When I were young and in me prime,
as lazy as can be,
I stepped on board a Mersey Flatter number 23.
BAMALAM Productions proudly presents Scuttled,
Episode 1.
In association with the Museum of London Archaeology
and the Arts and Humanities Research Council.
Directed by James Steventon.
Written by Ian Winterton.
With Neil Bell,
Isabel Haig,
Janine Lanick,
Katie Moore,
and Paul Rigby.
Produced by Kelly Griffiths,
James Steventon,
and Ian Winterton.
Kinley måghi I've not been down here in a while,
since uh 1919 won't it?
Aye!
It was years back.
But most me life this and the canal.
Heading southwest to Manchester and snaking north
through moors to Salby Bridge in Yorkshire.
That was all I knew.
That were me life.
And I loved it.
I loved it and all.
You weren't born to it,
my love.
But you were born for it.
Best wife a man could have.
You,
Eliza.
I miss you.
I miss you too,
Thomas Ashworth.
You soppy ape!
Oh,
look!
The children.
Our grandchildren.
Great-grandchildren.
Great-grandad Thomas.
Great-grandad Thomas teaches about boats.
Here they come now?
Yes,
here they come now.
Look at them.
Great!
Proud giants of the canals,
72 foot stern to aft and 14 foot wide,
carried 60 tons of cargo.
When canals were deep enough,
in poor Nick these days,
paintwork long gone,
just bare wood rotten in patches primrose.
And there she is Foxglove,
mighty boat.
For more than 80 years,
she's plied these waters,
fetching cargo back and forth: cotton,
coal,
even shite cow.
Pig and human,
for the fields Railways came.
And so,
price for cargo Shipped by canal dropped.
Canal companies-only way they could keep up with
the railways Was to make us Human labour.
We had horse-drawn boats Cheaper than steam.
And canal folk-we had to start living on boats To
save what little money we had.
Apart from occasional Very occasional Trip to
church,
of a Sunday.
We only stopped moving for three things: Picking up
cargo,
Offloading cargo,
and birth.
That's me Cabin of the Foxglove.
One morning in March 1845-Here he is,
Our boy Thomas Thomas!
Thomas!
Here,
you come to your dad.
Bad marriages were really quite common for canal
folk.
But my mum and dad,
James and Charity Ashworth-they were always best
mates.
As we all had to live on a boat.
And a working one at that!
Me and my sister Mercy.
We was tied to the woodwork when we were nippers.
To stop us toddling off and into the cut.
My first memory: me mam smiling as she tied a
rope round me wrist.
There you go,
good boy.
Keep you safe.
I didn't cry or think out of it.
It was me mam.
And she was smiling.
And I knew I was loved.
As a childhood,
to me-it were perfect.
Growing up.
Time off the boat.
I collect flies,
four-leaf clovers,
sprigs,
and quaint egg shells.
Washes of violets,
tadpoles,
woodlouse.
From the cotton warehouse,
I can hear it still: the soft lap of water on
the hull or the drake's wing on water.
Dad's clogs on the hatchboards.
From Warfinger to Lockkeeper,
everyone knows everyone here.
All adrift.
Head up and down.
Together under Branchy Boulevard.
And tired,
probably.
Hot,
filthy,
often-yes.
But never scared.
Not then.
Not there.
Within them thirty-two miles.
And knitted waterways.
Oh what it was to be seven years old.
And already where you're meant to be.
Tommy wake up!
What?
Mercy,
Tommy,
you need to get up.
There's something for you,
Mercy Ashworth.
If you let on I'll have your bloody guts for
garters!
I won't tell Mam,
I know it's a surprise.
Come on now,
Tommy.
Oh,
Surprise!
What's going on?
And he Aye He Morning love Morning mam Da Hey up
son Someone to meet you?
There he was,
a horse.
Head down,
tearing at the tough grass by the towpath.
Sturdy legs.
His mane was straw-coloured And his coat Chestnut
red Like my own hair was back then.
Catching the morning sun.
Horsey!
A horse!
Come down,
say hello.
He won't hurt you.
My new friend.
And more than that,
Hello,
your ransom ain't you!
His eyes are different: His brown eye on the
right,
Kind; Intelligent.
His left,
Cruel; And blue.
You like him,
Tommy?
Course I like him.
Because this horse,
Tommy!
This horse is yours.
What?
You'll be pulling the boat!
What if I'm not good enough?
Tommy!
Uncle Harry says I'm naughty,
And should be lent away!
Listen,
Lad!
Nobody expects out from any canal folk but the
worst.
You hear the names they call us.
And the lower pinion they hold us in.
Their nonsense.
Their lies.
And your Uncle Harry – see,
he takes it all in.
Believes it almost.
But he's wrong!
Like they are wrong!
I'm proud to work the water!
And I'm proud of you,
Son!
What do we call him?
He's for you to name.
