The Bobbin Girls

by Freda Lightfoot

  ‘I think I’ll be the judge of that.’ He flung back the chair in a sudden expulsion of violent energy, as if he’d like to fling away this piece of unwelcome information she was bringing him in exactly the same way. ‘Thanks for being so honest, Alena. But you know that I hate to be told what I must or must not do. As you say, I knew all along that you weren’t head over heels in love with me. So what?’ He shrugged, the corners of his mouth twisting upwards, making him look more puckish than ever. ‘We’ll do all right. I know you’ll come to love me in time. The fact that Rob Hollinthwaite has returned like the Prodigal Son is naught to do with us. Now, I’ve had enough of this talk and would really like that cup of tea, so put the kettle on. The subject is closed.’

  She was aghast. He didn’t seem to have understood a word she’d said. ‘Closed? How can it be closed? Don’t you understand what I’m saying to you? The wedding is off.’

  He took a step towards her and very slowly brought his face down till it was mere inches from her own, his voice low and soft, the menace in it unmistakable. ‘No, Alena, you are the one who doesn’t seem to understand. This wedding is not off. It is still very much on.’ For the first time all the disquiet and unease and irritation she had felt in recent weeks crystallised into a very real fear.

  ‘You can’t mean that?’ She gave a short laugh of disbelief. ‘You can’t make me marry you.’

  He put his head to one side and smiled at her, his next words spoken in a voice that was ice cold. ‘Do you reckon the rest of the village will believe James lied? They’ve only your word for it, yours and Rob’s, and you’d be bound to say so, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, we’ve got proof.’

  ‘People believe what they want to believe. And don’t forget, Alena, that you’ve accepted my ring and made a vow to marry me. If you attempt to take up with him again, I’ll make sure everyone continues to believe the worst. I’ll make both your lives impossible. Is that clear, Alena? Do you understand that, my precious?’

  She backed away from him, her face paper white. ‘I think you’d best go, Mickey. I’m sorry you’ve taken it so badly but I’m not going to change my mind. I can’t marry you and that’s flat.’

  Smiling, he picked up his cap from where he’d flung it on the sideboard and sauntered to the door. ‘We’ll see about that, shall we? I’ve certainly no intention of giving you up. You’re mine.’

  When he had gone, Alena ran to the kitchen and vomited into the sink.

  Mickey stormed the length of Birkwith Row, down the main village street, cut across Hollin Wood and, minutes later, was hammering on the back door of Ellersgarth Hall. But for once his mentor was uninterested in assisting Mickey with his problems. James Hollinthwaite stood foursquare in his kitchen doorway and blamed him for the fact his son had returned, evidently with the intention of taking up with the girl again; saying Mickey had allowed Alena to delay the wedding too long, that he should have got her to the altar quickly

  ‘How could I, if she wouldn’t come?’

  ‘How do you think? For God’s sake, do I have to spell it out for you?’

  For all he’d been unsure of her love, Mickey had been certain that he’d won her. He’d pushed their love-making as far as he dared, while being enchanted with the fact that his wife would be coming a virgin to his bed on their wedding night. A part of him had relished that prospect, so he’d always been ready to back down when she’d refused him. Now, for the first time in his life he, the invincible Mickey Roscoe, had lost all confidence and control of the situation. Who else could he blame for that but Alena?

  ‘So what do we do now? Give in?’ he asked, mouth drooping into a pettish sulk.

  ‘You’ll have to use some of that cunning you claim to have.’ And the door was shut firmly in his face.

  Mickey punched his fist into the door jamb, making blood spurt from his knuckles. Drat the man! James Hollinthwaite could whistle for his favours in future. There’d be no more coming from him. But he wasn’t done yet. He’d get her back in spite of them all, see if he didn’t. Nobody robbed Mickey Roscoe of what was rightfully his and got away with it.

