100 Tiny Threads

by Judith Barrow

  ‘Ya’ll have noticed neither of us have any religion?’ he said, abruptly changing the subject.

  ‘I did know about Honora.’

  ‘Well, to be sure, I have no time for it, either; the Catholics believe they’ve been denied so much – and who am I to say they haven’t?’ He raised and dropped his shoulders. ‘And the Protestants have always thought there’ve been plots against them. There’ll be more trouble, more riots, sure to be.’

  ‘Do you think there’ll be riots here about it?’ The thought of it frightened Winifred.

  He must have seen her fear because he caught hold of her hand. ‘I shouldn’t think so, macushla. There’s been a lot of anger against the English for a long time; ever since the famine, but it hasn’t meant the Nationalists have dared to do anything over here.’

  Winifred nodded. ‘I remember Dad telling me about it once. The Great Potato Famine? I was about nine, I think. I remember I cried at some of the stories he told me.’

  ‘Except they weren’t stories; it happened to real people.’ Conal’s voice was hard.

  Winifred flushed. ‘I’m sorry.

  It was as if he hadn’t heard her. ‘Our da used to tell us about his father and the bad times. People died. The British landowners didn’t care; they exported food while their Irish tenants starved to death. Those who didn’t starve, left. It split families; loads went off to America, some came over to Britain. But they didn’t fit in here. And we’re still not wanted by many folk this side of the Irish Sea. We’re seen by some as wanting to cause trouble. I’ve even heard they think anybody with my accent wants to blow up Parliament.’

  The image of her mother came into Winifred’s mind. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again.

  He glanced at her. ‘Aw, ya’re grand. No worries. Anyhow, after the famine, for a long old time, whole parts of the country were left empty. Those left were poor. Grandad was new with the qualifications then. Da said he worked for free most of the time and they sometimes didn’t even have bread on the table. My da was different; he thought his family came first. And I feel the same. I want more for Honora and me than what Seanathair had; for a wife and family, if I ever have one.’

  Winifred felt unexpected warmth in her throat and face at his last words, and turned her face away in case he noticed. ‘Still…’ she said. ‘Still, you’re helping poor people here, like Sophie. And I’m sure you’ll be a good doctor.’

  ‘Aw, one day. Anyhow, Da left us a quite a bit of cash when he died. Enough for us to get here after I’d won a place at the Leeds School of Medicine, enough to get me through to be qualified if we don’t squander it. We manage. Just.’

  ‘And you don’t mind living like…’ She stopped, aware of the irritation in his eyes. ‘I mean that house, that street…’

  ‘You think we have a choice?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s free. That street is down for demolition. No-one cares that we’re there. Not yet.’ His voice was grim.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Winifred said again.

  ‘When we have to move on we’ll find another house. We’ve done it before, we’ll do it again. As long as I can save enough, and we can earn enough for me to keep on training – working for a future for Honora and me, I’ll keep on fighting…’

  ‘I’m sure you will.’ There was nothing else to say.

  ‘I’m sorry, carrying on like that.’ He looked at her.

  ‘Aw, you’re grand.’ Winifred tried to imitate his accent. ‘No worries.’ She thought for a moment he was offended, was surprised when he grinned. His laughter was infectious. He grabbed her fingers and they walked hand in hand until they left the narrow streets behind and emerged onto Cook Street.

  ‘I know my way from here.’ She’d actually known her way for the last ten minutes but was enjoying the feel of his long, slender fingers wrapped around hers. And he made her feel safe.

  ‘I’ll go a bit further with ya.’

  ‘No, honestly. Don’t you want to get back? Don’t you want to find out how Sophie is? If your friend is all right? The one who was so upset?’

  ‘Denny? He’s her fella.’ Conal stopped so suddenly she stumbled. ‘Steady, now.’ He held out his other hand to balance her. ‘And Sophie? They’ve done for her. They’ve killed her.’ His tone was vehement. ‘And they’ll get away with it.’ He dipped his head, his dark eyes fixed on hers. ‘Cos that’s what they do, ya know.’

