The Bobbin Girls

by Freda Lightfoot

  ‘But I wasn’t "running away", as you call it. I was simply leaving home to get married. Girls do that all the time.’

  But she knew her arguments fell on deaf ears.

  It was only when she finally fell into bed each night with a deep sigh of relief that Sandra had time to think of her own situation. She thought about Harry, of how he would even now be alone in the Liverpool boarding house where they should have been together. She could think of little else as the tears flowed, dampening her pillow and making her heart ache with the pity of it all.

  For a whole week Sandra endured the sharp edge of her aunt’s tongue. Despair and guilt were well set in and she had given up all hope of ever managing to join Harry.

  Lizzie called regularly on her way home from the mill to sympathise and fuss over Sandra, bringing tit-bits to make sure she was eating properly, and insisting she should not be a martyr.

  ‘Stand up for yourself, lass. She’s only using you.’

  Miserably, Sandra could only agree even as she shook her head. ‘Except that she really is ill this time. She had a temperature this morning and was quite feverish. It’s all my fault.’

  Lizzie, who wouldn’t have put it past the woman to overheat herself with all those blankets and hot water bottles she insisted upon, was unimpressed. ‘She’ll mend.’

  ‘But she’s the only family I’ve got.’

  ‘And she took you into her fine house when you were orphaned, I know. But how long an arm has gratitude got? Some time, girl, you have to break loose, make up your mind to lead your own life, aunt or no aunt.’ On her way out, a basket of the old woman’s washing firmly wedged against her hip, which was the least she could do for the poor lass, Lizzie promised to call again the next day. See you get some rest yourself. I know what it is to act as nurse. We don’t want you taken badly as well.’

  Sandra, agreeing that she was indeed worn out, dutifully went to bed by eight, praying her aunt would not call for her during the night, as she had taken to doing recently. But the moment she’d turned off the light, a querulous voice echoed along the landing.

  ‘Sandra! Sandra!’

  Wearily she switched on her lamp and padded off to her aunt’s bedroom in bare feet, then downstairs to reheat a cup of hot milk left to go cold while her aunt dozed When she brought it back up, Aunt Elsie handed her two hot water bottles.

  ‘You might as well refill these at the same time.’

  Sandra bit back a retort that she hadn’t, in fact, mentioned them at the same time, but took the bottles and went back downstairs to fill kettles.

  Half an hour later, falling into bed with a sigh of exhausted relief, she tried once more to settle to sleep but her legs were too tired to stay still, and her head filled with worries. Where was Harry now? Had he already left for Canada? If she missed this ship, might there be another? A small pain started at the side of her head and, pressing her fingers against it, she prayed it wouldn’t worsen. She hadn’t been troubled with these headaches for so long now. Please God, she quietly prayed, don’t let them start again. I’m doing my best.

  She breathed deeply, closed her eyes tight, counted sheep, recited nursery rhymes - but sleep refused to come, and the headache worsened. Yet again she went over everything she had done and said during those last few days, wondering whether she could have softened the blow for her aunt, or made it any easier. She went over in fine detail all she’d done from the moment she’d got up at six that morning, which seemed a lifetime ago, till the accident had occurred.

  Why had it happened? Why had Aunt Elsie decided, for the first time in her entire life, to bring down her own tray? Probably because she was going to have to do it every morning from then on, Sandra thought, and guilt struck her afresh.

  She remembered taking particular trouble over the tray that morning, since it would be the last she’d have to do, using the prettiest lace tray cloth and silver napkin ring. And instead of the usual blue breakfast cup, she’d poured the Assam tea into Aunt Elsie’s best china cup and saucer, as a treat.

  Why did the silly old woman have to carry it down while she was still wearing her long nightdress? It was a wonder she hadn’t broken her leg, or her neck for that matter. Sleep now far away, eyes gazing blindly at the ceiling, Sandra fought off the debilitating headache by struggling to piece together the picture. Something wasn’t quite right, didn’t properly add up.

