The Bobbin Girls

by Freda Lightfoot

  She finished her glass of stout, said her goodnights to Jack Turner, then slid off the bar stool and made her way to the door ‘accidentally’ knocking against James’s elbow as she passed. Most of his whisky spilled all over the table and dripped on to the slate floor. Dolly put her hands to her pretty pink cheeks, dark eyes wide with dismay. ‘Oh, what have I done? Let me buy you another.’

  Being a gentleman he wouldn’t hear of such a thing. And since she was so very distressed and all alone because her husband really had very little time to spare for her these days, he bought her a small port as well as another whisky for himself, inviting her to keep him company while they drank it. It was quite by the way that the conversation turned to his son, and a great surprise to Dolly that he hadn’t heard Robert had been visited by Alena.

  Oh, dear,’ said Dolly, putting the tip of one finger to her scarlet mouth and biting it with her pretty white teeth. ‘She’ll kill me when she finds out I’ve told on her.’

  James Hollinthwaite covered her hand with his own and gave it a reassuring squeeze. ‘Don’t worry, my dear. She won’t hear it from me. Do you think your husband would mind if I bought you another?’

  Tom was too engrossed in the meeting to care. Outraged by the prospect of their valley being swamped by conifers, all in the name of progress, the kitchen of number 14, Birkwith Row, had never been so full of folk. Fierce argument raged back and forth while Lizzie tried to keep everyone’s mug topped up with tea.

  Sandra listened with pride as Harry warned them all of the unsightly square blocks of uniform dark green trees that had already blighted Ennerdale; of the severe unnatural edges of the plantations; the gloomy black interiors, and how the countryside lost all the usual elements of the changing seasons. No rich colours, no berries and therefore fewer birds, not even any bluebells come spring as there’d be far less sunlight on the forest floor.

  ‘You can’t halt progress,’ Bill Lindale placidly pointed out. ‘1f done sympathetically, I dare say the trees have a sort of beauty of their own.’

  Harry thumped the kitchen table. ‘They do heck as like. The Commission has made damn’ few concessions. They march ahead regardless, planting when and where they like.’

  ‘They’ve agreed not to touch the upper part of Kentmere, and 440 acres in Eskdale.’

  ‘Aye, if the public purse will make recompense for the favour of not planting land that was probably unplantable in any case since it’s too flaming steep. He thumped the table with increased fervour, making it quiver. ‘No wonder greedy landowners like Hollinthwaite follow suit. Who knows where it could end? Every inch of the mountains could be smothered in spruce.’

  He was becoming so upset that Sandra went to stand by- his side and rest a hand upon his shoulder.

  Alena said, ‘So what do we do about it?’

  ‘What can we do?’ Bill Lindale asked.

  ‘Fight, of course,’ said Harry. ‘We can’t let him win.’

  ‘We could get up a petition?’ Sandra suggested. ‘Send a deputation?’

  ‘Aye, we could,’ Harry agreed, grinning at her with pride. ‘So, are you with me or not?’

  ‘So long as it’s done in a proper manner,’ said the more cautious Bill. ‘I’m with you if everyone else is.’

  And the shouts of the men packed into the small kitchen echoed their approval.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was, without doubt a beautiful valley. A wilderness not quite tamed by man in which could be found prime sessile oak, lime, ash, alder - in fact as many as twenty different species of tree, including the famous beeches. Here too was the breeding ground for some of the finest free-ranging red deer in the land who came each autumn at rutting time. The more sedentary roe moved quietly through the forest, secure in the peace of the place. Otters bathed in the river, buzzards soared in the thermals over the fells, and badgers and red squirrels had their own secret places in the woods.

  Surely a valley worth fighting for?

  Harry led the deputation to present their case. They marched up the long drive to Ellersgarth Hall and offered up a list of names protesting against the plan. Many of the men with him were Hollinthwaite’s own mill workers, a fact not missed by James.

  Alena and Sandra hovered on the fringes of the group. Mrs Rigg, Maggie Sutton, old Edith, Lizzie and some of the other women were present, looking uncomfortable and out of place amidst the heaving mass of male bodies. Even Dolly was there, for once, standing beside Tom.