  ‘I know.’ She shivered. ‘I saw.’

  In the distance the hooter from the mine sounded. She looked in the direction of the noise. She didn’t want to get caught up in the crowds of men making their way from the last shift of the day; it wouldn’t be seemly to be walking amongst them. ‘I should go.’

  ‘Like I said, I’ll walk with ya.’ He gestured for her to move and his hand brushed hers. Her skin tingled. ‘Just a little way,’ he added. ‘I know your ma and da wouldn’t approve, so I’ll not be going near the shop.’ He smiled. ‘I promised Honora I’d get ya home safe, sure I did. And she’d have my guts for garters if anything happened to you.’

  ‘All right.’

  He was as good as his word and stopped when they reached Marshall Road. He peered around the corner. ‘Ya’ll be okay now.’ He tilted his head towards the muffled sound of clogs on tarmac a few streets away. ‘Ya’ll be in before…’

  She nodded. ‘Thank you.’

  Before she could turn away he stopped her, caught hold of her hand. ‘So? So, I hear ya joining the fight? Or so ya said to Sophie, I’m told. Honora, she wasn’t so sure; she thought ya ma had stopped ya.’

  Winifred lifted her head, her face flushed with embarrassment. ‘I’m a grown woman. I can do as I please.’

  ‘Well I’m glad to hear that. And you’ll put yourself forward as a speaker at one of the meetings?’

  ‘I will.’ Winifred spoke without hesitation. ‘I’ve not done anything like that before, but I’ll try.’ The thought terrified her but, after today, she was determined.

  ‘Will ya with us come to the next protest march?’

  ‘You go?’

  ‘Surprised? It’s not just women who think ya should have the vote, ya know. There’s some of us men believe we’re all equal.’ His mouth formed a tight line. ‘Believe all men are equal an’ all.’

  Winifred recognised the frustration in him. Didn’t she feel it often enough herself? It must be just as bad, maybe worse to be a man who thought himself seen as lower than other men.

  She’d barely acknowledged to herself the way he made her feel by his close presence; her stomach tied in knots. How she stopped herself from gazing at his handsome face, even from touching him, she didn’t know. She knew it was wrong to feel like that; it was sinful. But now she surprised herself. She realised that, in seeing a different side to him, as well as all those feelings, she actually liked Honora’s brother.

  ‘So?’ he said, ‘Ya will be there?’

  She surprised herself by her forwardness when she squeezed his fingers and smiled at him. ‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘Yes, I will.’

  Chapter 18

  July 1911

  Bertie Butterworth came to the stall much earlier than Bill expected. The previous three times he’d been on his own at the market in Lydcroft it was five o’clock when the fishmonger arrived to help for the last hour, to take the money and close up.

  ‘Anything up?’ Bill asked. ‘It’s only one o’clock.’

  ‘Just thought I’d better bring more ice.’ Bertie wiped the sweat off his forehead with a large blue cotton handkerchief. ‘You look warm as well, Bill. Here…’ He took out tuppence from his waistcoat pocket. ‘Have the afternoon off. Go get yourself a pint.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Bill took the money and whipped off his blue and white striped apron. ‘I could do with a wet I must admit.’

  ‘I’ll be leaving here at six on the dot if you want a lift back to Morrisfield,’ Bertie warned. ‘No later.’

  Bill couldn’t believe his luck. He’d go for a pint at
the Wagon and Horses later; they served a good beer and the people were friendly. But first he was going to look for the shop that Winifred Duffy’s father owned. Why would she have told him about it if she wasn’t just a little bit interested in him? Even as he mocked himself, he was still hopeful. She’d stopped to chat to him earlier, even though she hadn’t bought owt.

  He’d been careful how he spoke to her, after all, it had been obvious from the start she was a well brought up young lady…

  Bill spooned the crushed ice on top of the pieces of cod and rearranged the wilting parsley. He was worried; it was a boiling hot day and the fish would go off quick if he didn’t sell up soon. The ice bucket under the stall was almost empty and it was still only mid-morning. He finished wiping the edges of the white trays.

  ‘Morning.’

