'The Black Country, black by day, red by night.'

Elihu Burritt, 1868

Chapter 1

After the rolling hills, rich farmland, and deep peaceful valleys of the Devon countryside, arriving in the Midlands was like entering the antechamber of hell. Darkness was closing in with every mile but Molly could not tell whether it was true nightfall or simply a result of the grime and bitter choking smog thrown up by the extensive factory workings and mining taking place in the area.

When she'd changed trains in Birmingham she'd ended up sharing a carriage with a middle aged man who was proud to call the Black Country home. As the train had trundled North East towards Tipton, he'd told her something of the industrial history of the area and pointed out some of the major factories including the car plant for which he was a travelling rep. Then, with a rather disturbing glint in his eye, he'd told her about fiery holes – deep workings in the ground where the slack left by thick seam mining had spontaneously caught fire and burned unceasingly for years at a time. She shivered with pleasurable fear as he'd described how the smoke poured from the old mine entrances filling the air with sulphurous fog and choking the life out of entire villages.

As they had alighted from the train at Tipton she had looked about her somewhat desperately. Father Grey had said that she would be met at the station but other than a few other third class passengers and the station master there had been no one in sight.

The station was deserted now. Even her garrulous companion from Birmingham had gone, tipping her a cheery wink as he strode off to join his family. She felt as if she had lost her last friend in the world and wished desperately that she'd begged him to wait with her. She sat, exhausted and depressed, on the edge of her travelling trunk as the darkness settled around her. The station master tried to comfort her in his own rough way but she had never felt so lost and alone. She could feel the weight of unshed tears pressing at her eyelids.

Old Joe, her father, had never been the same since he'd gone away to war. The man who'd called her his sweet chavi and ruffled her dark curls as she snuggled in his lap in front of the hearth fire had died in Flanders field. What had returned was a mere shadow, a puppet, who'd laughed and smiled when prompted but was mostly lost in the horror of his memories. She had been nine when he'd gone to war and eleven when he'd returned. In his absence she had help Young Joe, her father's apprentice, by working the bellows and keeping the horses calm during shoeing. When he'd returned he'd shown Young Joe what there was left to teach him and allowed Molly to learn the farrier's art alongside him. An apprenticeship was seven years. Molly had completed five before her father died. It had caused some comment but as long as the work was done, and the lord of the manor was content, people were disinclined to comment.

Despite the deep contentment she'd found at the forge her father had become more and more and more of a stranger to her. Perhaps if her mother hadn't died of the flu back in 1919 things would have been ok; perhaps if she'd been a more dutiful daughter she could have saved him? Perhaps. Perhaps. But what was the point of perhaps? It had almost been a relief when she found him hanging in the barn. His pain was over and she had to believe that he was now reunited with her mother and all her siblings who never lived long enough to learn how to milk the cow, or work the bellows, or come chasing butterflies with her in the lower meadow. Still it had hurt to know that she could not help him and that he would rather that she be alone in the world than live with his own nightmares for a moment longer.

The village priest, Father Grey, was a good man. He had fought beside her father and knew the demons that had driven him to take his own life. Despite the vicious carping of the village good-wives, he'd given Old Joe a good send off and not even condemned him to the north side of the graveyard where tradition demanded that suicides were buried. After the service she had sat with him in his study in the small rectory planning what she would do with the rest of her life. She was 17 and the life she knew was over. She felt deeply out of place in the formal environment far more used to sweat in the forge

'Your mother told me once about her family.' Father Grey had said. 'I know that they were estranged but did she ever mention them to you?'

'Not really, Reverend. She only said that her own father had never accepted her marriage so she ran away. There was never any contact after that.'

'That is not strictly true', Reverend Grey said gently. 'After your grandfather died, your grandmother sent word begging your mother to contact her. Some letters were exchanged. As your mother could not really read and write, I was privy to the correspondence. When your father… died… I took the liberty of writing to the priest in your grandmother's village. You're to leave on the Saturday train.'

'What do you mean 'leave'?' She's asked in confusion. 'This is my home!'

Reverend Grey had looked at her sadly and slowly shaken his head. 'There is nothing here for you now child. The gossips will never let the matter of your father's suicide rest and you have no family here to support you.'

'But I have the forge. Dad taught me and Young Joe everything we need to know to keep it running.'

'Joe will be fine but people here will never accept you as a farrier.' He had patted her rather awkwardly on the knee before continuing. ' Your father was a craftsman. When he was alive they could overlook the fact that you assisted him. Now people need the certainty of the old ways again and they will reject that which does not fit. I've spoken to Lord Fallowfield. He agrees that Young Joe can take over the running of the forge in your father's place but you will have to go to your mother's family in Tipton'

'Tipton? Where be that to?' She had asked, confused.'

'The Midlands.' Came the solemn reply and five days later she had found herself in a third class train carriage with her whole life disappearing down the tracks behind her.

'Where be that to?' is a West Country way of asking 'Where is that?'