When I were young and in my prime,
as lazy as can be,
I stepped on board a Mersey Ferry number 23.
BAMALAM Productions proudly presents Scuttled,
Episode 2 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.
Strange to think it were here 51 years ago,
May 1871.
West Orton Cotton Manufacturing Company Limited
Warehouse-Old building,
gone in an hour.
Dark day.
Aye,
but could have been darker still.
If I hadn't taken in that runaway Mind,
if not for him,
there's lots would have been different.
Foxglove and Primrose was to load up on cotton.
Big order,
bound for the steam mill at Sowerby Bridge.
Fifty tonne apiece it was.
Aye,
you were in fine fettle Uncle Harry and all,
for a change.
Even though it meant rising long before dawn broke.
From the cabin I lay awake hearing both of you
Singing as the boats glided across the basin.
And in under the warehouse's pent roof That sloped
out over the water.
You and he moored up And got to work,
Loading up the bales of cotton.
Hundred tonnes!
Even with Crane and the help of the dockers.
It was going to take you six,
seven hours.
We'd be lucky to be underway before noon.
Crane ready?
Aye!
Up at Cracker Dome for me and your mam and all!
Hey up Tom,
Harry!
Ginger beer?
Tar lizer!
Aye!
Almost got Foxglove loaded up.
Halfway home,
Primrose next morning.
Ma,
get on with your toil!
You at the double!
Morning children,
morning!
You have yourself a good time at the market,
eh?
The market...
and a Saturday market and all!
It'd been an age since we'd last been in town.
Even our Becca was in good spirits.
For her,
any road!
Oh Rebecca!
Come on,
hurry your sends up!
Paul's missing a clog!
Oh for God's sake,
Your clog,
lad!
Where's your clog?
Dunno,
nan Aye I've got it here,
you daft ninny!
Aye,
alright for some; Small enough to mark it.
Be thou happy in thy work,
Harry.
Heh!
Youse all have a good time,
Becca,
Paul.
You do as your ma tells you,
eh?
Aye,
da Becca!
Aye,
I will and bring us some ale back,
will ya?
Aye,
Ale!
All your veg here: turnips,
greens,
penny a bunch.
Oranges and all,
two for a penny.
Good morning,
me lovelies!
What can we get you?
Bunch of turnips.
They don't look smoky.
They're fine.
And a cabbage-that big one.
Very good,
young sir.
Here you go.
You thank the gentleman,
Paul.
Yes,
Paul,
say thank you.
Thank you.
Pineapple,
pineapple...
Mam,
Nan,
Red Eli's got pineapple.
Oh,
Red Eli.
Called that because the colour of his face went
when he got in a rage.
Scared me when I was a nipper.
He was scarier then.
Old,
bit mad.
His hair,
wild.
Penny a flaming slice?
Oh,
Mam,
pineapple,
please.
I've oranges,
miss.
Two a penny.
Seen better days,
them oranges.
Sorry about her.
It's all right.
I'll take two oranges.
But,
Mam,
pineapple.
Here you go,
Tupny.
Paul,
go with your sister,
get a slice each.
Oh,
thanks,
Mam.
Spoiler.
She's a sulky madam.
It's just a pineapple slice charity.
How else,
ladies?
Oh,
aye,
a bunch of greens,
pound of spuds,
pound of carrots.
Bag of broad beans.
Aye,
bag of broad beans and all.
As he's bagging up our veg,
I take a moment and look over at Paul and Becca.
See them at the pineapple cart waiting their turn.
And near the cart,
there's a young lad.
Maybe ten,
eleven.
Scruffy,
barefoot.
Eyes all shifty looking.
I know what he's about.
Cos I've been there,
me sen has a nipper enough times.
He's after lifting a couple of them pineapple
slices for himself.
He looks new to it.
Too hungry.
Too nervy.
Your mam's seen him too.
He'll get himself caught,
that one.
Ready,
Lyle,
leather him.
Lost mouse from the workhouse.
That's what they call him.
Skittering themselves about in the shadows.
Always getting themselves caught in the traps and
brung right back.
Leather him?
He'll pull him limb from limb.
So,
top of me lungs,
I calls out.
All right there,
lad?
Takes him a second to cop on.
Ed.
Ed darts about.
Points at himself with a,
what,
ew,
me,
gormless look on his face.
Yeah,
you.
Come over here.
He slinks over,
none too keen.
Looks ready to turn tail and scarper at the
slightest sound like a lamb in the field.
Lad,
if you're gonna thieve,
don't thieve off red Eli.
Why not,
eh?
Look at him,
lad.
Look at him.
Pineapple slices!
I wasn't gonna thieve any road.
