The Loom Part 4

Darkie walked towards the pit, bait tin in hand. The grayness of the day, the bleak surroundings of the pit, the slag heaps and stark bareness of it added to his depression. b.l.o.o.d.y horrible place, he thought. I'm going to be out of this soon. If it's the last thing I do, I'll be out of it. He could see the men gathering at the shaft head where the cage took them deep into the bowels of the earth. Paddy was there and he lifted his hand when he saw Darkie. Darkie returned the wave half-heartedly.

Ed Beasely, his pale, weasel face settled into its usual irritable scowl, called out.

'All right you lot, get a move on. We haven't got all day.'

There were a few disparaging remarks, kept in low key because Ed was in charge of the shift and he could be a nasty b.u.g.g.e.r. They crowded into the cage and it began its descent. Most were used to this daily ritual, but Darkie still couldn't rid himself of the sickening sensation as his stomach seemed to lift almost out of his body as the train dropped like a train into h.e.l.l.

Darkie hated the claustrophobic work. The hard grind and back breaking toil, day in and day out. Yet, listening to some of the old timers and their stories, he realized he was well off. How children as young as three would be used in the mines to lift the trap doors, sitting in darkness for hours on end. Of women and young girls used as beasts of burden and worse. He had been horrified as he listened. How could people treat others like that, he had wondered? It had been the strikes and agitation for reforms, over many years, which had gradually changed conditions for the better.

Darkie lay wedged in a narrow tunnel. Sweat poured out of him. He wielded his pick at the jet ma.s.s above, which shone blue-black in the light of his lamp. The colour of Kitty's hair, he thought. Everything he did he equated with Kitty. Her face flashed through his brain a hundred times a day, smiling, laughing, teasing, serious. Like the silent movies, he thought, giving a continual repeat performance. It was driving him mad!

He glanced across at Paddy working a few feet away. His hair was the same colour as Kitty's. Stop it! He swung his pick viciously and shifted his position as huge chunks dislodged from the rock face. The whites of his eyes gleamed in the sooty blackness. He continued with the feverish pace. Chips flew wildly and he felt one hit his cheek, then the wetness of blood. He took perverse enjoyment in the physical pain. It alleviated his mental anguish, however temporarily. Another slither of coal bit into his skin. He winced. It was probably less dangerous at the Front than it was down here, he thought. He would go soon. When he got the courage to tell his Mam, he'd go. He continued with the back-breaking toil: lift the pick, slash at the coal face, pull, twist, until the jet black ma.s.s fell, repeat, again and again and again!

Darkie and the men near him stopped hacking at the first yell. They were frozen for a moment, listening. Then the rumbling turned into a thunderous roar. Darkie heard Paddy cry his name. Men threw down their picks and began to run down the tunnel towards them. They were all running now, heads bent. The roaring increased, drowning out the screams. Rocks bombarded them like missiles. A chunk hit Darkie he didn't feel a thing, only the wetness. He kept going. Men pushed at his back, maddened. Only with great effort did he manage to stay upright.

Just as suddenly the roaring stopped. The silence following was even more ominous. It was punctuated by a high-pitched scream. An agonizing scream! Darkie felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. They waited for the dust to subside, still listening to the sound. Then some of the men went back along the tunnel. The screaming came from a man trapped from the waist down by a huge boulder. Paddy? He looked around and heaved a sigh of relief when he saw him standing a few feet away. The victim was one of the new Irish immigrants who were pouring into Harwood. Mike Flannigan had only just arrived from Dublin with his wife and eight children. Darkie bent down and looked into Mike's agonized eyes.

'It'll be all right, Mike, just hang on, hang on.' He liked Mike. His eyes filled with tears. Why did this always have to be the way? He brushed a hand over his eyes. He pushed and shoved with the others to dislodge the boulder. Mike's screams had subsided to a weak moan. A great gush of blood, like an obscene tongue, suddenly leapt from Mike's mouth. Darkie jumped back as Mike gave a last shuddering breath. The men looked silently at one another. What could be said? Mike was dead. It had happened before, it would happen again. They walked back down to the cage in silence and got in.

