The Loom Part 6

'I'm sorry, Father. I'd like to do all those things, but not yet. All I really want is to enjoy Hyndburn whilst I can. And I am enjoying it believe me, even if I'm not laughing my head off all the time.'

George sighed.

'I understand, Stephen. It's entirely up to you. We don't want to push you to do anything you don't want. In actual fact, though, one of the reasons why I suggested London for a week was because your Uncle Paul's arriving today, so your mother informed me this morning. Evidently he rang last night and said he'd be down this afternoon. I told Jessica that he could at least ask if it would be convenient that he come, because I know that he isn't your favourite person. I was quite annoyed when Jessica told me.'

Stephen pulled out a packet of Woodbines from his pocket. He lit one, raising one eyebrow at his father. 'So Uncle Paul's coming, is he? Yes, you're right he's not my favourite person. Far from it and I don't know how you put up with all his visits. He's a sponger and I hate the way Mother kowtows to him. She seems to forget anyone else exists when he's here.'

George frowned. 'Yes, I know. But they've always been close. Twins usually are and if it keeps your mother happy, I don't mind. But I do mind when it puts people out and this time it has.'

'Oh, don't worry about me,' Stephen said. 'I can keep out of his way. Hyndburn Hall's a big place.'

When his father had gone Stephen got up from his chair and stubbed his cigarette out on the ashtray. He went to stand by the window, looking out onto the gardens and well tended lawns of Hyndburn. His father had been right about his uncle. Stephen despised him and he knew that his father had no great liking for him, either. His uncle was a leach!

Paul and Jessica de Lacey came from an aristocratic though impoverished family. Like Jessica, Paul was a sn.o.b and expected all to defer to him, was chagrined when Stephen and George did not. Stephen thought his father was far too easy on Paul, and it annoyed him that George had made Paul manager of one of their Manchester mills (misguided generosity), paying him an exorbitant wage, which Paul did little to earn.

Stephen walked back into the dining room and poured himself another cup of tea. He craved tea. That seemed to be all he could stomach. He was parched all the time, his mouth as dry as a bone in a desert when he awoke in the mornings. So it was tea and of course, his cigarettes, which he reached for a dozen times a day.

From his seat he could see that the roses had reached full bloom, the fallen petals creating a carpet of colour. Fallen, like so many of his friends, he thought sadly. d.i.c.ky Malone, Teddy Brownlow, Buffy Tenant: dying on some lonely field in Flanders. He stared across the gardens to the distant hills of the Pennines. His heart contracted. This might be the last time he ever saw this view and he tried to imagine never coming to this place again, or of seeing his family.

He shook his head to rid himself of the morbid thoughts and turned his mind instead to the impending arrival of his uncle. He put up with Paul for Jessica's sake, but each time he saw Paul de Lacey his dislike increased. However large the Hall, it wasn't large enough for the two of them.

He was grateful, too, that young Ray had been packed off to some cousins in the Lake District. He'd just about got to the end of his tether and had been ready to kick his brother in the backside. The boot was what Raymond needed and right on his spoilt a.r.s.e! After the episode with Gertie Wicklow his father had insisted that Raymond be sent to relatives immediately. Thank G.o.d, Stephen thought, and lit another cigarette. He'd just have another cup of tea and a cigarette and then catch up on some long overdue correspondence

CHAPTER SEVEN.

Leah followed Mrs. Walter's trim figure down the unfamiliar corridor. It was all so strange. How many other servants had done this over the years she wondered? It was quite dark, although a gas lamp shone at the far end and suddenly Leah thought she saw a shape in a long white robe holding a candle flitting across the corridor at the far end. She blinked in astonishment and it was gone.

'What was that?' she said.

'What?' Maud turned to stare at her.

'Oh, nothing, sorry Mrs. Walters,' Leah blushed. She must be imagining things again. Her mother was always telling her she was 'fey', whatever that might mean!

At the end was a narrow, uncarpeted flight of stairs. Maud stopped at the bottom as a dark shape appeared at the top and they both waited as a long thin man descended.

'It's Mr. Grimsby,' Maud said to Leah. 'This is Leah and I'm taking her to see Miss Fenton,' Maud said to the descending man.

Long thin legs in black, was all Leah could see for a moment, then a long body and a long thin face. 'So this is Leah?' He was so tall that Leah had to tip her head back to see him properly. He was like beanstalk! She nodded her head shyly.

