Shining Threads

by Audrey Howard

  The weaving shed was reduced to an unsteady, smouldering skeleton with a dozen huge tottering beams which once had supported whole floors now sticking up like the fingers on a hand against the brightening sky. The warehouse and despatch room were completely gutted when they arrived in the carriage, driven at a dangerously run-away speed by Drew himself. He was charged up to fever pitch with excitement, his face quite devilish in the lurid flames of the fire. Just for a second, before the horror of the disaster rooted her to the soot-blackened square of ground on which she stood, Tessa was quite appalled by her husband’s terrifying intensity. He seemed bewitched, clasping her hand like a small boy who had come across some strange and alarming sight and is unsure whether to be afraid or exhilarated. The fear excited him, and the excitement frightened him, combining to produce a dangerous state of mind in which, it appeared to her, he might dash recklessly into the flames to save some small, quite unimportant item, risking his life to do so. And at the same time she sensed a gladness in him, a delirious relief as though he was overjoyed to see, at last, the destruction of the one thing he hated more than any other on earth.

  Then the fury and savagery of the fire took everything from her mind. Her mother stood like a statue in the higgledy-piggledy collection of clothing she had flung on, her eyes following the line of useless water-filled buckets which passed from hand to hand, directed by a frantic Charlie; and then, amid the confused shouts and the realisation of those who operated it that it was a waste of time, her gaze turned to the large hand-pump which had required fifty men to haul it here and pump the water from the nearby river.

  Dawn came early for it was not yet autumn and still her mother stood at the top of the brow which led down to the mill, now no more than a blackened, smoking pile, spread over an enormous area of what could only be described now as rubbish. There was nothing identifiable in the stinking debris: the outline of what might have been a spinning mule, melted down in the fierce heat to no more than a lump of metal; a half-burned-through beam, the unexplained mystery of why half of it was barely touched whilst the solid steel had melted.

  Scores of silent onlookers stood about with no thought in their minds of going to Preston or Manchester, conscious only of their jobs which had gone up in the flames along with the mill. Men moved about aimlessly through the pools of filthy water, scratching their heads for want of a better occupation, their clogs sinking into the water and the mud as they wondered what to do next. Children watched awed but thrilled, as Drew Greenwood had been, unaware of the consequences which would surely follow this night. And over it all the sun shone benignly from a cloudless sky.

  Tessa could not seem to get her stunned and senseless mind beyond the wonder of how much space the mill had taken up. Across the acres and acres of wasteland she could now see the tidy row of cottages, the village church and its graceful spire, the smithy set beside the small row of shops and, to the left, the fields on which the men played cricket and the children ran in the meadow grass. Why, it’s open countryside here, her astonished gaze told her, only the mill making it seem like any other small cotton town. There were trees and a park which she had never noticed before, a whole community which had lived under the wing of Chapman industry, nurtured by the thrift and common sense, the foresight and business acumen of women like her mother and men like Charlie.

  She stood with her arm about Jenny’s shoulders, drawn to her with compassion, their past animosity forgotten, watching as Charlie began to walk in the direction of the ruined mill, his long stride taking him down the slope and through the wide open gateway into the filthy yard. Jenny began to follow and Tessa went with her, both still stunned by the enormity of the destruction. Drew was helping the men push the hand-pump from the area. Pearce, his brother, had loathed – and been afraid of – the factory in his youth. Now Drew, who had been part of him, certainly did not feel the need to poke about in its remains as Charlie seemed intent on doing.

  ‘Charlie,’ Jenny’s voice was nervous, warning her brother not to go too near.

  ‘Don’t fret thissen, our Jenny,’ Charlie answered in a strained, ragged voice, the broad vowels of his Lancashire heritage strong now in his distress. ‘I’m nobbut tryin’ to see if there’s owt in’t . . .’

  ‘What, for God’s sake? Everything’s burned to a crisp. What can there possibly be left worth risking getting yourself burned for?’

  ‘Th’office were here, lass. Happen there’s a file or two . . .’