Paddy was crammed next to him. He could feel him shaking. He had a large gash on his forehead from which blood ran steadily down the side of his face. Darkie pulled out a large piece of cloth from his pocket. 'Here,' he said, handing it to Paddy. His own hand trembled. 'Thanks,' Paddy whispered.

'Bit b.l.o.o.d.y close, that one, eh.'

Paddy nodded, dabbing at the wound. 'Too b.l.o.o.d.y close.'

Darkie was still trembling when the cage reached the top. The back of his head hurt. He'd been scared stiff, b.l.o.o.d.y scared stiff. That was definitely it! He'd had enough of the pit and he'd either get another job or join up. Anything was preferable to that h.e.l.lhole.

He drew another shaky breath. His mother hadn't wanted him to work in the pit but no, he'd had to have his own way. It had been the pay, but the pay was no good if you were six feet under, was it? He shuddered as he thought of how close they'd all come to being trapped down there. Entombed alive which was worse than what had happened to poor Mike. I'd rather die with a bullet in me, he thought!

Emma sat in the old chair in front of the window. A large portion of the stuffing protruded from a hole in the side. She stared out onto the cobbled yard, eyes bleak. An Indian summer had descended on Harwood and the sun shone down onto the bare back yard, glistening blindingly off the slates on the shed roof at the bottom.

A black cat stood on them with its back arched, staring with unblinking yellow eyes at the motionless figure of Emma at the window. The cat paused for a moment and then disdainfully swung gracefully around, jumped onto the next coit with a flick of its tail and disappeared from view into the next yard.

Emma sighed. She brushed a stray wisp of hair back from her forehead. It was hot, she thought, undoing the two top b.u.t.tons of her blouse. She continued her stare into the back yard and thought of the recent events, which had turned her life upside down. She felt she'd aged twenty years since then. Her once open, happy face was haggard and drawn.

Kitty's death had hit them hard especially Darkie and she knew that her worst fear concerning him would soon be realized. She'd known what he'd do, if not straight away, then soon. Even though he was under age, they'd take him. A big strapping lad! Of course they would! They'd jump at him, especially now that the war wasn't going well and they needed all the manpower they could get. What was the point of it all, Emma thought wearily; all those men dying and for what? People's lives didn't get any better, did they?

Emma bit her lip. She'd better not cry or she wouldn't stop. For the past week she felt as though she'd had a lump of lead on her chest. She was unable to sleep at night and during the day was so tired that each night she thought, I should sleep the night, but this had been a vain hope. When at last she did sleep, her nightmares were so terrible she was thankful to wake, only to lie in a torment of half sleep, her mind dwelling always on the source of her fear.

She swallowed and brushed a hand across her eyes. She'd never been a crier, not even when her Mam had died, and she'd loved her Mam. She shook her head to try to get rid of her morbid thoughts. Come on now, Emma la.s.s, she remonstrated with herself. It's no good getting all het up before there's something to get het up about. He hasn't joined up yet. But then she thought of all the wives without husbands, mothers without sons, and the dwindling numbers of young boys and men on the streets of Harwood. The dread welled again.

And what about those who had come home! She gave a shudder, thinking of the maimed men who had returned. Leah and Janey had made paper flowers to sell for the war effort and had taken the money to Whalley Hospital. A nurse took them around some of the wards. That was an experience she never wanted again. Leah and Janey hadn't been able to sleep for nights after that. She shouldn't have taken them, but how was she to know the horror of it! It had brought home like nothing else the appalling waste of war!

It was on Kitty's death that Emma dwelt most often. How it had affected all their lives. How Shamus and Mara were still inconsolable in their grief. How she, herself, would often find her eyes filling at the thought. A wonderful light had gone out of their lives with Kitty's death.