  James stood on his doorstep and answered their criticisms by claiming that the scheme would bring more jobs to the area, for their own sons as well as his. He denied he meant to cut down perfectly sound trees. ‘No more than is necessary.’

  ‘And how many would that be?’ Harry yelled.

  ‘Aye, go on, tell us,’ put in Tom. Dolly tugged at his sleeve, warning him not to get involved. He shrugged her off.

  ‘Some space must be cleared where trees are mature.’

  ‘So they can be sold for a profit, eh?’ The mood was growing ugly.

  ‘Trees are meant to be felled.’

  ‘Not ad hoc, Mr Hollinthwaite,’ Bill Lindale politely pointed out. ‘What worries us is how this type of forestry blankets out everything else. It’s not really suited to our land and climate, let alone our small valley here.’

  James held on to his patience while coldly pointing out that nothing they could say or do would change his mind. He had every right to plant as many of his own acres as he wished. ‘If there’s ever another war,’ he warned ‘they’ll need all my current crops of larch for lining trenches, building gun emplacements and such like, not oak for sailing ships. Those days are gone. I shall need to replant.’

  As a result of discussions with his councillor friend, George Tyson, he had made his preparations well. Since the Forestry Commission had been his role model he too had bought land, quietly and without fuss, from farmers greedy for a bit of hard cash. And if George considered it a sad day for the Lake District to blanket it with conifers, James did not. He saw it as an opportunity. Anything the Forestry Commission could do, he could do better.

  ‘These woodlands were once well managed,’ he pointed out, obliged to raise his voice over the growing tide of discontent. ‘Apart from a few remaining gangs of coppicers, sadly outdated now, the forest is going to rack and ruin. Many trees are falling, they’re so dangerous. Better we replant than see it disintegrate. In any case, the open fell land, which is where most of the planting will take place, is useless for anything else.’

  The sheep farmers might say different,’ one voice called out.

  ‘The government evidently don’t think so, since they’ve allowed a grant to carry out the plan. Think of the relief that will bring to unemployment in a depressed area. The Forestry Commission means to bring in workers from West Cumberland, men perhaps more used to mining than planting trees on wild open fellsides, but it would be paid employment so they’d be unlikely to complain. If you make a fuss,’ he warned, ‘I’m not above bussing workers in myself from Workington and Whitehaven, and anywhere else I can find strong men who aren’t afraid of hard work.’

  ‘Just bloody try it’ somebody shouted.

  James refrained from shouting back. ‘Far too much of the Lake District is being ruined by over-grazing,’ he quietly pointed out. ‘The planting of conifers would hold the thin soil together, enrich it for future planting.’

  You’d be bound to take that point of view, since it’s in your interest,’ Harry responded.

  ‘’ These are the Forestry Commission’s findings, not mine.’ A flicker at the corner of one eye betrayed James’s growing irritation.

  ‘Happen in some areas it’s true. But we don’t have thin soil in this valley, it’s rich and good. This is about brass, not trees, and we’ll not let you ruin our forest in order to line your own pocket.’

  Glaring down upon Harry’s broad stubborn face, James felt yet again that his entire life seemed to have been blighted by interference from th
e Townsen family. Whatever he did, whatever he planned they disapproved, disagreed or put obstacles in the way of his achievements. The feud between the two families had worsened to such an extent that he never let himself consider how it had come about, no longer allowed himself to feel in any way responsible. They were a permanent sore in his side, an itch he couldn’t rid himself of by scratching.

  He turned on Harry with such venom in his tone that the whole assembled company of men were struck into silence. ‘And how will you stop me doing what I please on my own land, Harry Townsen? You who are willing enough to line your own pocket at my expense by robbing me of my profits.’

  Harry took a step forward, his towering frame rigid with fury. ‘What exactly are you accusing me of?’ The two men were almost eyeball to eyeball, a stand-off that could only end in one way.

  Bill Lindale stepped quickly forward, attempting to take a firm grip of Harry’s solid arm and jerk him back, but Harry’s iron strength made this well nigh impossible. Before anyone else could move they were all left gasping at James’s next words.