'Kettle's just boiled Alf, if you want a cup of tea. I'll be back in a minute after I've got Leah settled in.'

'Thanks Maud, I could do with a cuppa.' Mr. Grimsby nodded at Leah and then walked off, like a two-legged spider.

'Mr. Grimsby's from London, that's why he sounds a bit different like,' Maud explained as they made their way up the stairs. 'He was with the mistress before she married Mr. Townsend.'

Leah listened in silence as Maud chattered on, trailing a little way behind. She was exceedingly nervous, in spite of Maud's attempts to make her feel at home.

They went down another corridor of the first floor, which led to the back of the house. It had dark green carpet and Leah's clogs sank into the thick pile. It was like another world, she thought, her wondering eyes taking in the obvious luxury, from the rich carpets and embossed wallpaper, to the ornate lights (and electric on this floor, not gas she noticed).

Another flight of stairs and they went up these and along a narrow corridor until they came to a door at the end. Maud knocked. The door was opened by a tall, slim, middle-aged woman in a long, dark gray skirt and white blouse b.u.t.toned to the neck and leg of mutton sleeves. Her brown hair was drawn back in a severe chignon, but to Leah's relief she was smiling kindly at her. Leah had met Miss Fenton at the interview but had not really taken much notice at the time.

'Ah, Leah,' she motioned her into the room. 'I've been expecting you,' she continued, eyeing Leah speculatively. She nodded at Maud, 'thank you Mrs. Walters. Leah will be all right now.'

'I'll get back to my cooking then,' Maud said. 'Will you be down for your morning tea as usual?'

'Yes, yes, we'll both be down at ten thirty, thank you.'

'Right then, I'll be on my way.' Maud gave Leah a quick smile and then turned and hurried back down the corridor.

Leah stood timidly and Miss Fenton closed the door and turned back to Leah. 'Don't look so worried, my dear. We'll have a little talk first, shall we?'

Leah nodded. She didn't know what to say and Miss Fenton must think she was daft.

They were in a cosy sitting room, also carpeted, although this carpet was not quite as luxurious as the other carpets. The wallpaper was in a bright, flowered design and two cretonne-covered easy chairs were set on either side of a fireplace. A small fire burned in the hearth, for although it was still summer the warmth had not penetrated the thick stone of the Hall.

Miss Fenton went to sit on a straight backed chair at a round table in the centre of the room. She indicated that Leah sit on the other one, thinking how small Leah looked for fourteen.

'You know, of course, Leah that you are on trial for a month?' Leah nodded and this time managed to whisper.

'Yes, Miss Fenton.' She was still in awe of this woman and her upper cla.s.s accent didn't help at all. She sounded like a real toff!

'Yes, well, I'm sure there won't be any problem there, but you will be working in the kitchen for a week until the new maid starts. Then you'll come to me and help me with the sewing. From what I've heard, Leah you like sewing.'

'Oh, yes I do, Miss Fenton. I love it.' Leah's eyes glowed. Miss Fenton stared. She'd never seen such lovely eyes: such a lovely blue and those long lashes.

Miss Fenton glanced at Leah's hands. They lay in her lap, one hand clenched tightly over the other. Putting out her hand Miss Fenton gently entangled the fists and lifted both onto the table. First she looked at the palms, then turned them over and studied the back of the hand, the nails in particular. Neither was particularly clean, but she noticed the delicate bone structure and the long slim fingers.

'I do insist on one thing, Leah.' Leah looked concerned, 'no, no, not to worry, but you must keep your hands and nails meticulously clean when you're sewing. You'll be handling fine muslins and so on, often white, so you can see that your hands need to be clean. Come,' she rose and beckoned Leah to a wash basin and jug on a stand in the corner. 'Wash your hands now. And clean those nails with that small brush. We can't have you seeing Mrs. Townsend with dirty hands now, can we?'

Leah blinked. She had to see the mistress? No one had told her this. Now she was more nervous than ever and she dropped the nailbrush and let the small hand towel fall on the floor as well, her hands were shaking so much.

Miss Fenton noticed Leah panic.

'Don't worry so much Leah. Come. Look in this room. I'm sure this will cheer you up.' She went to a door on the far side. Leah gazed in delight when she entered. Miss Fenton smiled, pleased at Leah's response. 'Yes, it's a brand new Singer and this is our sewing room.'

'Oh, it's lovely,' Leah couldn't control her pleasure. She'd seen one of those sewing machines in the Co-op and never in her life had she thought she might use one. 'You'll learn to use it, too, Leah; now come. We'd better go and see Mrs. Townsend.' Leah's delight evaporated slightly, but her initial nervousness had gone.