Leah still hadn't got over it, especially the way Kitty had died. It had taken Emma all her time to persuade her to go back to work. Leah had nightmares for weeks after, waking screaming at the top of her voice and scaring Emma half to death. Then she'd stated that she wasn't ever going back to the mill.

'But what are you going to do?' Emma said in dismay.

'I don't know, but I'll find something.'

'What about the munitions factories?'

'I don't know, Mam, I don't know. All I do know is that I never want to go into another mill as long as I live.'

Annie Fitton had been in and out every day since the tragedy, doing her best to cheer them up, her fat face (and all her chins) all of a tremble with the effort.

Emma had been thankful for Annie (as usual Leah was fed up with her and even Janey, who it normally didn't bother, complained). When Annie heard about Leah, saw Leah's white, drawn face, her constant tears she 'put on her thinking cap' as she said to Emma later.

'I got to thinking, Emma love,' she said, frowning, her fat face creased into numerous rolls. 'It's such a shame that your Leah wants to give up weaving, her being such a good little weaver, but I suddenly remembered something our Rosie said, you know, my brother Ted's girl, who used to work up at Hyndburn Hall. She said she heard from the housekeeper up there that they're looking for a new kitchen maid. Miss Fenton, the housekeeper, you remember her don't you, a nice woman? Well, she said that Doreen Ormrod, ee, I never liked her, got in the family way and had to leave and G.o.d only knows who the father is. But anyroad, as I was saying, they need a couple of maids and they're finding it hard because all the young 'uns want to work in the factories, especially the munitions. I know the pay's probably better in the mill but I'm sure that won't bother Leah, will it? What if I ask Rosie to put in a good word with Miss Fenton?'

Emma listened patiently to the garbled account. She was used to Annie and it always took her a while to get to the point. Her face was hopeful at the end of it.

'Would you, Annie? Who would have thought our Leah would have taken Kitty's accident so bad. It would be a G.o.dsend if she could get a job at the Hall, because I know that the Townsends are a nice family. I don't know how she'll get on in the kitchen. She's quick, though and if they need any mending done, Leah's your girl. She's good with a needle is Leah, tell Rosie to tell Miss Fenton that, will you?'

Annie nodded, all her chins wobbling at once. 'I'll do that Emma, straight away.'

Annie had put in 'her good word' and Leah had been summoned to the Hall the week before for an interview.

Emma had seen her off, dressed neatly in her dark long dress, stockings and clogs. Emma had rubbed her hair with a silk cloth and then tied it back in two tight plaits. It shone like a new minted sovereign! Emma was proud of Leah's hair.

'Now don't worry, la.s.s,' she said as she waved goodbye. 'Just use your manners like you've been taught and you'll be right.'

'They're n.o.bs, though. I'm not used to talking to n.o.bs.'

'They're only people, so don't worry.'

Leah had been too awed at the interview to really take anything in except that everything around her was the complete opposite of Glebe Street. The luxury of Hyndburn Hall left her speechless and she felt that she'd stuttered her way through the interview without knowing what in the world she'd said. Miss Fenton seemed to be kindly, she could remember that and amazingly she'd been put on, for a month's trial. She'd raced home to tell her Mam, the world suddenly a brighter place, Kitty's death already beginning to seem like a nightmare from which she was gradually waking.

Emma was unsettled and uneasy at all the changes that had suddenly charged into her life (like a mad bull she would think at times). Leah would be living at the Hall during the week because it was too far away for a daily walk. Darkie would be gone, too, no doubt about that! He hadn't been able to meet her eye lately, though he'd said nothing. He'd been so down in the dumps. She couldn't blame him, poor lad. He'd been besotted with Kitty. In the flush of first love! It was a shame, it was! Emma gave another heartfelt sigh and got up slowly to put the kettle on for a cup of tea.

PART TWO.

CHAPTER FIVE.