  Each day he called at the house but Alena, her desperation increasing refused to see him. Lizzie, distressed by this turn of events, for all she felt a sense of relief and happiness for her precious daughter, didn’t dare leave the house for fear of what might happen. Sandra explained to everyone that the wedding had been called off, but then learned a day or two later that Mickey had also called round to say it was very definitely still on. The whole village was buzzing with the excitement of it all, and the girls at the mill were agog for more information.

  ‘Is it on or off then? My best frock is getting dizzy from being brought in and out of the wardrobe.’

  ‘Did you fling his ring back at him?’ Annie Cockcroft asked.

  ‘Or keep it to pawn?’ Deirdre smilingly enquired.

  ‘Aren’t we going to have our hen-party then?’ Minnie wanted to know.

  Edith said, ‘There are other considerations besides a glass of stout for you, Minnie Hodgson. Leave the poor lass alone. She has to make up her own mind on summat as important as this.’

  If it hadn’t been for the thought of Rob, Alena felt sure she wouldn’t have been able to stand up to the pressure. It wasn’t that she cared a jot what folk thought, but Mickey blithely continued as if nothing had happened. He even arranged for the vicar to call and calm her ‘wedding nerves’. Unable to be rude to the man, Alena invited him in and brewed a pot of tea, listening politely as she warmed her perpetually cold hands around a mug of scalding tea. She even managed to smile when he told her that he’d suffered much the same phenomenon, and hadn’t he been happily married to his dear Doris for twenty-eight years?

  She saw him out with relief.

  A day or two later Alena came out of the mill as usual, waved to Dolly and Tom as they went off arm in arm, climbed on to her bicycle and swung out of the mill yard. Great fat drops of rain started and she turned up her collar.

  Rob stood in the middle of the path, smiling at her.

  She skidded on loose stones and almost fell, gazing at him spellbound, hardly able to believe that he’d come at last, that this time he would never leave again. He took her rain-washed face between his hands and kissed her, lingering over the taste of her skin. It was the most glorious moment of her life.

  ‘Hello.’ His mouth was set in that teasing smile she loved so much. ‘Is it still there, do you think? Our tree. Only, rain or no rain, I think we should talk. Will you come?’

  Hardly able to look at him for happiness, Alena could only nod. Of course she would come. Wouldn’t she follow him to the ends of the earth?

  Afterwards, she would always remember the rain. The washing, cleansing, cooling rain. She would remember the smell of mossy earth and the swish of raindrops splashing through the branches. There was no sound in the woods other than the rain. Most of the forest’s occupants seemed to be waiting for the sun to break out again, then the birds would emerge, burst into song and perhaps splash and bathe in the small puddles left behind. The deer would continue with their browsing and the squirrels their acrobatics. But for now the two lovers felt quite alone in all the world, sheltered beneath the arms of their tree, shielded by a curtain of rain.

  ‘How long is it since we sat here?’

  ‘Too long.’

  ‘We’ve missed so much, you and I. All the fun and pain of growing up together.’

  ‘Years and years.’

  ‘Did I say that you haven’t changed?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Only to grow more beautiful. Oh, Ally, I’ve missed you so much.’

  ‘Prove it.’

  He laughed, shaking his head. A shower of raindrops flicked on to her lips, and she licked them up. ‘There is only one way I can do that. I don’t think we’d better risk it, do you?’

  Her only reply was to smile at him, blue eyes glowing with mischief and a primeval instinct far more
alluring. And then the magic of the moment was broken as he asked her the one question she dreaded answering.

  ‘Have you told him, Alena? Are you free?

  Why couldn’t Mickey see it was all a waste of time? Why didn’t he just give in gracefully and accept defeat? She and Rob talked to Lizzie for hours that night, worrying over how they could get it across to Mickey that life for them was impossible to contemplate unless they could be together.

  ‘We’ve wasted too much time already.’

  ‘Not wasted, lost,’ Alena corrected Rob, sliding her hand into his and giving it a little squeeze. ‘And not through any fault of our own. We were always meant to be together. It brings us truly alive.’

  Lizzie watched them with soft eyes and saw that it was so.