  ‘Don’t be daft, Charlie. Please come back. The wood’s still smouldering and your clothes might catch alight.’

  ‘Give ower. The men’ve cleared a path through theer to mek easier access for’t hosepipes. I’ll just . . .’

  ‘Charlie . . . please . . . ’ Jenny begged, then turned to the men who stood in dispirited groups in every corner of the yard. Some had come for miles and some seemed not quite so downcast as others, since it was not their mill which had burned down nor their jobs which were lost.

  ‘Is it safe for him to go in there?’ she asked them irritably for, really, her brother was so pigheaded sometimes and would listen to no one. Perhaps if another man told him, one of those involved in the fire-fighting, he might be persuaded to stop poking aimlessly around and come home for a hot bath and a rest. Heaven only knew what he would do with himself, nor she either, until the mill was re-built: the four other mills, the old ones built by Barker Chapman nearly eighty years ago, were small and with only enough managerial work to keep those already employed there fully occupied. But that was for tomorrow. Today must be got through and they were all in a badly shocked state. They needed food and sleep and the sooner they left this desolation the better.

  The smoking beam, though as solid as one of the rocks up on Badger’s Edge, made from the strongest wood, twelve feet long and at least two feet wide on each of its four sides moved ever so slightly. It stood bolt upright from the dense mass of melted machinery which supported it and though Charlie was at least six feet away and standing quite still as his eyes darted about in search of something he might salvage, a ledger perhaps, a wages book or some record of the work done here only yesterday, it seemed to line itself up with the menace of a wild animal ambushing its prey. It fell so slowly all those who watched were quite convinced Mr Greenwood could easily have side-stepped, and they stood waiting for him to do so, shouting a warning nevertheless, just to be on the safe side. It struck him squarely on the back of the head, falling with a sound like thunder, taking him with it into the muck and filth and water-soaked ashes, the charred wood and melted steel, the stinking ruin of what had once been the best and safest mill in the whole of south Lancashire.

  For a moment that seemed to stretch on forever more there was an appalled silence. Then Jenny Harrison began to scream and it was not until her daughter gripped her savagely, pulling her into her own desolate arms – for how could any of them survive if Charlie, dear, dependable Charlie was lost to them? – that she fell into chilling unconsciousness.

  The funeral of Charlie Greenwood, little piecer once, in the mill that he had for less than two years owned in partnership with his sister and nephew, was attended by high and low from every part of Lancashire and even beyond into Yorkshire where he had been well known for his clear business head and his reputation for fair dealings. Piecer he might have been, years ago, but when he died, besides being a wealthy man, his wealth now inherited by his distraught widow, he had also been the brother of the illustrious Joss Greenwood, once and for many years Member of Parliament for Crossfold.

  The ladies were in black silk with corsage and sleeves ornamented with jet, and skirts with no more than seven flounces, for one did not want to seem ostentatious on such a sad occasion. The gentlemen wore black coat and trousers, mourning bands and tall black top-hats. Black, black everywhere except for the wisps of white cambric and lace, black-edged, which many of the ladies lifted to their eyes though they could not say they had exactly known the dead man.

  His sister stood
beside Joss Greenwood, erect, composed and quite, quite still, no sign of tears for her dead brother, though her face was paper-white behind her black veil. Her sister-in-law, once Kit Chapman who had built the destroyed mill, wept quietly, more, one felt, for the passing of so young a man than in grief, clinging to her husband’s arm, not looking round at the mourners nor the hundreds of operatives who jostled for a place to watch the burying of the man most of them had known only as their millmaster. The remaining four Chapman mills were closed for the day in respect for Charlie Greenwood and the press of spinners and weavers was so great that the hillside on which the church stood was black with them.