Oh,
aye.
Workhouse runaways don't usually carry a lot of
money.
Believe me,
I know.
The lad narrows his eyes and gives me a good
proper look.
But he's heard the truth in my words.
Knows he can trust me.
You got a name?
Matthew.
When'd you make a break for it?
This morning,
wasn't it?
Because you don't look like you've spent a night
outside yet.
This morning,
aye?
They had us grinding.
They were grinding down cow bones again.
And I just said enough of this shite and ran.
Ran?
From where?
Never you mind.
How's that pineapple?
It's delicious.
Got more to it on your chill,
lad.
Workhouse by looks of you.
Rude.
Sorry.
I'm Becca.
Rebecca.
I'm Matthew.
Hello,
Matthew.
Did I notice it then?
That they held one another's gaze just a little
longer than other folks might?
What,
that my Becca was smiling for the first time?
She was only nine.
Maybe I wasn't on the lookout for the likes of
that.
I ain't never had pineapple,
me.
Here,
try some.
So sweet.
From all the way over the ocean to here.
Buy yourself a dock.
Thank canal.
Railway mall like charity.
Fruit like this.
Aye,
canals are too slow.
They get the job done all the same.
Where you running away to?
I ain't thought that far ahead.
Anywhere.
Everywhere.
Maybe London.
London?
London's a stinking hole full of soot and shite.
So I've heard any road.
Or maybe overseas.
To America or.
Oh no.
Oh,
it's him.
He points.
We all follow his finger across the crowded square
and see him.
Eighteen stone of huffing and puffing overfed meat
stuffed into his overcoat.
The workhouse warden.
Striding through the market square.
Piggy eyes scouring the crowd.
It's Fat George.
And before me or your mam or Becca can say or do
out,
the lad's scarpers,
which of course was exactly what he shouldn't have
done.
That warden,
that Fat George,
he catches the flash of him. 'Oi,
run away.' Get back here.
Get back here now and I'll grease you on you.
And that could have been that.
Might never have seen that boy again.
Except.
Oh,
wait up.
Our Becca runs into the crowd after him.
After that Matthew.
Rebecca.
Where's daft girl going?
Rebecca.
Weren't no good.
The crowd swallowed her up.
And that warden,
that Fat George as they called him.
He stomped after him,
roaring.
Get back here now.
Then he were gone and all.
Not for us to do but head back to the wharf.
Come on,
our Paul.
Back to Foxglove.
But our Becca.
To be reet.
Let her have her run.
Then gear her thick here as soon as she gets
back.
Charity.
Or the belt.
I tell you,
you spoil that mardy girl.
I remember when you came back.
Me and Harry was on top of the boat.
Fixing down the hatchboards over our cargo of
cotton bales.
Hey up.
You got a hard ale?
Aye.
First off,
you wouldn't believe.
I'd believe it.
Especially you,
Harry Ashworth.
Oi.
You made good time.
Aye.
All ready to leave as soon as the clerk signs us
out.
Wherever the hell he's gone.
He was here a minute ago waiting on us.
Here you go.
Oh,
tar!
Thanks,
love.
Can I have some,
da?
No,
you can't.
Wait till you're older,
lad.
Ten at least.
Older than that?
Aw.
Come to your uncle,
Harry.
When you're ten,
lad.
Harry.
Only messing.
Where's our Becca?
She ran off with a boy.
You what?
Liza.
She'll be back soon enough.
Yeah,
but you said boy.
What boy?
It's now.
Just a workhouse runaway.
Runaway?
I'm going to go find that clerk.
He'll be in the office having a brew out.
How old was he,
this runaway?
Same age as her.
Give or take a year or two.
Give or take a year or two?
He's a boy still now to worry over.
Can I come with you,
Uncle Harry?
Good idea.
Leave your mum and dad to it.
And that was it.
Paul went off with your brother into the warehouse.
That maze of pallets and pile upon pile of cotton
bales.
And that's where he was.
Where they both were.
When it started.
Who knows how.
Spark from the stove on one of the boats,
maybe.
Drifting on the air into the warehouse.
Still glowing when it touches down on a bale.
That cotton,
raw.
Still as sticky as when it first loaded into the
ships of the Baker.
One spark was all it took.
It's then,
in them few minutes from the fire starting to the
alarm being raised,
that our Becker comes crashing onto the wharfside,
running pell-mell,
holding hands with that Matthew lad,
and both of them,
grinning.
What the bloody hell?
Oi,
you lad,
get your hand off my daughter.
Sorry,
sir.
Mum,
Dad,
you've got to let him on board.
Oh,
please,
sir.
I don't think so.
Fat George is right behind you.
He'll tip.
