The Bobbin Girls

by Freda Lightfoot

  Sandra thumped at the dough, wryly admitting to herself that at least her anger would result in lighter bread.

  It had been a perfectly simple request. Many of the girls had bicycles, certainly Alena had ridden one for years, so why shouldn’t she? Walking the length of the village, and then out up that long winding lane every morning and evening, was wearing to say the least. It added hours to her day. which she could ill afford. Sandra had rather hoped that her aunt would have taken to the idea, since she liked her to get home from the mill in good time to cook supper. But she realised now she should have known better than to ask.

  ‘Do you think I’m made of money?’ Aunt Elsie had predictably remarked. ‘It would be a complete waste. You can’t even ride a bike.’

  ‘I could learn.’

  ‘Want, want, want, that’s all I hear from you these days. Haven’t I given you enough over the years? Gave you a home and devoted my life to your care, since my poor darling Georgie died. Oh, dear, and now you’ve brought on one of my headaches. I shall have to retire to my bed for the afternoon, and you must make supper. I’ll have a little of that haddock, lightly poached in butter, dear. And do cut the bread thin for a change.’

  Sandra sighed as she recalled this painful conversation, and slapped the dough some more. Aunt Elsie, a maiden lady with a strange musty smell about her and a small moustache, had been left with the task of raising Sandra from childhood after her father, Elsie’s brother George, was killed on the Somme. Sandra’s mother had not survived her birth. Even that had produced guilt in her as a child.

  Sandra lived at Grove House, a tall Victorian terraced house, hemmed in by huge pieces of mahogany furniture, violent flock wallpaper, aspidistras, and almost permanently closed paper blinds because, as Aunt Elsie frequently remarked: ‘Curtains are such a fire hazard, dear, and the sun does dreadful damage to the carpets.’

  But the effort of bringing up a lively young girl had, as her aunt constantly reminded her, taken its toll. Elsie Myers had been told by a doting mother when she was quite a young gel herself, that she was not strong and her heart might very well fail to sustain her into adulthood, and certainly not through the rigours of matrimony. Elsie had readily agreed. Nor did it sustain her through ordinary household chores, for all the stubborn organ had flouted her mother’s dire prediction by carrying her through the long years since with remarkable tenacity.

  It was Sandra who cleaned the house from top to toe every Saturday afternoon, since the mill closed early that day. Sundays she spent cooking the stringy meat her aunt wheedled out of the butcher at a knock-down price, baking a selection of breads and cakes to see them through the week, followed by an hour or two digging the garden and tending their small vegetable plot. Add to that all the numerous chores, errands and interruptions necessitated by caring for an elderly aunt, due to the sad state of her health, and Sandra was usually quite glad to be back to the mill on Monday mornings. Usually she knew better than to complain, for that only resulted in one of Elsie’s ‘bad turns’. But today, for once, she’d made a stand.

  ‘If I had a bike, I’d be able to cycle to the market in Kendal and pick up a few bargains every Saturday. There’s a wonderful fish stall there, I believe.’ It was all she could think of by way of persuasion. Her aunt was very partial to a nice piece of fish, and the prospect of enjoying the freedom of such outings was a heady prospect indeed for Sandra.

  In truth, she had watched Harry on his bike, and dreamed of him noticing her at last if she bought one too. She saw them cycling alone together deep into the forests of Grizedale, picnicking by Lake Windermere or beneath a peaceful beech tree, where he would kiss her and say how he had waited all his life for a girl like her. Or he might treat her to tea and cakes in Hawkshead and she would say hang the expense and risk wearing a pair of those new Bear Brand stockings, so he could admire her legs as she poured his tea. Then they would ride home together, laughing at some remark she had made and Harry would beg to see her the following weekend, and then every single day after that as he couldn’t bear to be parted from her.

  A dream soon dashed.

  ‘Don’t be silly, dear. The fishmonger calls every Thursday with a freshly caught selection. What could be better than that? And no one in this village would dare overcharge me. I simply wouldn’t have it.’

  The truth of both these statements was such that Sandra, stricken with the guilt her aunt always managed to produce in her, could only urge her to rest as long as she pleased, and agree to bring up supper on a tray the moment she had cooked it.