This part of the north of England is steeped in history: old Roman roads wind their tenuous way up the Pennines, there is evidence of Viking invasions, monasteries dating back to the Normans and so on and so on. It is even said that Cromwell rode over the old bridge at Mitten!

The first Hyndburn Hall was built in the sixteenth century. It was bequeathed to a squire, later knighted by Queen Elizabeth the First. He then sold it and moved south (where it was warmer) and eventually the Hall ended up in the hands of the Townsends, wealthy mill owners.

Hyndburn Hall lay in a slight hollow between the Calder and Hyndburn Rivers, which formed the northern and eastern boundaries of Harwood. When the Hall was rebuilt in the late eighteen hundreds on the ashes of the previous residence, which had been razed to the ground, presumably due to a careless servant, the Scottish architect had been aghast when told that the house was to face the north.

'You'll regret it, Mr. Townsend, you'll regret it. Those winds from yon north'll be nay good for the front of yon house, nay good at all.'

'I'd rather the cold north winds than the view of Harwood,' Henry Townsend declared firmly. The architect shook his head and the builders had gone ahead with the house, which faced northeast, a slight concession. In winter thought, the freezing winds would sweep into the front hall on the opening of the huge oak door, but to compensate, so Henry insisted firmly, was the grand view: first of all were the scenic gardens; green manicured lawns, hedges and rose gardens, terraces filled with colour, pathways edged with nodding flowers and st.u.r.dy shrubs. Further afield (and more importantly to Henry) were the meadows, moors, copses, the sparkling Calder and beyond this, in the distance, Pendle Hill and the Pennines rising serene and majestic, in summer startlingly clear, in winter often enveloped in swirling mists and fog but still breathtakingly beautiful.

On a mild, clear spring day, the sky overhead a pale blue helmet, a horseman rode down the winding gravelled drive of Hyndburn Hall. He was bare headed, his straight black hair flopping over his face as his body rose and fell with the long, loping canter of the horse. He was completely at ease, almost seeming part of the animal, (a centaur in tight fitting jodhpurs and white open necked shirt), as he had been ever since his father had given Midnight to him when he was fifteen.

Stephen Townsend looked around, almost hungrily. The sky still had that pale, gray-blue newly washed look of the early morning. A thrush took wing close to his face and he followed it for a moment as it soared into the trees. Had he ever looked this closely at Hyndburn before? He doubted it. Like everything else he'd taken it all for granted. Now each trill of a bird, each whispering cadence of leaves stirred gently by the breeze, touched a nerve, exposing his emotions like a flower opening to the welcome warmth of the sun. He'd always loved his early morning rides, the feeling that he was quite alone in the universe, at peace with himself.

He'd recently been given a brand new Harley for his twenty-first birthday. He had hardly used it. Roaring around on a bike couldn't compare with what he was doing at the moment, especially when he came home. Noise was something he sought to avoid now. It was all noise at the Front. Noise and horror! He would try not to think of it! He only had two short weeks of leave.

Stephen Townsend had turned twenty-one at the beginning of the year. He was at the Front at the time. The advent of World War One had seen a surge of volunteers, eager to get into the action because everyone said that it would all be over by Xmas! Stephen, like all these young men, afraid that he'd miss out on the action had volunteered as soon as he turned eighteen, much to his father's horror and his stepmother's disapproval. But the tide of patriotic fervour had just swept him along, as it had so many others.

At eighteen he had been a callow youth, born with the proverbial silver spoon planted firmly in his mouth. His mother had died giving birth giving birth to him, and he could only imagine the horror of this and had felt guilty all his life. His father, naturally, never spoke of it. The death of his mother had created a void in his life, and his stepmother failed to fill it. When war began it seemed natural for him to join up. His head had been full of the glories of war. These had not lasted long. Now he was only too aware of his misconceptions and what war really meant: constant fear, pain, uncertainty and misery.