She couldn't wait to start sewing on that new machine. It wouldn't seem like work at all and even that week in the kitchen, well, she could put up with that for that short time. And she'd been thinking she'd rather be in the mill! She must have been mad. Wait till she told Janey and her Mam about the Hall. She liked Miss Fenton, too and if it hadn't been for that Gertie Wicklow and that meeting on the drive she'd be over the moon.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

Had anyone had the temerity to ask Paul de Lacey his opinion of his job as manager of a Manchester mill, he would have replied without compunction that it was 'a sodding bore'. He hated it, although was absent more often than not, relegating the work to Bill Shields, the supervisor.

From the first moment when he'd walked into his small, dreary office his spirit had rebelled. Rebelled at the noise, the daily grind of the weary workers, the gray and depressing walls confining the whole complex (like a prison, he would think).

He even hated Manchester, which he thought just as dreary and grim as the mills. Any opportunity and he was away, so when the chance came to see a client about a large order for a firm in London he headed south in his brand new Rolls.

He'd had a h.e.l.l of a job to get this car out of old tightwad Townsend, as he secretly called his brother in law. b.l.o.o.d.y old skin-flint! Rolling in b.l.o.o.d.y money, but from all accounts Jessica had to almost go on her knees. He'd pay him back, of course, when he could. Old Townsend would never miss the three hundred quid it had cost for the car. George stuck to his money like the proverbial; it must nark him that he couldn't take the blasted stuff when he went. He could, but he wouldn't be able to spend it. But then again, he didn't like spending it here so it probably wouldn't bother him.

Paul had been determined to get this car after going to the Rolls Test Track at Derby. The car had been put through rigorous testing techniques, which had appealed to the German side of his nature, although he'd never had to do any testing or organization in his life. But he appreciated what the car could do. Oh, most definitely! He had to have one! Unfortunately he'd been hard up for cash at the time, as per usual. Townsend didn't pay him half enough! But good old Jess had come up trumps and here he was, in spite of George, purring along in this wonderful machine.

After he'd confirmed the order in London, he set off for the north, reluctantly. Before he went back to the mill he decided to call in and see Jessica. Why they had to live in a G.o.d forsaken place like Harwood, he'd never know. Give him London any day and he'd stretched the excuse to stay in his favourite city another week. Jessica would have preferred to live in London, too, especially as they now had the beautiful house in Belgravia, where he'd just spent the last two weeks. But dear old George preferred Harwood, so in Harwood they stayed.

Paul looked around the rolling countryside. He wouldn't let thoughts of his brother in law spoil the day.

In spite of petrol rationing he'd managed to get enough to take the Rolls up to Lancaster first and visit a cousin of his there. Then he'd taken the long road to Hornby, through Caton and Brookhouse to the Lune Valley, where the Lune River flowed eerily into the hill mists. The car had taken every road like a dream with the Flying Lady perched in all her glory on the bonnet. He'd polished her lovingly before he left.

By the time he reached Middleham, the site of Richard the Third's castle, the mists had lifted and the sun, shining through the windows had warmed the car, so that Paul felt snug and cosy in his little coc.o.o.n.

He drove on to the town of Settle; then into the Ribble Valley, which was dominated by the flat-topped, hump-backed shape of the wild Celtic hill with the strange name of Pen-y-ghent Mountain. Then the landscape became dotted with numerous outcrops of limestone, dazzling white in the sunshine. Although he cursed the location of Hyndburn Hall, he had to admit that the scenery was beautiful as he made his way down the winding valley road which would take him to Upper Mitten and then on to Harwood.

Strange, Paul mused, that he'd never thought about owning a Rolls Royce - until now. He'd seen the Silver Ghost perform in the trials in Austria in 1913, but owning one had never entered his mind. Perhaps it was because when he was with his German relatives he thought of nothing but Germany. What wonderful times he'd had there. Now, of course, it didn't pay to advertise one's close relations with Germany, or the fact that both he and Jessica spoke fluent German. It was expedient to keep your mouth shut about anything German. This annoyed him because he'd always been proud of his German ancestry.