  And then it came to her. The breakfast tray had not catapulted down the stairs with her aunt. Afterwards, when the doctor had been strapping up the injured limb, she had picked it up from the top step and carried it downstairs herself. How on earth had it come to be sitting on the top step? And, come to think of it, how had a stool come to be behind the front door?

  Stunned by her discovery, Sandra gasped in the darkness. The answer was obvious. Because Aunt Elsie had not wished to risk breaking her favourite cup and saucer. She hadn’t hurt herself badly, because she hadn’t really fallen at all.

  It had been the stool Sandra had heard banging and tumbling down the stairs, no doubt pushed along by her aunt as she had walked safely down before deliberately falling the last few stairs for the sake of realism. She’d been prepared to risk minor injury in order to prevent her niece from leaving. Dear lord, but she was a manipulative old witch! Sandra thought with uncharacteristic venom.

  So what did she do about it?

  Sleep having deserted her for the night, Sandra pulled on her dressing gown and crept downstairs. She made a cup of Horlicks, took two Aspro, and sat for a long time at the kitchen table, slowly sipping the comforting hot drink, turning the facts over in her mind. Despite her aunt having little real affection for her, she was selfishly prepared to destroy her niece’s one chance of happiness, simply for the sake of her own comfort.

  And then another memory from that morning’s activities, buried in the back of her mind, began to emerge. Sandra set down her cup and went again to the bureau. The papers had been bundled back inside but were still in disarray, since she’d not had time to tidy them properly. She sat in the winged armchair with a pile in her lap and went through them, one by one, till she came to the one she was looking for - her father’s will. Carefully unfolding it, she read every word with keen attention. He had left various small bequests to friends and relatives. Her father, a man of some means as director of a small engineering company in Lancashire, had been better off than she’d realised.

  Sandra waded through a longish list and then finally came to it. To his sister, Elsie Myers, he’d left the sum of one thousand pounds and the right to stay on in his home for the remainder of her lifetime.

  And to my daughter, Sandra Anne Myers, I leave the remainder of my estate which comprises my home, Grove House, and all the goods and chattels therein.

  She stared at the will in shock and disbelief. If this was true, then the home that her aunt had grudgingly offered her from cold charity, had been hers all along!

  Now Sandra properly understood how Alena had felt. Lies did indeed damage people’s lives. Her aunt had told lies, making her feel that she owed even the roof over her head to Aunt Elsie’s generosity, when really her father had made proper provision for her, for them both, all along. The old woman’s lies had robbed Sandra not only of her own home and heritage, but also of self-esteem and control over her own life, turning her into little more than a skivvy. The damage had rippled outward through the years with nearly devastating results.

  The next day, taking up Lizzie’s offer to sit with Aunt Elsie she caught the bus to Hawkshead and paid a call on the family solicitor. Here she sought, and found, confirmation of the facts. Elsie Myers did indeed have the right to live at Grove House, but the property belonged, in truth, to Sandra.

  ‘Your father was most particular that you be left well provided for. I was under the impression Miss Myers had informed you of this fact when you turned twenty-one. Until then, your aunt was to act as your guardian, of course.’

  In her anger, Sandra very nearly washed her ha
nds of the whole thing, but the solicitor prudently pointed out that one day she and Harry might wish to return to the Lake District. Convinced by this argument, she promised to send the solicitor her new address as soon as she knew it, and in his turn he promised to protect her future interest in the property with much closer attention.

  It took no more than a short visit to Mrs Hutton to settle matters and secure Sandra’s future. Mrs Hutton would indeed be delighted to keep an eye on Miss Myers. She’d move into the spare room at once and act as companion-cum-housekeeper, and it didn’t signify that the good lady could afford only a small weekly remuneration, for being widowed and alone in the world herself, Mrs Hutton would most gratefully welcome the company.

  ‘I’m sure we’ll rub along fine, your aunt and I. I shall enjoy the challenge. Don’t you fret, Sandra, I was a nurse during the war and I’m well used to looking after difficult patients. You get off to Canada with your young man and make a good life for yourself.’