Erm Remember old Billy that worked on Mersey and
AOL You weren't.
Born,
and Mercy just had a babe.
Remember you,
Mam,
speaking of him.
Old Billy,
sturdy old fellow,
Aye!
He was that well.
This one,
same sturdy young fellow,
Young Billy,
good name.
Now Tommy,
listen.
As much as young Billy is yours,
You are his and all right,
Right!
Ah,
woah,
woah!
You sound angry,
Shhh!
There you are,
Shhh!
He's big; Big enough,
Aye!
He has to pull bolt,
Get his reins Tommy,
Don't be frightened.
I always thought I'd be a legger.
You don't want to be a legger.
Stanage tunnel in Huddersfield.
One shilling for a light boat,
And another half shilling for a heavy one.
Three miles and hundred and seventy-six yards,
And nigh on four hours.
To walk it On your back in dark And roof's always
falling down Shilling though da Take horse's reins
Tommy I don't like you Tommy You shut your eyes
Mercy Ashworth Charity Get down below you Or I'll
give you a thick ear He don't like me I don't
know thee Just Be still There you go Here You got
him Now Read on Now Tommy Read on Read on Now,
for one mile,
we get one penny.
There's 240 pennies in one pound.
How many?
240.
Good lad.
So I earn getting on for £2.
05 for a working week.
Seven days a week,
most often.
Sometimes we'll earn more.
Sometimes less.
Yes.
And Tommy,
this horse cost us £40. £40?
Aye.
We were very lucky to have him,
and you must look after him.
If young Billy's not right,
then we won't eat.
Reet?
Da.
Reet?
Reet.
What have you stopped for?
Sorry,
da.
This how fast I'm to walk?
Aye,
this is good.
Steady.
But it depends.
You hear a whistle,
you pick up the pace.
Or boat's on,
that means stop.
Now this here is a bridle.
And I,
ma'am,
crocheted these here covers to keep flies away.
Nice shiny brasses,
look.
You keep them polished.
Has to be smart.
Any horse of ours.
Likes to eat,
don't he?
Aye.
Have to watch that.
Too much rich grass can do for an horse.
Oats he has.
In his nosebag.
And a feed first thing.
Before you break your fast.
You break his.
Tommy.
Yes,
da?
I'm going to speak to you as an adult now.
Because I think it's important.
You're my only son.
So you'll be the man of this family one day.
What about Uncle Harry?
Never you bloody mind your Uncle Bloody Harry.
Bless him.
I love him,
though.
No.
He needs someone to tell him what to do.
It's you,
Tommy.
When my tomorrow stops,
it'll all be on your shoulders,
lad.
I'm only little.
Aye,
but so was I.
And I grew.
And you'll grow and all.
Look,
son.
Heron.
Hold young Billy tight.
In case he takes off.
Well,
let's keep going,
eh?
Me and thee.
We're young Billy.
A while longer.
You got it,
lad.
Young Billy.
He's yours.
And I'm his.
And you're his.
Good horse,
young Billy.
Good horse.
August's on its way out now.
With the very last light of that long day,
me and Uncle Harry moor the boat up.
Inside the cabin,
Dad's laid down like he has been this past
fortnight.
He cannot stop coughing.
I see Mercy sitting outside,
up on top of the hatchboards at the bow,
as far away from Dar and his coffin as she can
get,
knees drawn up undone.
Her chin hugging her legs.
Silent.
Waiting.
Only I'm too young.
I don't know she's waiting.
Or what for.
Not really.
Tommy,
you should go down.
See you,
Dad.
I will,
Uncle Harry.
Later.
Young Billy's running low on oats.
Going to fetch them from the end.
You've got coin.
Ma gave me six pence.
Oh,
I see.
Right then,
lad.
Hey,
don't go spending it on her,
lad.
Are you?
Here,
Dar's coffin.
And then.
I can't hear it no more.
I'll never know if that's when the Lord took him
or if I just moved further enough on.
Either way,
on my way back with a bag of oats across my slim
shoulders,
it wasn't coughing I could hear.
It was my sister.
Next morning,
another bright one.
Alas,
we'll have in a while.
I tie young Billy up to find him.
I take the foxglove and stand,
waiting for the nod from Uncle Harry at the
tiller.
And I see it,
where cargo should be.
The coffin.
Mother and my sister beside it,
standing,
weeping,
in clogs with pearl buttons.
And gathered along the bank,
the long-sleeved mourners.
All us canal folk came to follow Dar as he sails
one last time on foxglove.
And I turn and I tug gently at young Billy's lead
rope.
Go ahead,
young Billy.
And me and him,
awesome boy,
pull my Dar down the cut to the church where him
and Mam were wed just 15 years before.
There to lay him to rest.
Good horse,
young Billy.
Good horse.
That horse is beautiful.
I look up and see a young girl about my age,
standing on the bridge,
bonnet on,
tied neatly round her chin.