  ‘Thank you, dear. And do bake the bread light. Last week’s quite gave me indigestion.’

  Serves you right for eating too much of it, thought Sandra, thumping the dough some more. It would be light today, all right.

  One of the best places to work at the mill was in the barrel house. The temperature was higher than in the rest of the mill because of its proximity to the boiler. Here the small bobbins were put in a barrel with shavings and bits of sandpaper. The door was shut and the barrel turned by the turbine. When they came out, the bobbins would be all smooth so that thread would not snag on them. It was a noisy job, since these small wooden reels made an unholy row racketing around the barrels, but a good place to be in winter, the only place where there wasn’t ice inside the windows.

  The larger bobbins, however, had to be sanded by hand, a task that required nimble fingers and expert timing. It was one morning a week or two later, shortly after her seventeenth birthday, that Alena was working on this job.

  She wore gloves, to stop her fingers from getting skinned as she held the sandpaper to the bobbin spinning rapidly on its spindle, first the rough sandpaper, and then the fine. When the bobbin was smooth, Sandra would be ready to knock it off with the next. The machine was never stopped for this, so she made very sure she kept her own fingers clear of the spinning spindle. It might take ten minutes to do a swill-load, which usually contained about a gross of bobbins, so they aimed to do six gross an hour, thirty-six gross a day, at least, which left little time for conversation. Besides, the two girls had grown tired of attempting to communicate over the racket of the tumbling bobbins and had become almost mesmerised by the warmth in the barrel house, and the ceaseless rhythm of the spinning bobbins. So it came as a shock when a voice spoke close against Alena’s ear.

  ‘I can see you’re an expert at this job.’ She started, and turned round in a fury, ready to berate whatever fool had made her lose her rhythm and nearly skin her fingers as a result, to meet the grinning face of Mickey Roscoe. She could hardly believe her eyes.

  The last time she had seen him was years ago in the forest, but she would have recognised him anywhere. Same black hair flattened to his round head with the same Brylcreem, rust brown eyes sparkling with laughter, and, if anything, even better looking than she remembered. He was certainly tidier in a spanking clean shirt, with a knotted silk scarf tucked in the neck, which made him look as if he should be off to Cartmel Races instead of a bobbin mill.

  She must have said his name out loud, for he grinned that old quirky grin, making him look more like a wicked elf than ever with his winged brows and curling mouth. ‘We’ll talk later,’ he mouthed, and strolled away with his powerful shoulders thrust back, rolling on the balls of his feet in that well-remembered gait, pleased with himself and the effect he’d produced.

  Alena looked into Sandra’s startled eyes and both girls erupted into a fit of giggles. ‘Daft bugger!’

  Later, when the day’s shift was over and Alena stood buttoning up her coat, he walked right over to her, bold as brass, grasped her by the shoulders and kissed her right on the cheek. Blushing hotly, she could only gasp.

  ‘Good to see you again, Alena. I’d forgotten this was the mill you worked at.’ It was such a blatant lie, since she hadn’t told him any such thing, or even where she lived, that had he not robbed her of breath and half her wits already, she certainly would have given him a piece of her mind. Instead, to cover her e
mbarrassment, and acutely aware of the other’s girls’ curiosity, she tugged her red tam o’shanter firmly down over her hair, making unsuccessful attempts to tuck her wayward curls into it in preparation for the cycle ride home.

  ‘You remember me well enough though, don’t you?’ he stated, with arrogant assurance. ‘Knew you would, Alena. Are you glad to see me?’

  She heard a snort of laughter from one of the girls behind her. Oh, lord, she thought, they’ll never let me hear the last of this. ‘It’s certainly a surprise,’ she managed, amazed at her own coolness. ‘You’re the last person I expected to see.’

  He shrugged on his jacket, flicked on his neb cap, then taking the bicycle from her and tucking her arm firmly in his, calmly informed her, ‘I’ll walk you home. Give us time to catch up on old times, eh?’ And without waiting for her agreement, that was exactly what he did. Sandra and the other girls stood and watched them go, open-mouthed at his audacity.