  ‘Stealing my profits, Townsen, by claiming a bonus to which you weren’t entitled. I’m not the fool you all take me for. But targets can be changed, and then you won’t find it so easy to make money out of me.’ He flung out an arm in an expansive gesture that indicated the entire company. ‘None of you is irreplaceable. If you value your jobs in my mill, every man jack of you, then you’d best shut up and go home.’

  Faced with this bleak alternative, after a moment or two spent whispering and shuffling feet, many of the men seemed eager enough to do as he suggested. Work was hard to come by after all, with half the country unemployed, and they all had families to feed, rent to pay.

  ‘Not worth losing our livelihood over a few trees,’ muttered one, and his mates nodded their agreement.

  They began to trickle away in twos and threes, some of them wishing they’d never got involved in this argument in the first place. Who knew what repercussions there might be?

  James was still talking, thumbs hooked into his waistcoat, rocking on his heels, very much a man in control, a man filled with an inflated sense of his own importance. ‘You can collect your cards in the morning, Townsen. I’ve had enough of your sort in my mill.’

  Surprisingly - though perhaps not, in view of his well-known short temper - it was Kit Townsen who surged forward and clipped Hollinthwaite’s chin with his fist.

  Catching him off balance it sent him reeling backwards, but, although it broke a tooth and produced a satisfactory flow of blood, the blow was infinitely weaker than any Ray might have inflicted in the past. Hindered as Kit was by his recurrent chest problems, his temper might be keen but his strength was not what it might be. In turn, with the back of one clenched fist, Hollinthwaite swatted the young man to the ground as he might a bluebottle for being a nuisance.

  A subdued group of villagers gathered up a semi-conscious Kit, tightened their grip upon his furious brother and returned down the long drive, a thoroughly bedraggled bunch, showing far less spring in their step than when they’d walked up it. James watched them go. Laughing softly to himself, he dabbed at the trickle of blood on his chin. It was only then that he noticed movement by the porch door.

  ‘What the...?’

  ‘I thought your wounds might need some attention.’ Dolly stepped out of the shadows where she’d been hiding and stood, all softness and womanly concern, in the pool of light spilling from the door. He considered her for a moment in silence then, stepping back, allowed her to precede him into the hall.

  Alena couldn’t understand why Mickey hadn’t been at the meeting or joined in the deputation. He’d been the one to rouse her interest in forestry in the first place, and he, as much as any of them, would hate it if huge swathes of their woodlands were torn apart. He had spoken passionately of the freedom for the wild life, saying how much he was against every acre of open fellside being filled with plantations. When she asked him, he said he’d had to go and see a bloke about a bit of business.

  ‘What sort of business?’

  ‘What is this? Checking up on me?’ His rust brown eyes flashed, not quite meeting her shrewd gaze but glinting with satisfaction at her interest.

  Alena found herself flushing. It seemed odd to feel this wave of uncertainty. He claimed to adore her, was desperate for them to marry, so why this prickle of unease? Surely she couldn’t be jealous? Of whom? And why?

  Yet in the days following she found herself wondering why if he hadn’t appeared at her door by eight. Was he losing interest in her because she’d insisted on waiting till she was twenty-one before they wed? Mickey, aware of the effect of his strategy, continued to keep her guessing about when he might call. If she asked why he hadn’t come to see her, he would laugh and say that surely she hadn’t missed him?

  Alena decided her concern was because she couldn’t bear the thought of being alone again. To lose Rob had been painful because she loved him so much. But despite claiming only to feel fondness for Mickey, she couldn’t bear the thought of losing him as well.

  Little by little she began to allow him greater freedom. Sometimes, when they walked in the woods she became quite daring, might even let him lift her blouse and fondle her breasts. But never for a moment did Alena permit herself to lose control. His kisses might be quite pleasant, but they did not excite her as Rob’s had done. And afterwards, alone in her room, she would curl up in her bed and feel shame.

  It was more prudent to engage him in conversation, though whenever the question of James Hollinthwaite and his forestry plans cropped up, Mickey would shrug his shoulders and claim the planting would go ahead no matter what they did, so it was not worth risking his job over.