  He’d know that voice anywhere. When he looked up at her Winifred was smiling, a small, shy movement of her lips.

  ‘Haven’t I seen you in Mr Butterworth’s shop?’ she said.

  ‘You have, miss.’ Bill heard the stammer in his voice. What the hell was wrong with him? By, she was pretty.

  He’d waited every week for her to come to the stall. When she didn’t, his disappointment was almost unbearable. There was nothing he could do about how he felt; he really had fallen for her.

  Now here she was and he could do nothing but grin like an idiot.

  She looked around at the fish on the stall, her voice casual. ‘Do you like working there?’

  ‘It’s okay – for the time being.’ He knew he was nodding as though his head was on springs but couldn’t stop. ‘I’d like my own shop, one day.’ Why the hell had he said that; he’d no intention.

  ‘My father owns a grocery shop here.’ She offered the information with another smile. ‘Duffy’s.’

  ‘Oh.’ Think man, think. ‘Do you help in the shop?’ was all he could say.

  ‘Sometimes.’ She tucked a strand of hair that had escaped from under the broad brim of her straw hat and then adjusted the brooch on the high collar of her blouse. ‘In fact, most days.’

  Bill noticed how small and pale her hands were; the nails short and oval. He coughed, aware he’d been staring. He glanced down at his apron; it was faintly smeared with blood. He crossed his arms across his chest, covering the marks. ‘Do yer like working there?’ he said.

  She gave a low laugh. ‘It’s okay – for the time being.’ Adding, ‘But I’d not like my own shop, one day.’

  Was she making fun of him?

  But then she smiled again. ‘Sorry, I couldn’t resist. When you asked me the same question I suddenly knew how silly I must have sounded. It was only something to say.’

  So was she as nervous of him as he was of her? Bill lifted his chin and let his chest swell. ‘I’m ’ ere every week, same day, same time. If there’s owt… anything yer fancy…’ He stopped when she raised an eyebrow. ‘I mean, if there’s any particular fish you’d like, I can make sure I can get it for you. Save it like?’

  ‘Well, now you ask—’

  Before she could finish, her mother appeared at her side, a fox fur wrapped around her scrawny neck despite the warmth of the day. And a face like a smacked arse.

  ‘No Mr Butterworth today?’ She sniffed. ‘This fish smells off. No surprise in this weather.’ She tugged at her daughter’s arm. ‘We’ll leave it.’

  So he’d had no more chance to speak to her. But he remembered every word Winifred Duffy had said, especially about the shop her father owned. He puzzled about that; why had she told him? For a moment his pulse quickened. He hardly dared hope she might be interested in him. That he might have a chance with her.

  It didn’t take him long to find the place. It was handy that the shop had a gold-painted sign over the window: DUFFY’S. At first he just watched, customers came and went in a steady stream. Once, an older man came outside with a long pole, to pull a cream sunshade over the front of the shop to keep the glare off the goods displayed.

  It was then he wondered if he was kidding himself. That, however much she’d smiled at him, whatever she’d said; it was odds on Winifred wouldn’t look twice at him as a suitor. ‘They must be earning a bloody fortune,’ he muttered. Way out of his league, as Bertie had said.

  It was warm work, hanging around on the corner of the road. Deliberating whether he should go in to buy something, he jingled the few coins in his trouser pocket and shifted from one foot to the other. The old crow had left the shop a while back. There was a chance that Winifred would be serving. The thought made him feel nervous and excited at the same time.

  It had been a long time since he’d felt like that about any girl. He pushed the memory away. He’d been a lad then, he was a man now. And there’d been a fair few women since then.

  Taking a last drag on his cigarette he dropped the tab end on the floor and crushed it underfoot. He was partway across the road when a girl, her hair flying around her face, ran towards the shop and went in.

  He waited for her to come out; better the shop was empty, he thought. But when she did she was hanging on to Winifred’s arm and gabbing.

  She was Irish, the mad looking girl; a gobby Irish bitch he didn’t like the look of at all. He could hear her voice from where he was standing and caught some of the words.