These thoughts of the war were never far from his mind, even now on this wonderful morning and all those hundreds of miles from the action. So he was only dimly aware that suddenly he wasn't alone on the drive and he reigned in his horse with an oath as a small figure scrambled onto the gra.s.s verge.

'Watch what you're doing, you silly sod!' The voice was high-pitched and tinged with fear.

He fought to control Midnight, who pranced and snorted at the sudden appearance of a young girl, who stood trembling on the side of the drive. Bringing his horse around Stephen looked down in amazement at Leah Hammond's angry face. Leah was trembling. Hadn't she had enough frights?

'What did you call me?' he said.

'Silly sod; you should just watch where you're going. You nearly killed me you did!'

Stephen's mouth twitched. Did she realize how odd she looked? She wore a long black dress b.u.t.toned down the front and reaching just above her ankles, black stockings and ungainly black clogs. His gaze travelled upwards to a small face from which flowed this strong dialect. He laughed suddenly, throwing back his head and snorting out loud.

'Go on then, laugh. It must be right funny to nearly kill somebody.' She had her hands on her hips and her initial fear had turned to anger. Who did he think he was, nearly killing her and then laughing about it? He had a right cheek, he did. Leah stood in annoyed silence as Stephen continued to chuckle. He hadn't laughed in months. He felt better already. He looked down at Leah, who had dropped a number of brown paper parcels.

'What's in those,' he said, pointing.

'Me clothes.'

'Clothes?'

'Aye, I've been put on as maid up at the Hall, but I nearly didn't make it, did I, thanks to you,' Leah said defiantly.

Stephen quirked an eyebrow, 'What, no silly sod this time,' he said.

Leah's anger subsided at the words. Had she really called him that? A frown of worry crossed her face. Her Mam would be really mad at her if she knew. But she hadn't been able to help it. It had just come out in her fright.

'I might be a silly sod,' Stephen said, 'And I apologize if I frightened you, but you should be more careful. You shouldn't walk right in the middle. What if a car came roaring around the corner?'

Leah continued to stare at Stephen in perplexed silence. What had she done? The last thing her Mam had said was to think before she spoke, especially when speaking to the gentry. By the sound of this man's voice he was the gentry. Oh, she'd really put her foot in it this time and would probably get the sack before she'd even started.

'You'd better go on up,' Stephen said more kindly, seeing Leah's agitation. She nodded. He gave his horse a slight kick and continued on down the drive, his mouth still twitching.

He rode on to the house. Hyndburn Hall came into view and he rode around the front of the house and down the far side. The Hall was a three-storey structure and this morning the sun glinted off the many mullioned windows. The stone facade was fronted by a large circular drive. An ornate fountain in the middle shot a spray of water though which the sun shone, creating a miniature rainbow. Two sets of wide stone steps in a pincer shape curved, one to the right and one to the left, ending in a wide, stone terrace to the main entrance. On either side of the large oak door there were two stone columns holding up an intricately carved portico.

Stephen rode around to the back of the house where the stables were located, also carriage houses, the garages which housed a new Rolls and Bentley, men's servants quarters, a dairy, vegetable gardens and, further on, the orchards. Hyndburn Hall was almost wholly self-sufficient, except for such things as tea, sugar and flour, which were delivered fortnightly by the carrier from Harwood.

As he approached the stables a young lad of about fourteen appeared. Seeing Stephen he hurried to hold the reins.

'Give him a good rub down, Ned, there's a good lad,' Stephen said, getting off the horse.

'I will that, Master Stephen,' Ned said, rubbing Midnight's head. 'He likes a good rub down, don't you, Midnight me beauty?' Ned patted the horse affectionately.

Stephen ruffled Ned's hair. 'I know he's in good hands with you, Ned.'

'Aye, he is, Master Stephen,' Ned said. He flushed and looked embarra.s.sed but he was pleased at the compliment.

Ned loved horses almost as much as he hero-worshiped Stephen, who had rescued him from a life of poverty and misery in the back streets of Harwood, where beatings from his drunken father had been a daily occurrence.