  The next day, which was the last before the wedding, Mickey came round yet again. Desperate to have the matter settled, Alena let him in, explaining once more with great care and as much tact as she could muster, that nothing he said or did could change the way she felt. She was very sorry but she couldn’t marry him, and there was an end of it.

  ‘It’s because I pushed you too hard, isn’t it? Because I sometimes criticised your dress, or the way you did your hair.’

  Alena sighed. ‘It’s got nothing to do with that.’

  ‘If I seemed a bit pushy, that’s only because you’re so very important to me, Ally.’

  ‘Don’t call me that!’

  He flinched, as if he were a small boy being scolded for being naughty. ‘Rob calls you that, why shouldn’t I?’

  ‘You’re not Rob.’

  ‘No, dammit, I’m not. I’m going to be your husband!’ And he drove one fist into the table top. Alena jumped, shocked by the force of the blow, amazed it hadn’t split the table in two.

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Mickey, stop it!’ She was fighting back tears, willing herself not to let him see her fear. If this was to be their final confrontation, she would come out of it with her dignity intact, at least.

  Instantly he was contrite, reaching for her even as she backed away. ‘Please don’t be angry with me. It’s only because I love you so much.’

  ‘I know,’ she said, softening as she heard the pain in his voice.

  ‘I’m sorry I lost my temper. Am I forgiven?’

  ‘Of course.’ And she pecked a kiss very quickly on his cheek. It was a mistake. She realised the instant she saw the smile spread across his broad face. ‘No, Mickey, don’t look like that. Can’t you see I’m trying to be kind, doing my best not to hurt you? It’s over. Finished. Now please go.’ She pulled herself free and watched as he thrust his shoulders back and swung with jaunty footsteps to the door where he turned and winked back at her.

  ‘See you tomorrow then. The big day, eh?’

  Less than an hour later, Alena kissed Lizzie goodbye and the pair of them clung together, crying but afraid to let go and accept the inevitable. The decision had been made some time ago, bags had been packed and arrangements made when it became clear to them all that Mickey would never accept that the wedding was off. He would turn up at the church as planned, with the vicar and the organist and the flowers, their friends sitting in the pews. But no Alena.

  ‘This isn’t how I wanted your wedding day to be, not my lovely daughter.’

  ‘I know, Ma.’ But they also knew that the tensions had become impossible to bear. However much trouble there would be when Mickey discovered Alena’s elopement, it would be far worse if she remained in the village. They had to leave, there was no other way.

  ‘We’re not going far,’ Rob promised as Lizzie walked with them to the door. ‘Just to a forest hut I know of. Not much, but it’ll have to do till I can find somewhere better. I’ll take good care of her.’

  Lizzie put one hand on his arm. ‘I know you will, lad, or you’d have to climb over my dead body to take her.’ Then they were gone and there was nothing but the night wind blowing through the house as Lizzie closed the door.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The entire village was rocked back on its heels by the scandal. What a sight! Mickey Roscoe standing at the altar looking a proper dandy in his best blue serge suit and slicked down hair, his cocksure confidence eaten away by a mounting rage that finally erupted as he swung on his heel and strode down the aisle alone, instead of with a beautiful bride on his arm. The poor vicar didn’t know which way to turn, but finally pulled himself together sufficiently to insist upon a prayer for the ‘poor aggrieved party’ before permitting the stunned congregation to escape into sunshine and gossip.

  No one could talk of anything else for days. The girls at the bobbin mill reluctantly put away their fancy frocks, but reconciled themselves to the loss of a good party by filling every spare moment with speculation about where the lovers might have gone. Gretna Green, for sure. They’d be over the border by the time Mickey had got his clean socks on that morning. And of course they all kept a keen eye on him as he went about his work in the mill, curious to see how he would cope with the shame of it all. No one could claim Mickey Roscoe was an easy character to deal with. Even so, you couldn’t help feeling sorry for the poor blighter.

  Maggie Sutton claimed to have seen it coming all along, while Mrs Rigg wept copious tears into her hanky, though her sympathies were all with the eloping lovers rather than the deserted groom. Sandra and Dolly, along with Alena’s brothers, made no comment whatsoever, preferring to keep their own counsel in the hope that the matter would die down all the sooner.