  His niece was impassive. Her eyes stared stonily at the coffin being lowered into the grave as she supported, or so it seemed to those nearest to them, the sad weakness of her husband and cousin, Drew Greenwood. His behaviour was strange, or perhaps not, when one remembered him as a wild youth. Despite the efforts of his family to persuade him to his proper place in the business, or so it was said in the valley, ever since his father had made it over to him this young and vigorous man had managed to live as though it had nothing at all to do with him. He had never been near the factory, now gone, which was his inheritance, since before he and his equally reckless brother had ridden off to the Crimea. Even marriage to his cousin had not steadied him and at the age of twenty-two he had not, to anyone’s knowledge, done a hand’s turn in his life and by the look of him drooping at the graveside, his hand in that of his beautiful wife, was not likely to do so in the immediate future.

  The mourners had gone and the six adults who remained of Charlie Greenwood’s family sat stiffly about the drawing-room wondering how soon they might, without giving offence, be allowed to leave: Kit Greenwood eager to return to the comfortable solitude she and her husband shared in the sunshine of Italy, her son to get his wife upstairs and into the private world he and she wove in their wide double bed and where he felt secure. The graveside had reminded him too sharply of that other one in Scutari, dark and silent and menacing. He needed sweet-scented flesh, pliant and warm, soft-hued with life, the feel of silk and the smell of sensuality to reassure him that he was not dead, and only with Tessa could he find that.

  Jenny and Laurel sat side by side on the pale velvet of the sofa, the stark black of their mourning quite shocking against its soft prettiness. For once they were united in their stunned grief, not exactly leaning on one another but both conscious of the sympathy they shared. If she were honest Laurel would admit, only to herself, mind, that her sorrow was strongly laced with the fear of what was to happen to Laurel Greenwood without Charlie to ease the awkward path she trod. What would be her position now in this house where she had been mistress for so long? She could hardly picture her flighty cousin, Mrs Drew Greenwood, wanting to take over but at the same time could she, Charlie’s widow, continue as what would now be, with Charlie gone, no more than housekeeper in Mrs Drew Greenwood’s home?

  Kit clicked her tongue disapprovingly as her husband asked the question she had been dreading. Though she might be his mother, she was not blind to the . . . well, shortcomings was a mild way of putting it, of her only son and there was certain to be discord which would only serve to distress Joss Greenwood further. Jenny was fifty-six now – or was it fifty-seven? – and how much longer could she go on, particularly without Charlie? Kit felt she no longer cared. The mills which had once been her whole life could go to the devil, just as long as Joss took no harm from it. Let them get on with it, Drew and Tessa, and run the damn place into the ground. All she wanted was for the few years she and her beloved husband had left to be peaceful.

  ‘Son, you will take Charlie’s place now?’ his father asked, but it was more of a command than a question, his manner saying quite plainly that, this time, there was really nothing else for it and Drew Greenwood might as well make up his mind to it.

  Tessa closed her eyes and waited. She could feel her husband’s hands clench over hers and his whole body seemed poised ready for flight. Already the day had placed a great strain on his slender reserve of stability, surely his father could see that? She herself was only too well aware that someone must run the business but surely he knew after all these years that it would never be Drew Greenwood? Never! They had been married for two years almost and in that time she had faced and learnt to accept what he was. Could not they? Providing no one obliged him to do anything other than what he did so well and easily, which was to be a country gentleman with thought for nothing but the care of his guns and horses, the cut of his jacket and the paying of his gambling debts, which he did quite without effort now, he would remain the pleasant, engaging husband she loved. But force him, if it were possible which she doubted, into the mill, and he would simply be unable to face it.

  ‘Tessa . . .’

  ‘Yes, darling?’

  ‘I am . . . do you not think . . . there is something . . . the stables . . . ?’

  ‘Of course, sweetheart.’ She turned and kissed him on the cheek, just as one might a large child who has asked politely to be excused from adult company. ‘I know Percy wants to check with you on the condition of your new hunter. But don’t be too long for your mother and father are to catch the train to London shortly.’