Paul drove on towards Harwood, soon leaving picturesque Mitten behind. He stretched and flexed his muscles. He'd be glad to see Hyndburn now and to freshen up after such a long trip. He ran his hand through his fair hair, his tall frame, folded into the Rolls. He had startling light blue eyes and straight, strong features. His narrow, almost aescetic-looking face sported a debonair moustache and his high-bridged nose gave him an arrogant, almost disdainful air. Paul de Lacey was a blue blood in the worst sense of the word, aloof, sn.o.bbish and condescending.

He thought of the war for a moment, taking out a packet of cigarettes as he did so and lighting one (with difficulty) as he drove. He didn't want to fight the b.l.o.o.d.y Germans. He'd no quarrel with them, so he'd pulled strings and avoided conscription.

Paul gave a sigh of relief when he saw the smoke billowing from the mills of Harwood, belching fumes, polluting the brightness of the morning. Harwood, a dark splotch on the landscape, stood out like a sore thumb, the gray buildings and the black smoke stacks in stark contrast to the surrounding countryside. In no time he was at the gates of Hyndburn and he revved the engine and drove up the drive, the tyres scrunching on the gravel.

The polished wood of the antique four-poster gleamed between the folds of rose pink silk draped on either side of the bed. Beneath the finely pleated matching silk canopy the long fair hair of Marion Townsend lay spread out like a fan on the fine lawn pillow. The pink satin counterpane was pulled up to her chin.

Marion lay in that twilight zone between sleeping and waking, conscious but still cosily drowsy, long lashes curled like two miniature fans on cheeks still flushed with sleep. As she daydreamed, snuggled under the quilt, her mind drifted to a problem, which had been annoying her for some time. The force of this feeling brought her fully awake and her eyes flickered open to stare at the pink silk above. A frown ridged over her blue eyes. Why couldn't she go to Manchester University? What was wrong with that? Anyone would think she wanted to climb Mount Everest, the way her father had so violently opposed the idea. She knew she might have been able to bring him around eventually but her mother wouldn't even listen.

'You're going to finishing school, Marion,' she said firmly. Marion had fumed and cried, but her mother was adamant.

'Then you can be launched,' Jessica had concluded. Like she was a ship, Marion thought in disgust. Launched into London society would be a bore, she was quite sure of that. It was all talk talk talk about what to wear, how to behave and who would accompany her to all the boring does. How could it even compare with university?

Marion was all too aware of her mother's fear that she would be influenced by radical elements; especially the suffragette movement. Poor Mummy, Marion smiled ruefully in spite of her angry thoughts. She doesn't know that I've already been recruited.

Miss Constance Blakely, her teacher at the convent she attended in Manchester, had no difficulty in winning Marion over to her ideas and her adulation of the Pankhursts. Miss Blakely had been sacked after tying herself to a mill railing. Marion idolized both her and the Pankhursts. Why shouldn't women get the vote, she thought, yawning, revealing perfect white teeth?

'Ach, still in bed, mein gott. You vill sleep till it is lunch, ya?' Bertha, her mother's maid and who also attended Marion when she was home from school, bustled in with a tea tray. She put it on the bedside table and then went over to the window to draw the pink velvet curtains to let in the streaming sunshine. The sudden light made Marion blink. She stretched her arms lazily.

'I meant to get up early today Bertha, but I just couldn't make the effort. It's so wonderful to be home.'

'Stay in bed, stay in bed, you deserve a holiday after working so hard.' Bertha looked fondly at Marion who she had cared for since she was born. She draped a white lacy shawl fussily around Marion's shoulders and handed her a cup of tea.

'Thank you, Bertha,' Marion said. She watched Bertha tidy the clothes she'd left lying around the night before. Bertha chattered and clucked around the room, her short stolid frame as familiar to Marion as her mother's. Dear old Bertha, she thought. She missed her when she was at school and looked forward to seeing her as much as she did her parents.

Bertha opened the French doors, which led to a small balcony overlooking the park-like setting below. The white lace curtains billowed against the light breeze and from her bed Marion could see the misty outlines of the Pennines in the distance.

'I'll have breakfast up here, Bertha. Tell Mother I'll be down about eleven, will you?'

Bertha turned to stare at Marion, perplexed.

'Your mother will not like that, Miss Marion. She is expecting you and she vill be very disappointed.'

Marion sighed and placed the cup back on the tray with a clatter.

'Oh well, I suppose I'd better do the right thing and go down this morning.' She had wanted to have another argument well prepared before she saw her mother.

'Tell Mother I'll be down at nine then, Bertha.'

Marion got out of bed and walked over to the balcony. How wonderful to be home!