  Only Dolly managed to find her voice in that moment. ‘If you can’t have one man, you’ll have any. Ain’t that the way it goes, Alena Townsen?’

  Her cheeks burned with embarrassment all the way home. But when she protested to Mickey about his behaviour, he only laughed.

  ‘I reckon you and me’ll become great friends, don’t you? On Saturday we’ll go for a drink, or to the pictures, or a walk in the woods if you’ve a mind. I’ll pick you up at seven.’

  Finally coming to her senses, Alena folded her arms, tapping one foot in indignation. ‘Don’t you think you should ask, and not tell a girl what she’s doing?’

  ‘Why?’ The comers of his lips curled bewitchingly upwards. ‘I thought you girls liked masterful men.’ He looked upon her with benign tenderness, giving no hint of the steel tenacity of his resolve to have his way in this. Through the years, unbeknown to her, he’d waited for the right moment to move, much as a stalker might view his prey. The comparison made him smile. But then, as a natural hunter, didn’t he possess the necessary patience?

  He’d struck lucky by meeting up with Bill Lindale in the Stag. A few pints and a bit of necessary larding on Mickey’s undoubted skills, and a job had been offered. He’d given up life in the forest, finding himself a poky room in the village and quarrelling with his father as a result, so he wasn’t about to take no for an answer now, not after all the trouble he’d taken to get here.

  ‘Women don’t like to be bossed,’ Alena was saying, sounding scandalised, and yet, he was sure, secretly delighted by his outrageous behaviour.

  He grinned at her again. ‘‘Course they do. Nothing pleases them more than a strong man. You’ll come, won’t you? You must know that there’s hardly been a day when I haven’t thought of you. I would’ve come sooner, only I made myself wait until you were all grown up.’ He touched her cheek with the blunt tip of one finger. ‘It was worth the wait. You have grown quite beautiful, Alena.’

  She knew she should refuse. Oh, she wanted to, she did really, but was entranced by the thought of his not forgetting her, of his waiting for her to grow up. Mickey Roscoe was far too full of himself for his own good, but even as the refusal formed in tier head she was looking into his laughing eyes, and thinking what fun he was. What a devil! Though she was sure he used his charm on all the girls, it was nonetheless endearing.

  ‘Wasn’t I good to you when you were in the forest?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course.’

  If Rob had been here, or if she’d seen anything of him at all during these last years, then maybe she would have found it easier to refuse. But beyond their stilted and unsatisfactory correspondence, there’d been no contact between them of any kind. For all she knew, Rob had forgotten her. Anyone would think they’d never been friends at all. Every holiday she’d waited and hoped for him to visit, but he never had. If Robert Hollinthwaite couldn’t be bothered to come and see her, even once, why should she make herself miserable for him?

  She might still grieve for him deep down, perhaps always would, but Alena was young and lonely and bored. Christmas was coming, and standing in front of her was a good-looking bloke wanting to take her out. Why shouldn’t she accept and have a bit of fun for a change? Not that she would have him think her cheap. Oh, dear me, no. She unfolded her arms and flicked back her bouncing curls

  ‘I’ll think about it, and let you know before Saturday.’ And with a lift of her chin she clicked open the small gate and marched up the path straight into the house without a backward glance.

  Mickey only smiled, for he knew he had won, and her back view was, if anything, even more delightful than her front.

  The girls at the mill were agog to hear all about him.

  ‘Where did you meet?’

  ‘Bit pushy, isn’t he?’

  ‘What a nerve. Just went right up and kissed you without a by your leave.’

  ‘Cheeky monkey, I’d’ve slapped his face.’

  ‘No you wouldn’t, Minnie Hodgson. You’d’ve chucked your Percy out and welcomed him in with open arms.’ And so the banter continued.

  Mickey, for all his cheek and flashy ways, had charm and good looks. He was, after all, the most eligible young man they had seen in a long time in Ellersgarth, and proved to be popular with the other bobbin girls, even with the older women. He behaved like the perfect gentleman he certainly wasn’t, and all Alena could do was laugh at his effrontery.