  Sandra went next to see her dear friend, Mrs Rigg, thanking her for giving her a job when everyone else had written her off as useless. ‘You restored my faith in myself, as well as in human nature.

  ‘Nay, you were allus a good worker. I’ve naught to complain of.’

  ‘And tell Mickey I’ll write as soon as we’re settled, to wish him well with the campaign.’

  Having taken a tearful farewell of Lizzie, with many promises to write and the hope of a future visit, the final task remaining was simply to inform Aunt Elsie of these arrangements - a chore Sandra despatched with a cool calm that impressed even herself.

  ‘I know about the provisions made for me. I found my father’s will in the bureau when I was hunting for my birth certificate, and have discussed it all with the solicitor. I’m aware now that this house is actually mine, but naturally I am happy for you to continue to live in it, Aunt, for as long as you need to. After that, unless Harry and I decide to return and live in it ourselves, I shall sell it. I hope you find the arrangements I’ve made for you satisfactory. If not, I’m sure the solicitor will assist in any way he can. He has agreed to keep an eye on things for me.’

  All of this left her aunt, for the first time in her life, white-faced and speechless.

  Then came Mrs Hutton’s firm step on the stair and her jolly voice insisting that Sandra get along as Jim Townsen

  was at the door with his van. ‘Your bags are all packed aboard, lass, and he’s ready to give you a lift to the station. Hurry up now, you’ll not want to risk missing another train!’

  She bustled into the bedroom in a billowing blue dress and apron that crackled with starch, sleeves rolled up over formidable arms. ‘And don’t you worry none about your dear aunt. I’ll have her up and about in no time. We’ll get started on our exercises just the minute you’ve gone, won’t we, dear?’

  Sandra almost found it in her heart to feel sorry for Aunt Elsie as she saw utter panic form in her faded eyes.

  ‘Sandra?’ The voice was no more than a plaintive croak. But Sandra simply planted a kiss on her aunt’s dry cheek, wished her well, then skipped down the stairs, grabbed her coat, and left.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The sun rimmed the hilltops, burning off the morning mist to sail high in a cloudless sky. A Lakeland summer night, Alena had discovered, was surprisingly short. As she stood rubbing the sleep from her eyes while she waited for the kettle to boil for her tea, she watched a herd of young bucks in their foxy red coats, grazing in a thicket. How sure of themselves they were, eyes bright, noses shining with moisture in the morning light. Even though it was August, still high summer, she could almost feel their excitement as they sensed the approach of autumn and the rutting season.

  But as the excitement of the Coronation had died down, the nation’s consciousness seemed to turn more and more to fears of war. On her frequent visits Lizzie often brought this unwelcome news for her daughter and Rob.

  ‘There’s even talk of building bomb shelters against air raids. Can you imagine? What would we do here?’

  They listened politely, but it all seemed too remote, almost another world. Here in the forest their primary consideration was to clear the ground for where Rob would build his first stack, and for them to make as many besoms, clothes props and hurdles as they could, which they must then sell if they were to survive. Thanks to Isaac, Rob’s contacts were growing, as were his skills, slowly but with a sureness that added to their optimism even if, at times, their very real hunger drove it away again.

  This morning, as so many others recently, Alena was alone. Rob had spent the night with Isaac on the burn. The old man usually devoted his summers to climbing the high fells when he wasn’t busy peeling oak bark, but to help Rob he’d started the charcoal season early. They’d been busy for days. Alena understood, but she missed him and would be glad when his apprenticeship was over and Rob back in the glade with her. Even the young stags had moved on, seeking quieter cover as full day approached. The famous Furness Reds were used to peace and solitude and didn’t much care for people. Well, this was the right place for them. Alena thought, with a deep sigh of satisfaction.

  Sometimes her fancy told her that she wasn’t alone. She almost felt as if eyes watching her from behind the slender trunks of the coppiced oaks, and that she heard unexplained rustling noises. The natural stillness of the forest seemed to awaken all her natural instincts, making her strain to listen and observe. Then she would hear the laughing cry of a woodpecker and she too would join in, laughing at the onslaught of nervousness. Of course she was not alone, how could she be? She shared the forest with a whole variety of animals. She was the interloper.