I can beat me black and blue.
Please.
Mum.
All right.
Thanks,
Mum.
Come on,
Matthew,
below.
They weren't wrong about that damn warden.
There he was,
trotting along,
more drenched in sweat than I were from labouring,
and red in face and all.
But whether from rage or exertion,
it was hard to tell.
He reaches us and starts mopping his brow with his
kerchief.
Oh,
my God.
I'm too bleeding off of this.
How do?
Afternoon.
How do?
I'm in pursuit of a runaway child,
a boy,
11-year-old.
Hair like straw,
skinny thing,
but tall for his age.
I don't suppose you've seen anyone matching that
description.
He was with a girl.
No runaways down here?
Could they have slipped into the warehouse without
us noticing?
As you can see,
there's a fair number of bodies working here.
And the warehouse,
is there an opening out into the town?
Of course there is.
Forecourt,
out back,
where wagons load up with cotton for local mills.
You know.
If they've gone in Warehouse,
they'll be well away by now.
We'll see about that.
Matthew Mowerland,
if you can hear me,
I can tell you that you're in violation of a
minimum of 40 rules in the Hollingworth Workhouse
Court of Conduct.
If you can turn yourself in now,
I'll lessen your punishment.
The fat old fool stops in his tracks,
sniffs the air,
and I hear him mutter.
Spoke.
And then it comes.
The alarm.
Fire!
Oh Mother Mary!
Tom,
where's Paul?
Where are he?
In there.
Bloody hell.
Tom,
Paul!
We've got to get Paul!
Aye,
I'll fetch him.
But I need you and Becca to cast off and get the
boat away.
That's cotton in there.
This whole warehouse is going up.
I watched you leap off the boat onto the jetty,
then run into that building.
Already the smoke was thick,
and the wind at its back was billowing out towards
us.
I saw Fat George,
one hand clamping his handkerchief over his nose
and mouth,
come towards me.
What are you doing?
Help him,
madam.
Help him.
You know boats?
I see from the way he gawps at me that he does
not get out of my way!
I untie the moorings on Harry's primrose,
give it a good shove.
Roar!
I get it on its way,
drifting out into the basin.
Then cast Foxglove off and jump on board,
pushing away with my feet.
Wait for me!
Fat George steps up,
almost misjudges how fast Foxglove is moving away.
I catch his podgy hand and pull him in.
Oh,
thank you,
my good woman.
Then,
clinging onto the side of the boat beside the
workhouse warden,
I look out into the smoke.
Black flecks of burnt cotton fibres twisting and
dancing within it.
And inside the warehouse,
the fierce orange of the flames growing ever larger
and louder.
No sign of you or Paul or Harry.
And I say a silent prayer.
But in that moment,
all I know is I've done my job.
Both boats are away,
safe,
and their precious cargo with them.
The smoke,
so thick I couldn't see or breathe.
So it drops to me knees,
to where the air is clear for a foot.
On my hands and knees,
I crawl along in that gap.
The grey-black smoke rolling above my head.
The heat's getting unbearable now.
And I don't want to believe it,
but I realise then the awful truth.
There's nothing I can do.
I stop crawling.
And I'm about to start heading backwards when the
roof timbers start coming down.
I scramble back,
but part of the debris catches my shoulder.
My shirt's afire,
my skin and all,
pain like nothing before nor since.
I put the flames out,
flesh on my arm that sizzles at the moment.
But it's enough,
for me at least.
But Paul,
Harry,
I've failed them.
All I can do is save myself.
The kick I'd given Foxglove off the wharf,
we were set to drift over to the other side of
the basin.
But in those few minutes,
drifting on the black calm,
I sat atop the hatchboards,
Fat George by my side,
staring unblinkingly at the fire.
Smoke billowed out towards us across the water,
like a creeping fog.
Never thought I'd see such a thing.
No.
Firefighters are coming.
Good people of Rochdale,
the water jets are on their way.
In the meantime,
stay back.
We need the space for the horses.
You want your cotton,
don't you?
The cotton.
Getting as much of it out as they could.
No talk of the people trapped in there.
You,
Harry,
Paul.
Nobody did stay back.
They formed a line.
Firefighters were paid for out of the company's
insurance.
But nobody else was.
A line of people,
townies,
canal folk alike,
lining up to pass buckets of water along.
Reaching the other side of the basin brought me to
my senses.
Pass me rope.
We've got to help.
Er,
er,
of course.
I looped the rope around the nettle and jumped up
onto the wharfside,
pulled with all my might.
I tied the boat fast and helped Fat George up
onto the wharf.
We cross over that end of basin.
You see the bridge,
eh?
Aye.
I go to set off with him.