Would never have taken you for a workhouse runaway.
That were the idea.
First time I saw you that.
Aye.
And likewise.
Saw young Billy,
then you.
Tiny little scrapper,
short but strong.
And I see too,
you sad,
face wet with tears.
I'm gonna ask what's amiss,
but then I see.
Your ma,
your sister,
walking a long towpath behind,
your head's bowed.
And on the boat,
the coffin.
And I don't say nothing.
You smiled,
though.
Sad,
but kind and all.
And then you and young Billy passed under that
bridge.
That proud mountain of a boat,
that foxglove going after.
Strange to think,
looking back,
that I was looking at my home.
The home I made with thee.
It was young Billy,
you loved first.
He was a very fine horse.
He was my best friend until I found him that
dawn.
Ten years later.
Young Billy,
dead among the spring thorn.
You dwell too much on death.
Hard not to,
today of all days.
Even so,
don't do no good.
You came looking for young Billy down the stables.
I saw you that morning feeding him an apple,
tickling his ears like he liked.
You're so saintly,
myself unkempt.
No bonnet that morning,
your pigtails in pink ribbon.
I was scared of you,
lass.
Give over.
Petrified.
That's my horse.
Matron says canal boys are rude.
You don't wash.
You stink.
But I like you.
I like your horse.
Matron?
At workhouse.
You're a runaway?
I run away.
But I go back.
Get the belt.
Have to write out pages of the Bible.
Worth it.
To have a walk in the sun.
Scrump apples.
You're a bricky girl.
I know.
Bricky girl.
My bricky girl.
You were on the bridge.
Aye.
What's your horse's name?
Young Billy.
He's a handsome one.
Ten years later,
I dug his grave out in the woods.
Ground was still frozen.
Took me hours.
Hands blistering,
bleeding,
stinging with the sweat.
Laid young Billy to rest.
Cherry blossoms veiling his body.
Knowing only to be thankful we met.
Good horse,
Young Billy.
Good horse.
You were a man by then.
My man.
And though we didn't know it,
our Rebecca already in my belly.
Then our Paul.
Born to work boats.
Like his dad.
And like his grandad.
Our Rebecca,
though,
hated it from the off.
She had her mother's spirit.
Hold still you!
No!
We gave up in the end.
No matter.
She was swimming from age of three any road.
Any chance she could get.
Drove me mam mad for years.
Elisa!
Thomas!
She's jumped it cut again!
Come out,
you stupid girl.
Water's filthy.
And it ain't allowed.
No washing clothes,
it's cut.
And no bathing.
Come in,
mamma.
It's lovely.
Swimming.
Only thing she liked about the life.
Rest of it,
not for her.
She spent too much time listening to my uncle
moaning.
They work us hard,
pay us shit.
And what do we get as thanks?
Abuse.
And name calling.
And punches on the nose when we're trying to relax
down tavern over the flagon.
Why don't you do something else Uncle Harry?
Aye Uncle Harry.
Why don't you?
Well.
That's got him stumped.
What else could I do?
Work at a mill.
I ain't working at no mill.
You was born to work boats Harry.
You're a fine boatman.
So.
Be happy.
And if you can't be happy.
Be content.
And if you can't be content.
Be quiet.
Alright,
alright.
I never forgot that night.
Al Becker's face.
Orange from the flames of the stove.
Staring at us.
Laughing off Harry's complaints.
The sadness in her eyes.
And then she said: 'I want to go to school.'
Still young then,
nine year old.
But she knew somehow in her heart,
what we didn't.
That there was value in book learning.
But all I could say were: 'Common school costs
nine pence a week.
And you go to school most Sundays.
You know your letters.
More than I ever did.
Not that I've ever had a use for them.'
But there's books,
Nan.
Stories.
Where were you?
You daft apath?
Stories?
Stories don't put food on table.
Something else came into Becker's eyes then.
Mixing with her sadness.
Disappointment.
In us.
And anger. 'I'm away to bed.'
She went to bed with that anger.
And it never left her.
A week later.
The fire.
Number twenty-three.
You have been listening to Scuttled.
Episode one.
Directed by James Steventon.
Starring Christopher Eccleston,
Joyce Branagh,
Becky Kershaw,
Kimberly Cochran,
Jonathan Carley,
Adam Grayson,
Stephen Hillman,
Annie Connell Welsh,
and James Steventon.
Featuring Isabella Arrowsmith,
Bailey Cockcroft,
Katie Rowan,
Elliot Winterton,
and the little voices of St Edward's Primary
School,
Rochdale.
Title music by Jennifer Reid.
With archaeological consultancy from Kelly Griffiths.
Based on archaeological excavations in Rochdale,
England.
He said, 'Now lad be careful,
thou well,
he not geth lough.
That better frame and start pumping.
For I think we've sprung a leak.
And I wish I'd never gone boating for a million
years.'.