She had hated the confines of the convent. In her last year she'd been allowed to venture out of the grounds with some of the other final year students. She'd enjoyed walking around Manchester. Sometimes they had afternoon tea at a cafe in Collins Street. She loved that, the hustle and bustle, the noise and often confusion of a big city. There were always rallies being held, especially now that the war wasn't going well.

She had gone out on her own one afternoon and joined some people who were listening to a young man standing on a soap box; he was speaking in a very loud voice in his very p.r.o.nounced Lancashire accent. She blushed at the thought. She was going to meet that young man the next time she went to Manchester.

Jessica Townsend had not had the best of mornings. She pursed her lips in annoyance, flicking through her mail, noting in exasperation that quite a number had been opened. George! She must speak to him again about this bad habit of his. She valued her privacy!

She read another letter, also opened. The day so far had not gone well. Paul had rung at the unearthly hour of seven o'clock this morning that he'd be arriving today. No word of warning so that she could prepare. So typical of him! George had not been at all pleased. She didn't blame him. Paul was inconsiderate at times and even she, his most fervent champion, sometimes felt decidedly cross the way he ran roughshod over people's feelings.

She'd just finished speaking with Paul when Raymond rang, demanding to come home immediately. He hated his cousins he had yelled at her through the phone. His garbled account was cut short by George's sister who had put Jessica's mind at rest by saying, in her usual unruffled way, 'Don't worry about Ray, Jess darling, we'll sort this out, just leave it to us.' So she had, relieved that she could more or less forget Ray for the time being.

Marion was her main worry at the moment. Two small lines on her forehead deepened as she thought of her daughter. She'd been such a darling little girl and so amenable.

At breakfast this morning she'd been anything but that, although she'd appeared on the dot of nine as she said she would, looking demure and pretty in a white muslin dress. It wasn't long, however, before signs of belligerence began to surface and voices were raised. So tasteless, Jessica thought with a shudder. It was all this new way of thinking. She didn't agree with it at all. She's getting more like George every day Jessica thought, although at one time she'd been able manipulate George quite easily: just that small, secretive smile and a slight caress of his hand; that had been enough. Lately, however, he was also showing a stubborn streak, especially where Paul was concerned. Thank goodness they were in agreement about Marion.

It's all becoming just too tiresome, Jessica thought. Nothing seems to go right. She sighed again and got up from her desk, an ornate antique affair, and smoothed down the long, blue linen skirt of her stylish dress. She suddenly remembered that Miss Fenton was bringing the new maid to see her this morning. Something else to have to think about! She walked over to the window, which looked out onto the garden. Normally she took pleasure in how lovely Hyndburn was, but not today; today she was in too much turmoil to enjoy anything.

Leah was exhausted at the end of her first day at Hyndburn: so many different people, so much to look at, so many things to remember. Her mind was in a complete muddle by the time she went to bed. Her duties were to start at seven o'clock and end at six, although she was expected to help with washing the dishes after each meal.

After the meeting with Mrs. Townsend (it hadn't been as bad as she thought), she and Miss Fenton went down to the kitchen and had a cup of tea with Maud and Alf. Gertie and the gardener, she'd forgotten his name, had also been there. Gertie had been subdued and hardly said a word. Leah had been uneasy. Gertie was still hostile towards her, but why?

The rest of the day she spent helping Maud in the kitchen. Gertie had gone off to polish silver in the dining room so Leah hadn't seen her until almost tea. She had quite enjoyed working in the kitchen with Maud, watching Maud's deft hands roll pastry, mix cakes and cook a huge roast of beef for the Townsend's dinner that night, with mouth watering roast potatoes and vegetables. Maud finished with an apple tart for dessert with thick clotted cream. It smelt heavenly!

'We'll have the steak pudding left over from yesterday,' Maud said to Leah. 'You can peel the potatoes for me for the roast while I do the pie.'

Leah nodded. She could do that, peel a potato at least. Then Mrs. Walters stopped at three, 'to put my feet up for an hour', she said to Leah. 'You just go and get a bit of fresh air, love,' she said as she went into the adjoining room, which was a kind of sitting c.u.m dining room for the staff. Maud sat down with a sigh of relief and closed her eyes.

Leah stood uncertainly for a moment wondering what to do. She opened the back door and looked out. It was a beautiful day. A pity to waste it staying indoors and Mrs. Walters had said she could have a break. She stepped tentatively out onto the path and looked at the vegetable garden again. It was so neat, all the vegetables planted in perfect rows.