But it's Harry,
looking back at the boat.
And the door opens like I knew it would.
Becca wouldn't sit there hiding,
not when people needed help.
You?
That lad?
Is he with you?
No,
he ran off.
No,
I didn't.
Matthew,
no,
he'll take you.
Matthew Moorland.
George,
we can talk this through after.
But right now,
there's a fire needs fighting.
We hurried over the bridge.
And round to the courtyard at the front of the
warehouse.
Half the roof had come down.
But the water jets had arrived and were doing
their job.
They'd got some of the bales away.
And there was loaded up on carts.
There was a few bodies in there.
Lined up,
skin and clothes charred.
And some more came wounded.
Being tended to by old women who had ointment for
burns at the river.
One side of the warehouse was ready to collapse.
And the fire captain made the decision to bring it
down.
Controlled,
so it wouldn't fall outwards and let the fire
spread to the neighbouring warehouses.
A team of horses standing by.
Chains being hooked up to the wall.
It was then that Harry called out to me.
Liza.
He was sitting down,
holding a wet flannel against one side of his face
where he'd been burnt.
Half his hair gone.
I could see from the wildness in his eyes that
the pain was driving him half mad.
I still didn't know where you were.
But somehow,
I knew you'd be home.
All right.
And for Harry,
I only had one question.
Harry!
Alpo,
where's Alpo?
He ran ahead to the clerk's office.
But then the fire had spread so quick,
I couldn't get to him.
The office?
Where is it?
And Harry points to the corner of the building
where the firefighters'
horses are about to pull down the wall.
Men,
each a captain.
Bring the horses in and secure the ropes.
Becca understands.
A moment ahead of me.
Runs over.
Stop!
Oh,
stand back now!
Matthew,
there he's inside!
You'll bring the lot down on top of him!
Expedition four,
whatever we do!
And as I hurry forward to join Becca,
I see that Matthew lad grab the wet flannel from
Harry,
wrap it round his face and run into the warehouse.
Matthew,
no!
Hold your horses!
Damn your eyes!
Hold them!
Matthew!
Time all but stopped for me then.
I stood and I blinked.
Just once.
It were like a thousand years past.
Then me eyes were open and Matthew comes running
out.
Bundled in his arms.
Our Paul.
Paul!
Oh,
thank you lad,
thank you.
Your man.
All that smoke.
Paul's chests were never right after.
No,
but he lived.
He lived for years more.
Made me and thee grandparents.
All because of that runaway.
That Matthew Morland.
Matthew Morland.
I'd still like to thrash him now,
though.
Weren't his fault Becca left.
If you want to blame anyone,
blame Fat George.
After the fire,
Matthew was a hero.
Fat George could have rewarded him,
turned a blind eye.
Let him stay on in Rochdale.
Maybe even work the boats.
But no.
The sun coming up.
Fire out.
But warehouse still smouldering.
He stands there.
Spouting his rules and regulations.
You are in violation of a minimum of forty rules
in the Hollingworth Workhouse Court of Conduct.
I've no choice but to take you back,
lad.
Of course,
you have a choice.
Mam,
Dad,
tell him.
I ain't going back.
Seems harsh.
Aye,
let the boy be.
But you're gonna take him in,
are you?
We could blame ourselves and all.
Didn't have room or ink coming up to take him
off.
I still,
I still wish we had,
though.
Oh,
the look on Becca's face when we shake our heads.
Mumble our excuses.
Disgust.
That's the only word.
Any respect she still had for us,
it went there and then.
Mam,
Dad!
That kiss.
I'm sorry,
but the law's clear.
You're coming back with me.
I ain't going nowhere with you,
putt-putts.
The lad bops that fat rod right on the nose.
Sends him staggering backwards.
And he turns to our Becca.
And I already know what he's gonna say to her.
I'm going London,
Becca.
Come with me.
Yes.
So I have her arm gripped hard before her legs
have even thought about making off.
And fat George,
his nose still bleeding,
wobbles to a stop.
Draws himself up to his full height,
and there ain't no other word for it.
Charges at Matthew.
Matthew!
Matthew sprints off,
fat George in pursuit.
And Becca,
poor Becca.
It broke my heart to keep my old honour.
To stop her running after.
And it broke hers too.
When I were young and in me prime.
As lazy as can be.
I stepped on board a Mersey Flatter number 23.
You have been listening to Scuttled.
Episode 2.
Directed by James Steventon.
Starring Christopher Eccleston,
Joyce Branagh,
Becky Kershaw,
Kimberly Cochrane,
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 knocked lot.
That better frame and start pumping.
For I think we've sprung a leak.
And I wish I'd never gone boating.
For me living fur to see.