The Loom Part 1

The LOOM.

SANDRA VAN AREND.

In loving memory of my mother.

Maria Burrow.

These stories are her stories Many thanks to my brother-in-law Hans van Arend.

Who helped to get this book launched.

PROLOGUE.

Leah had only a vague recollection of her father in those days: an often absent figure, big to her smallness and very dark (although Harold was, in fact, of medium height and quite slim). Post separation Leah's knowledge of her father was second-hand, through her mother mainly, although she would sometimes catch glimpses of him in the small town where they lived.

Leah was a little afraid of her father, although he'd kept his distance, quite possibly because Emma had told him to. When she was older Leah noticed that he was always nattily dressed, back as straight as a ramrod, even in drink. She avoided him where she could, although Harold had never been violent.

Leah was wary of men when she was young, (and even as an adult), most probably because she had very little to do with them, and thankfully Emma never had another relationship with a man. One's enough, Emma would say, with feeling.

From her mother Leah had formed a sketchy picture of Harold: her father was a drunkard, he was handsome when young and that, to Leah, (always conscious of a good appearance), was a bit of a consolation.

Unfortunately, Harold was run over in middle age by the one and only car in the small northern town of Harwood, where they lived. When they were told the news Emma was sad, but she was definitely not prostrated with grief and although she hadn't wished him dead, his death did not affect her a great deal. She did, however, comment that he'd never had much luck, although only Emma knew all the details.

PART ONE.

CHAPTER ONE.

Harold was drunk again! Nothing unusual! He stumped around in the scullery, banging into things. A drawer was pulled open, viciously. The cutlery in it, what little they had, rattled noisily. The drawer was warped, and she could hear him trying vainly to get it back in, muttering and cursing. He stumbled around.

'd.a.m.n and blast.'

He was worse tonight! You put up with it she'd been told, time and time again, like most of the women in Harwood, whose men were boozers. Men who worked long hours in the mines, coming home parched and weary from stints in those subterranean caverns, covered in coal dust, lungs rotting from it, to slake their thirst in the nearest pub.

Who could blame them?

Emma Hammond did! She would have been willing to accept it, though. What she couldn't accept was Harold's womanising! Drink, yes, another woman, definitely no! She'd had enough!

On this particular night she'd sent Darkie, Leah and Janey to bed early, all of them complaining they weren't tired, they wanted to play, to read, anything but put on their nightwear and get into bed. She'd almost had to take the strap to them, although she wasn't one to normally do that. They didn't know it but they would be woken at first light, even before the knocker up man appeared on the scene.

She'd decided that morning!

So when Harold put his head round the scullery door and slurred, 'where's me dinner, Emma,' he was vaguely surprised, through the fog of drink, when she replied amiably, 'I'll get it for you, Harold. Just hold on a tick, will you.'

Emma closed the door quietly behind her.

'Pick up that parcel, lad,'

she said to Darkie, her eldest child of seven, black hair and coal black eyes like his father, but tall, like her. Leah, four and Janey, two, stood next to him, in coat, bonnet and mittens, which she knew they'd need as it was bitterly cold. Emma had a twinge of conscience as she looked at them as they stood forlornly next to her on the pavement. Poor little sods, Emma thought, as she picked up the other brown paper parcel, but she knew that she couldn't stand it with Harold another minute.

'I'm cold, Mam,' Leah said, shivering.

'Sh...sh... We don't want to wake your Dad. You'll be all right in a minute. We'll walk quick, that'll get us warm. Come on now or we'll miss the train to Accrington.'

Dawn was an eerie morning light, the mist beginning to lift, whorls of ghostly gray hanging spectre-like, wavering and curling like some macabre dancer. The knocker up man had just begun to extinguish the light in the gas lamps.

'It's no good carrying on like that, Emma. What's done's done. You know I always said you shouldn't have married him, now, didn't I?' Dora Winfield gazed at her daughter, a look of sympathy on her face, tinged with exasperation.

'If you say that once more, Mam, I'll scream, I will that.'

Emma Hammond's expressive face was a picture of misery. Her mother sat stolidly on her chair with her usual pint pot of hot, strong tea in her hand. She needed that tea at the moment as she thought of her daughter, of her three grandchildren and that sod of a son-in-law of hers.

They'd only just settled the children upstairs after a round of moaning and crying. There hadn't been a m.u.f.f for at least ten minutes so hopefully, they were asleep. She was just about at the end of her tether with the whole lot!

'I know I've said it before, la.s.s, but it's true and it's no good going around with your face like a poker. That'll do no one any good, least of all the children. They don't know whether they're coming or going, what with the way you're carrying on and b.l.o.o.d.y Harold.'