  Perhaps he had a point. Fighting to save the valley had cost Harry his job, and Sandra all hope of a wedding next month. What would be the eventual price?

  Sandra herself had similar bleak thoughts. Bad enough that Aunt Elsie had stood in the way of their marriage, but the loss of employment was far more serious. How could they marry now?

  Could Harry find another job? Certainly not before the end of November. Perhaps not for months, she thought bleakly. And she would remain well and truly under her aunt’s thumb, stuck in this shop weighing potatoes for the likes of Maggie Sutton forever if she wasn’t careful.

  No one would dare to stand against James Hollinthwaite ever again, for fear they’d be next in line for the sack. The chances were he’d get his way now and the whole valley would change because of his greed. It made her so angry she wanted to go right up to him and give him a piece of her mind. She, Sandra Myers, who usually never said boo to a goose. But how could she? For all she no longer worked in Hollinthwaite’s mill she was lucky to have a job of any kind, and a mere girl could never dare to set herself up against the powerful James Hollinthwaite.

  Even if she could find half the confidence that Alena and, most of all, Dolly seemed to have, Sandra reminded herself of her handicap. She no longer wore the eye patch but was always nervous of damaging her eyes even more, or, worse, harming the other.

  Yet for that very reason she, more than most, had reason to stand up against him. James Hollinthwaite had never attempted to hold her job open, nor shown any inclination to offer her an alternative or compensation. Utterly ruthless, all he ever considered were his own profits. Yet if he’d had safety guards fitted on the machine, or if the lever had been better designed, the accident might never have happened and she would still have her full sight. He must be partly responsible. Who else could she blame?

  She was filled with a sense of outrage; against Hollinthwaite, against her aunt, against all those who thought they could rule with an iron rod, and the first streak of rebellion was lit within her. It flared and glowed like a beacon, and Sandra felt a new resolve.

  ‘I said two pounds of potatoes, not a ton.’

  Jerked back to reality, she smiled an apology to Maggie Sutton as she removed several potatoes from the heap on the scales. ‘So
rry. How’s your Dolly? I haven’t seen much of her recently.’

  ‘Neither have I, the little tart!’ Dolly’s mother handed over a few coppers and left Sandra to ponder on this remark, before again weighing the odds for a solution to her troubles, almost as if they were potatoes.

  ‘So what do you mean to do about it?’ Elsie Myers, ensconced like a queen in her wing-backed chair with its anti-macassars and arm-protectors, glared at her niece’s young man.

  Sandra slid her hand into Harry’s as they sat on the horse-hair sofa, anxious to show him her support.

  Harry appreciated the gesture but it offered little comfort. In his present situation he found Aunt Elsie, who had always looked upon him as entirely unworthy in any case, even more daunting. Whenever he was in her company, he could see himself through her eyes as she critically assessed his old serge trousers, patched brown boots and jacket near worn through at the elbows.

  ‘I’m a skilled wood turner, Miss Myers,’ he said, as he strove to put a case for the marriage to go ahead regardless. Strictly speaking Sandra would soon no longer need her aunt’s permission, but she still felt the need for her blessing so he’d agreed to this little meeting. ‘I’m a solid enough working chap, and I’m sure Ill get taken on again. Though I realise you were happen wanting someone a bit better for your Sandra.’

  Elsie Myers took her time answering as she clicked her long rope of jet beads with tapering pale fingers. The sound echoed in the high-ceilinged room, seeming to emphasise everyone’s awareness that she held the power. ‘Sandra is very special to me, being my late brother’s only child. And he left her in my care.

  ‘You must see, Mr Townsen, that she is a gentle girl, never really suited to work in the mill which, in point of fact, was a temporary state of affairs until some better form of employment could be found, or she had become suitably affianced.’ Implying it would be highly unlikely that she’d ever consider him to be a suitable candidate for the position. ‘She is very nicely placed in the village shop and, as you know, I always had my doubts about this match. As an invalid myself I fear for the poor dear girl. Sandra may prefer to make light of the accident, but only I can understand how she must suffer.’