  As for Lizzie, she went about her business as normal with her head held high and her spine rigid, determined to ignore the curious stares and whispered asides that followed her everywhere. Alena was her beloved daughter, and she was proud of the courage the girl had shown. In Lizzie’s opinion there were plenty of married couples in this village who would have led happier lives if one or other of the parties concerned had shown similar good sense. She was sad that she’d miss her daughter’s wedding, but then what did a ceremony matter? It was what followed that really counted in this world: and she wanted Alena to be happy.

  But the question was on everyone’s lips. ‘Are they really brother and sister, or not?’ Few had not heard the scandalous tale by this time. Had James Hollinthwaite lied or not? Opinion was divided.

  Mrs Milburn reported, to her continuing regret, that James Hollinthwaite had said not one word on the subject to her. He’d locked himself into his study and hadn’t emerged, except when necessary, to her certain knowledge for more than two weeks. First losing his wife, now his son. What would become of the poor man, and how it would all turn out, she hadn’t the first idea, but no good would come of it, of that she was very sure.

  James’s fury was such that he could not bear the thought of revealing his feelings to anyone. His desk was littered with papers and plans, he spent hours on the telephone, devoted himself with unflagging energy to his conifer project. There was scarcely a moment when he was not engaged upon the matter in some way or another. It had met with opposition, of course. He was aware of the village campaign against him, led by some girl with a grievance over a silly accident that was not his responsibility. Admittedly she was not alone. There were others: land owners, romantics, the local council, even the vicar, who strongly objected to his plans to afforest open fell land, and in particular to his idea of replacing ancient hardwoods with spruce. James ignored them all, brushing them aside as he would irritating insects.

  Nevertheless, when he did finally emerge from self-imposed seclusion, he knew how to turn the scandal surrounding his son to his advantage, how to play for sympathy when the occasion demanded it. Certainly the local council warmed towards him as he politely pointed out that if he could not control the wanton passions of youth, there was little anyone could do to stop him from planting whatever he wished on his own land. He said the old hardwood trees were unsafe and would have to be felled in any case. He promised to replant with mixed woodland, at whatever cost. None of this was true but, foolishly, their pity for him urged
them to believe him and they raised no further objections.

  But then, unlike Alena, they did not know him for a dishonest man.

  He would prove to everyone, through these ambitious, wealth producing schemes, that he was still a man in control of his own destiny, with not a single regret. A man who could surmount scandal and would never tolerate failure. All he had to do was engage the labour and the felling could begin.

  Knowing Rob’s abiding interest in trees, James was certain this would bring him back to Ellersgarth and his home. If he could but make a man of him, make him forget the Townsen girl and become the son he had always wanted, as ambitious and single-minded as himself, then it would all have been worthwhile.

  His plans made, James felt more able to see the situation as simply a temporary set back, one that could still be overcome. So far as he was aware the couple were not yet wed, despite rumours to the contrary, though they were probably bedded by now. But then they believed he lied. This made him laugh, but only for a moment as he thought of Olivia, the wife who had deserted him. She was the one most to blame for everything. Her difficulties in producing a son, her cold disregard for his needs throughout their married life, and the way she had crossed his every attempt to guide and control the boy ... Now she’d encouraged the lad to pry.

  Fortunately, James’s own distrust of his fellow men had served him well over the years, in particular when others before his son had gone down similar avenues. It meant they could discover only blind alleys. Unfortunately, he had not legislated for the more intimate effect of that night’s events upon himself. Effects that had surprised him. Could he have a conscience after all? he wondered, and snorted with derision at the very idea.

  He kicked at a log in the fireplace. How he would like to kick Alena Townsen, and all she represented of his own failures and torment, out of his life and that of his son, no matter what the cost. He succeeded only in making sparks spiral up the chimney, and the room light up with their brilliance. It seemed almost prophetic, reminding him yet again of the particular nature of his agony.