Stephen had found him one day, on the road leading out of Harwood, beaten almost within an inch of his life. He'd taken him back to Hyndburn and there he'd stayed. He'd never gone home again and he hadn't missed it, except for his Mam, who had enough on her plate anyway with the ten other children she had to care for.

Leah continued slowly up the drive, watching as the big black horse (which had almost killed her) and its rider, disappeared from view. Now she could see the Hall, resplendent in the early morning sun and she drew in her breath. She stopped and stared in fascination.

She had never seen it so close before, only glimpses of it between the trees when she and Janey and Darkie, in an unusual adventurous foray a few years ago, instigated by Darkie, had climbed the high wall surrounding the property.

Leah remembered how nervous she'd been. She hadn't Darkie's adventurous spirit, and had been terrified that they would be caught.. Janey was more like Darkie, eyes bright with excitement at doing something she shouldn't.

So they'd stayed perched on the wall for some time, (where Darkie had hoisted them) until a short, squat man in corduroy trousers and jacket and a peaked cap had shouted at them. He carried a long, k.n.o.bbly stick and had appeared through the trees before they could jump off the wall.

'Go on, get away with you,' he yelled. 'This is private property. Go on, b.u.g.g.e.r off!' They stared at him in fright, jumped down and ran home as fast as they could.

So this was her first real view of the Hall and she stood for a moment or two trying to take in the magnificence. She suddenly realized the encounter with the man on the horse would probably have made her late and she hurried on down the side of the house to the back door.

Maud Walters was the cook at Hyndburn and at the moment she was kneading pastry with her firm, capable hands. She was up to her elbows in flour and loving it, for cooking was one of her greatest pleasures. She'd been up since five thirty and already had made a batch of pies and three trays of bread, which at the moment filled the kitchen with mouth-watering aromas.

Maud was not your ordinary, run of the mill cook. Her culinary talents were exceptional and she had the ability to make any dish tasty, whether it was cordon bleu or simple hotpot.

Maud shook the flour off her hands and bent down to place another tray of pies in the oven, her neat trim figure another misconception that cooks tended to be fat. In fact, even at forty Maud was, as Bob Watkins the gardener had admiringly commented one day, a fine looking female and a really grand woman into the bargain. Any man worth his salt would be a numbskull if he didn't try to woo her. Bob had tried, but Maud would have none of it.

Maud was a widow and intended to stay that way and even though she hated living on her own, it was preferable to living with a man. Her first marriage had not been made in heaven and she wasn't going to take the chance that a second one would. But her loneliness had got the better of her and this was one of the reasons she'd taken the job at the Hall.

The war had taken her husband and two strapping sons, for whom she still cried at night in the privacy of her room. So she'd jumped at the chance to do some cooking and to get amongst people and have a bit of company again. She'd never got on with her daughter and anyway, Maggie had married and gone to live in Manchester, so she didn't see her from one year's end to the next. So there had been no one left to cook for, except herself and she didn't have a lot of interest in eating.

Maud went back to the table and began to knead another lot of bread. She thought again of how this job had been a G.o.dsend. It had only been temporary, initially. She'd filled in for Mrs. Dobson, who'd broken her ankle in a snowdrift. Her luck must have been in, because they'd offered her the job permanently when the ankle had failed to mend. The n.o.bs knew when they were well off, though, because even if she did say so herself her cooking was a labour of love.

' A wonderful dinner, Mrs. Walters,' they would say time and time again. And so they should, she thought, with another determined thump to the bread. Mrs. Dobson had been a bit of a slacker, if you could believe all the stories going around.

At the moment Maud's mind wasn't entirely on her cooking. It kept wandering to the imminent arrival of the new girl, who was expected at any moment.

As if voicing her thoughts Gertie Wicklow, the parlour maid, came into the kitchen to prepare a tray for upstairs.