he summoned his youngest nephew.

                “Johnny, take this box ‘o’ ropes and re-tallow ‘em. When they’re dry you can put ‘em in the store with the new ‘uns.”

               Sitting back down on his hazel stool, he adjusted his cap and lit his pipe, laughing to himself.

                “Money for old rope,” he said to himself, “Young ‘uns, they’ll never learn.”

 

 

About the author

  

Diane is building momentum as a writer and her aim is to entertain and inform. She likes to experiment with a range of genres including poetry and short stories, and has released three books, a travel memoir, a book of poetry and short stories and a children's picture book. 

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