'I know, I know.'

Emma's face began to twitch. Not again, Dora thought so she said hurriedly.

'Now, now, don't start. It's been nearly three weeks since you left and it's no good crying over spilt milk. Let's just have another nice cup of tea, love and you'll feel better.'

Tea was Dora's remedy for everything! She heaved herself off the chair and put the kettle on to boil for what seemed like the tenth time that morning. Her mother drank gallons of tea and her insides must be black. It was good for dyeing hair, too, according to Dora 'me Mam combed her hair with tea every day of her life and she went to her grave with not a gray hair in her head'.

If she'd heard that once she'd heard it a thousand times, and what a consolation when you were dead! Emma had controlled herself by this time and watched her mother's fat, comforting back looking as steady as the Rock of Gibraltar as she poured water into the teapot.

Dora set the pot of strong, sweet black tea in front of Emma. Then she deliberately placed her hands on the table and put her face close to Emma's, an annoying habit she had, so that Emma could see up her nostril.. She looked away quickly.

'You know what I'd do, our Emma?'

'What?' Emma was sure she'd heard it before but she'd humour her mother because she'd been good with them. She wouldn't like to have three children and a crying daughter hoisted on her. She hadn't wanted to do this to her mother, either. All she wanted was to be back at her own fireside toasting teacakes on a knife in front of the fire, or ironing, or even darning socks, which she hated. Anything would have been preferable to gallivanting around in the middle of the night with three children hanging on to you, moaning and whining that they were cold, they were hungry, they wanted to go home.

'If it was up to me I'd get that b.u.g.g.e.r out of the house.' Emma tuned in again. 'He's got a b.l.o.o.d.y cheek he has, letting you leave and him staying there, all nice and cosy like and he hasn't even bothered to come over and see the children. Not that you're not welcome here, mind, but it's not right: him staying and you and the children having leave.'

Dora straightened up and sat down in the chair with a thump. There, she'd said her bit, now it was up to Emma.

Emma took a piece of calico from the sleeve of her blouse where she'd tucked it, and blew her nose.

Her eyes were red and there was a catch in her voice when she said.

'That's easier said than done. Now, you tell me how on earth I can get him out, short of shooting him, and I'd do that if I could get away with it, I would, the b.l.o.o.d.y swine.'

Emma's face darkened as she thought of Harold and what he'd done to her. Taking up with that fow-faced Annie Mullen! She could kill him, she really could.

'Sorry, what, Mam?' Her mother was looking at her in annoyance.

'Ee, it's like talking to a stone wall sometimes.' Dora said, exasperated.

'I was just saying that I saw Mrs. Rishton from up your street. She's visiting her sister who lives next door here. Do you know what she told me?'

'What?' Emma's mind was not totally on her mother at the moment, but she sat up with a jerk at her mother's next statement. As though she'd been given an electric shock or something, thought Dora. This might just be what she needed to get her off her b.u.m, and stop that crying because that was all she'd done since the day she'd left. Cry! Or go upstairs to the bedroom, fling herself on the bed and cry up there, leaving her to look after the children, thank you very much!

'Mrs. Rishton said that your Harold had given up his job in the pit and has been put on at the new Co-op site at the top of Glebe Street. You know, near the Square. And listen to this, he's got four fellas living with him as well. So what do you think of that for cheek, eh?'

Indignation was written all over Dora's face. Dora could have written a book with her expressions!

'What?' Emma was suddenly filled with rage. 'He can't do that, the cheeky sod.'

'Well, he has, an' all; and not only that. Mrs. Rishton said that there'd been a few drunken sprees in that house: sozzled up to the eyeb.a.l.l.s, all of 'em, from all accounts.'

Emma didn't know how she got back to Harwood so fast. She hadn't been able to wait for the bus she was so incensed at what she'd heard. So she walked, or had she flown, because it seemed no time that she was on the outskirts of Harwood, her mind in a whirl.

Before her lay the small town of Harwood, dingy terrace houses built on the slight incline of the dale, mill chimneys tall and grey, smoke stacks belching putrid black smoke. Emma didn't notice any of this. All she could remember was that she'd been so mad she'd hadn't been able to get out of her mother's house fast enough, and Dora had followed her halfway down the street trying to dissuade her.

'Ee, love, let our Jack take care of it!'

So here she was, back in dreary old Harwood, standing at the top of Glebe Street and wondering what she was going to do. How on earth could she get Harold and those men out? She stood for a moment, thinking - a tall slim young woman all in black: black dress, black clogs, shawl and white pinny. An idea slowly began to form. Didn't Albert Norton in the next street have a ladder? He was a painter and decorator so he should. She remembered Albert's wife always saying as how he seemed to get more paint on him than on what he was painting.