  Even now she could here the cooing call of an amorous grouse, and the rasp of a squirrel’s claws against the bark of a tree. Smiling, she went back inside, and brewed her tea, dark and strong, just how she liked it. She spread honey on a thick slice of bread and, taking both outside, sat on her favourite log to watch the sun complete its stupendous climb into a clear azure sky.

  Over the following days Rob finished clearing the ground on the old pitstead to a diameter of some thirty feet. Any sods that he removed, he saved. They’d be needed later to keep air out of the stack. He checked there were no mole runs, rat holes, or any seepage of water. By the start of September he had enough three-foot lengths, known as shanklings, and a whole stack of two-foot coalwood to begin his burn. During his first season he’d have to fell ready for the next, to give the wood time to season. But to get started, he’d collected wood found lying about the forest floor and friends of Isaac had supplied the rest. He was excited and nervous, thankful that the old man was there to help. Even so, Isaac made sure that Rob did most of the work, as was only right and proper.

  He stood, arms folded, in the centre of the clearing, an impressive figure in his long greatcoat, his wide-brimmed hat pulled well down, feather quivering. ‘No good building without a firm foundation. So how do we begin, boy?’

  Rob smiled at the look of anxiety on Alena’s lovely face as he answered confidently. ‘We put a thin pole in the centre, then prop the shanklings all around it. You can help fetch them, Alena. We’ll place them in the proper position.’ For a moment he saw the familiar rebellion flare and thought she’d tell him to fetch them himself, but then she grinned, rolled up her sleeves, and brought the first two poles.

  They worked well together, establishing an easy rhythm, stacking the shanklings around the centre pole, called the ‘motty-peg’, almost vertically at first and then with an increasing slope, layer upon layer. Further layers were added until finally the shorter coalwood was laid on top to give a final height of some five or six feet, the slope of the finished stack gentle. Then Alena brought the green grass and reeds she had collected as Rob began to put on shovelfuls of subsoil, mixed with sand and clay, known as sammel. These were packed into every gap to keep out the air. A blaze must be prevented at all cost. On top of this was laid a tightly packed layer of sods, Rob standing on the dome-like structure wh
ile Isaac and Alena threw them up to him.

  ‘Now we can draw out the motty-peg and you can start the burn, boy,’ grinned Isaac.

  Alena was looking up at him with such pride, shielding her eyes from the sun and thinking how fine he looked up there on top of the stack, so tall and strong and sure, almost noble. She blew him a kiss for luck. ‘Go on, this is our beginning. Just you and me from now on.’

  Rob drew out the motty-peg and dropped a shovelful of glowing charcoal down the resulting hole, ramming in as much extra charcoal, provided by Isaac, as he could manage. Once he was sure it was alight, he quickly closed the top gap with a wet sod, pressing it in place; then climbed down to stand beside Alena with pride and satisfaction like an aura about him.

  And so the vigil began.

  ‘You’ll have to watch it carefully,’ Isaac warned. ‘Restrict the air, stop up draughts with wet sods, reeds or sammel, and keep an eye on the colour of the smoke over the next day or two, as I have taught you. The stack will shift as the wood in the centre is reduced. If you get a fire, you’ll lose the lot. I’ll call and see how you’re faring tomorrow.’ Then he lifted his hat by way of farewell and silently slipped away into the forest.

  Rob put his arms about Alena and they hugged each other tight. ‘It’s going to be fine,’ she assured him. ‘We’ll make lots of charcoal which will fetch a good price.’

  Rob frowned. ‘Isaac often has two burns going at once.’

  ‘One is enough to begin with.’

  ‘I couldn’t have done it without you.’

  ‘Yes, you could. But I’d rather you didn’t try.’

  ‘You have a smut on your nose.’ And he kissed it, before rubbing it off.

  ‘I dare say I’ll have a few more before we’re done.’

  ‘While we watch, I mean to have a go at whittling tent pegs. If there is to be a war, they’ll be much in demand.’