  ‘No indeed. Excuse me, Mother, Father, Laurel, Aunt Jenny.’ He smiled endearingly, his manners exquisite as he stood up. ‘I shan’t be but half an hour. This damned hunter of mine has developed a cough and I said I would look in to see how he is. At the price one is forced to pay for a decent mount, one cannot afford to neglect it.’

  There was a great and sorrowful silence when he had gone as the three who were most concerned contemplated, finally, the awful consequences of the Crimean War on the surviving son of the family. This was the heir; the one who, as was proper, would take up the reins of the business; who should, five years ago, have been compelled with his brother to take up the reins of the business. Tessa wondered at the naïvety of her aunt and uncle who, for some curious reason, had believed up until this very moment that he would. Could they not have seen, years ago, the weakness in both their sons? The lack of tough-fibred tenacity which every millmaster, whatever the size of his concern, needs to make a success of it? Joss Greenwood had had it, though he had channelled it into another undertaking. His wife, Kit Chapman had had it, refusing, thirty and more years ago to let a man take over and run her business when her father was killed. And in the veins of their sons had run their blood, the blood of the blunt, outspoken, stout-hearted north-countryman who would fight for his own bit of ground until they buried him in it. Her own mother, no kin of theirs except by the kinship of love, was the same, and so, sadly, had been Charlie. Now there was only Jenny Harrison left to carry on the great tradition and how was she to do it without her much-loved brother beside her? She was approaching sixty, a great age for a woman, and the task of rebuilding the mill at Chapmanstown, of organising into some semblance of order the huge financial commitments, of handling the hundreds of their customers who would now have to look elsewhere for the piece goods and dress goods with which Chapmans had supplied them, the enormous task of painstakingly putting together what the holocaust of the fire had smashed to pieces must now fall on her shoulders alone.

  Jenny Harrison lifted her eyes from the pretty Meissen ornament she had been gravely studying and sighed. Her hollow-eyed face was a pale and dusty grey. Her flaunting mass of short curls was covered by her black mourning bonnet and she looked extinguished, the guttering flame of the candle of her life gone out at last. She had lost her brother whom she had loved. They had shared so much, she and Charlie, from the day when as a young boy nearly thirty years ago he had strode out manfully beside her to his place at the mill. He had suffered so much with her, even more than Joss: the bitter hardships, the hunger, the cold, the brutality of the work he was forced to, the desolation of the ‘afflicted poor’, doing his best despite his tender age to be a man. Now he was gone. She had lost her son, not only the memory of the merry-faced thre
e-year-old who had been taken from her, but the haunted, hate-filled man he had become, who said he would never forgive her for what she had done to Tessa, her daughter, and to him, her son. She would live with that memory until she died with no other to soften it. The two men she had loved more than any other, both gone and, her expression said, she could stand no more.

  ‘I’ve had enough, Joss,’ she said simply, looking only at him.

  ‘Jenny?’ Her sister-in-law’s voice was unsteady.

  ‘You cannot ask it of me, Kit. If he . . .’ she jerked her head in the direction of the door through which Drew had just gone, ‘cannot manage, then you must sell it.’

  ‘We cannot sell what has been in the family for almost a century, Jenny.’ Kit Greenwood’s voice was anguished, her indifference of a moment ago regarding the mills’ future apparently fled away.

  ‘Your family, not mine.’

  ‘Dear God, Jenny . . .’

  ‘It’s no good, Kit. I’m finished. I can take no more. I want to sit in the sun, as you and Joss do, all day long with no decision to make but which hat to put on or how to fill the hours from breakfast to bedtime. It’s gone now, lass, the force, or the need, or whatever it was that drove me on. Merciful heavens, I’m fifty-seven. That mill’s had me since I was a girl and now it’s taken Charlie . . .’

  Laurel began to sob broken-heartedly, the thought of her future and that of her children looking more and more bleak with every word Jenny spoke. Dear God, if Jenny went, presumably giving her share to Tessa, what would happen to them all? To herself whose world was tottering like a house of cards and to her children who were not only to be fatherless, but homeless and forced to manage on the tiny share she would be entitled to if the other mills were sold?