'I don't know how he sees through his gla.s.ses, I don't, they're that thick with paint, and I have to get it off with a razor; takes me ages'.

She'd give Albert a try, because she knew he was a kind man. He'd helped her one day when she'd sprained her ankle, carried her home and deposited her on the sofa like a sack of potatoes.

Albert was not too keen to lend his ladder, especially when Emma wouldn't tell him exactly why she wanted it. She wasn't sure herself yet she explained, but could she please borrow it, looking at him with her big black eyes, so he hadn't been able to refuse.

'Well, I'll bring it around for you, then, love,' he said, not unkindly, because he could see that Emma was all het up over something. 'It's a bit heavy.'

'Oh, thanks Mr. Norton, thanks a lot.'

When they reached number five, Emma's house, Mr. Norton stopped to get his breath back because Emma had almost run from his house to hers and he'd had a job keeping up.

'Just lean it against the top window sill, if you wouldn't mind.'

Albert looked at Emma, his eyebrows raised.

'Don't worry,' Emma said. 'I won't be a minute. I just want to see if Mrs. Rishton next door can lend me some coal.'

Mrs. Rishton was reluctant about the coal.

'I'll give it back, Mrs. Rishton, don't worry.'

'Aye, think on that tha does.' Mrs.Rishton wasn't over generous. Rubs two farthings together for two days before she spends it, Emma always said of her, but she had to admit coal was very expensive at the moment.

Emma walked back to the ladder with the bucket of coal. She took enough to fill her pinny, which she tied up about her waist. Then she went unsteadily up the ladder to the upstairs window.

Albert held the ladder apprehensively. 'Be careful, love,' he said, watching her climb up.

Mrs. Rishton stood on her doorstep. Her mouth was set in a tight line of disapproval (as usual, like a duck's you know what Emma thought). By this time other neighbours stood watching.

'What's she up to?'

'b.u.g.g.e.red if I know.'

When Emma reached the top she leant against the sill, feeling the bulky bits of coal against her stomach. She was afraid to look down. She'd forgotten how much she hated heights. Even standing on a chair made her dizzy. So instead she concentrated on the window, only now she had to free her hand from its vice-like grip at the top of the ladder. She had to get the window open somehow. If she leaned hard against the sill the coal wouldn't fall out of her pinny, she could hold the side of the ladder with one hand and open the window with the other. She hoped to G.o.d the window wasn't locked! She put her hand to the lower half and pushed, then breathed a sigh of relief when it opened. She could hear comments from people gathered around the ladder.

'Ee, she'll fall, she will. What the h.e.l.l does she think she's doing?'

'What's it look like. Aye, if she's not careful she'll fall and break her b.l.o.o.d.y neck!'

Emma had the window fully open by this time and almost gagged at the smell: beer, vomit, urine and other obnoxious odours, which almost knocked her off the ladder. What was she doing here, she suddenly wondered in a moment of fleeting panic? Standing on a ladder outside a bedroom window with her pinny full of coal? She must be mad, she really must. If her mother could see her now she'd have a fit. She was nearly having a fit herself she was so terrified of falling. She closed her eyes for a moment, feeling the sweat trickling down the side of her face.

The sight inside the bedroom was one she wouldn't ever forget. A pig pen looks better, she later told her mother. Five men lay sprawled around the room. Only two were on the bed. Most were snoring loudly, all quite oblivious to Emma's look of rage as she peered in. The next moment they were bombarded with coal. Emma saw Harold on the bed and hit him with the biggest piece. He opened his eyes and yelled loudly when he saw Emma with hand raised, ready to let fly with another one.

'What the h.e.l.l do you think you're doing, Emma?' he yelled, trying in vain to dodge the avalanche, ducking this way and that with his hands over his head. 'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, you're going to kill me!'

'Serve you right if I did,' she yelled back.

The men shot down the stairs and out the front door, only half dressed. The crowd jeered as they staggered and swayed up the street, Emma watching in satisfaction from the top of the ladder.

'Good riddance, you lot of drunken sods,' she called. 'If you come here again I'll call the police and that includes you, Harold.'

Harold turned around and made a rude sign. Emma shook her fist at him, but there was a smile of satisfaction on her face.

I've done it, she thought, by G.o.d I've done it. I've got 'em out!

CHAPTER TWO.

After the coal episode most people thought it would only be a matter of time before Emma was back with Harold. To everyone's surprise this didn't happen. Emma was kindhearted, but she was stubborn. Nor did she like to be made a fool of.