  It was only to Sandra she told the full story. Their fingers busy, and without pausing in the production of the large hand-sanded bobbins, Alena told her friend over the noise of the rattling machinery how she’d come to meet Mickey Roscoe, and something of his grim-faced father. Sandra listened wide-eyed.

  ‘And will you go out with him?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ and then more defiantly, ‘I very much doubt it. He really isn’t my sort. Far too pushy.’

  When Friday night came and everyone had collected their wages, looking forward to the weekend ahead, Mickey reminded Alena that he would call for her at seven the next night. And he did this right in front of everyone, as if making sure she had no way of retreat.

  ‘By heck,’ Edith said, half under her breath. ‘He’s a fast worker that one. He’ll have her wed by Christmas.’

  ‘And in the family way by New Year,’ put in Dolly.

  Perhaps it was this last comment which decided her. Offering him her warmest smile, Alena said, ‘Yes, thank you, that would be lovely. All right if I bring Sandra along? Only she’s my best friend. Never go anywhere without her.’

  This was stretching the truth considerably, for all Sandra’s doglike devotion she was rarely allowed out from under her aunt’s thumb. Alena, ignoring such niceties, felt somehow that she’d no wish to be left alone with Mickey Roscoe, certainly not in the woods where she had walked with Rob. ‘Perhaps you could bring one of your friends too? But not on Saturday. We’ll meet you at the bottom of Lake Windermere by the steamer pier at two o’clock on Sunday. Sandra can come and have dinner with us first, then you can take us both for a lovely sail. That all right with you?’ she said, addressing this last remark to her startled friend.

  ‘Yes,’ Sandra said, without a thought as to how she might achieve the freedom to enjoy this much longed for treat, but her heart skipped a beat at the prospect of seeing Harry in his own home at last.

  That’s settled then,’ said Alena, not even waiting for Mickey’s approval.

  Mickey was angry at this unexpected change in his plans, and the intrusion of a third party. He wasn’t used to being told what to do by some slip of a girl, and wouldn’t have taken it from any but this one. Then he looked at the mouse-like Sandra, decided she was no threat and was only too aware that he might not get another chance if he played it wrong this time. Consciously he unclenched his bunched fists, shrugged his shoulders and smilingly agreed with what good grace he could muster.

  ‘Okay, but next time I choose,’ he said lightly.

  ‘If there is a next time.’

  ‘Oh, there will be. You can count on it.’
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  ‘By heck, he’s a right one,’ said Edith, much impressed by the little by-play she’d just witnessed. Mickey did not disagree.

  Sandra Myers was the kind of girl any mother would like her son to bring home. She was quiet, polite, had good manners and a tendency towards shyness, so Lizzie made her most welcome.

  All the family were squashed around the big wooden kitchen table, it being a Sunday tradition, except for Ray, who remained confined to the front parlour. As usual, they spent much of their time squabbling over who had the salt, was taking up more space than they were entitled to, or their elbows on the table, which was strictly forbidden.

  In all of this, their guest added little to the general buzz of conversation, beyond a very few essential details about her background and how her poor aunt suffered from a weak heart. Lizzie privately thought that Elsie Myers sounded robust enough in her weekly battles with the butcher over the price of his cuts. But it sounded a sad sort of upbringing for any young lass.

  ‘She only let me come here today,’ Sandra explained, ‘on the strict understanding that she could send for me if she had a bad turn. Though I’ve left her a kipper ready.’

  ‘A kipper? For her Sunday dinner?’

  ‘That’s all she says she’s fit for, today.’

  ‘I see,’ Lizzie said. Playing the martyr and making the lass suffer, no doubt, for daring to step outside the front door of that mausoleum. Kippers for Sunday dinner, whatever next? My word, it was no wonder the girl looked so pale and thin, living with that old skinflint. She wore her mouse-brown hair in a short bob, which did nothing at all for her, but the huge grey eyes, prim nose and small pointed chin all added up to a fragile prettiness. Slim as a colt, though not half so co-ordinated, she seemed all arms and legs with an anxious smile pinned to her face that spoke volumes about her eagerness to please. One breath of wind, and she’d blow clean away.