  ‘Get a message to ya … Your ma saw me off every time.’

  Quite right, Bill thought, hearing the last bit. What was Winifred doing, walking around with someone like that? And she didn’t look happy, he could tell. It worried him.

  Squinting against the dazzle of the sun, he waited until they’d turned off the road onto a side street before following. There was something odd about the way the Irish girl tugged at Winifred’s arm. They were fair running; he was having trouble keeping up with them, his right leg was giving him jip and his clogs kept sliding on the cobbles which didn’t bloody help.

  He kept them in sight through side streets and narrow alleyways until, after a while, they were almost on the edge of the village. Although he was careful not to be seen, Winifred kept looking round as though she knew he was there.

  Turning the corner of another street, he stepped back into the shadows of the ginnel he’d just walked through. The two girls had stopped at a door in the middle of a terrace. He glanced up at the nameplate on the nearest house wall. Gilpin Street. They were a poor row of houses; some of them looked empty, windows and doors boarded up, grass growing from the gutters. The house they’d gone into didn’t look much better. Some of the windows had dirty nets, the doorstep was crumbling and there were only patches of paint here and there on the door.

  Puzzled, Bill squatted down against the nearest house wall and lit a cigarette. Holding it between his forefinger and thumb, the lit end into his palm, he settled down. He could wait. In fact, he thought, he should wait; this wasn’t an area a young woman like Winifred should ever be near.

  He’d just finished his third cigarette before anything else happened. He first heard the squeal of metal wheels scraping over the cobbles. A handcart appeared at the other end of the street. Bill pushed against the wall, straightening up and stood on the step of the house, pressed close against the door. He didn’t much fancy being seen if Winifred came out.

  An elderly couple were pushing the cart. They struggled to hold on to the handles and turn it around when they stopped outside the house across the street.

  Someone was singing. Or warbling, Bill thought. A bloody racket anyway.

  When the woman unfolded a grey blanket he could see a thin layer of straw in the cart. Two lads came out and grabbed hold of the handles. They talked quietly to one another but their voices carried in the empty street. More fuckin’ Irish. Another two men appeared, one holding a girl in his arms. Bill couldn’t see her face but he breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the dirty white dress she wore and realised it wasn’t Winifred. Then he saw Winifred herself, partially hidden by the net curtain, peering out from an upstairs window.

  The girl was laid onto the cart
and another lad crawled in next to her. He was blubbering and the first Irish bitch he’d seen clinging on to Winifred earlier was the one making the racket.

  When the cart bumped over the cobbles, followed by the lads and four girls, the screams from the girl shocked Bill. He blinked rapidly. The cries were too much like those of the lad in the next bed at the hospital before he died. When he focussed again the group was at the far end of the street. It all happened so quickly that it took a moment to see that the first Irish girl was amongst them. He scrunched his face into a frown; had they left Winifred on her own in that bloody place, in this soddin’ awful street?

  But then the man who’d carried the girl from the house appeared again and sat on the doorstep, smoking a fag.

  ‘What the hell?’ Bill almost stepped out onto the pavement, determined to find out what was going on, when Winifred came out of the house. He watched the man look up at her and say something before she adjusted her hat and pulled it lower over her eyes. He heard her say, ‘Yes.’

  A surprising resentment burst through Bill. He forced himself to stay in the shadows of the doorway when they passed, waiting until they turned the corner before going after them. He quickened his steps when they did, keeping them just in sight, always trying to make sure they didn’t see him.

  There were more people around than earlier. He heard some of the men shout coarse remarks, whistling and gesturing, saw the way they stared at Winifred, so obviously out of place in her fine clothes. Bill was glad when the houses became less shabby. He thought it safer for Winifred. But then, just after a horse and carriage passed they turned into a ginnel where a line of grubby kids were sitting on the top of the wall, swinging their legs. Peering round the end of the ginnel Bill saw two of them catch Winifred’s shoulder with their feet. They were still jeering when Bill got nearer to them. Without a word he grabbed hold of the feet of the two lads and yanked. The sound of the crack of bone on the hard ground was satisfying.