‘The war’s been over for two years, Mam, and he doesn’t want to be called a Captain when he isn’t one now,’ Leah said to her mother a hundred times over. Emma ignored her completely.
Emma wondered how she could change Leah’s mind about Stephen. It’ll take a bloody miracle though, she thought as she saw Leah’s mulish expression. She’s got a stubborn streak as thick as a tree trunk.
‘I’ve been thinking, Mam,’ Leah said, quite aware that her mother was as she put it ‘putting on her thinking cap’ with regard to Stephen.
‘What?’ Emma looked suspicious. What now, she thought. I don’t like that look on her face. ‘No, don’t tell me. You’ve lost your job! I knew it, I knew it!’
‘I haven’t lost my job, for goodness sake’
‘What then. Ee, I don’t know. I’ve been that worried, love what with you and the Captain, what people are saying and what’s going to come of it.’
‘I’ve told you not to worry. I’ve still got my job, although that’s really what I wanted to talk to you about. I want to open a shop!’
Emma’s mouth dropped open, ‘you what?’
‘I want to open a shop,’ Leah repeated. ‘There’s a shop on the Square I can have. I’m going do my sewing in the back and sell at the front.’
Emma was too stunned to say anything, but her mind was working overtime. Her Leah with a shop! Never! Their sort didn’t have shops or anything like a shop. She managed to find her voice.
‘And just how are you going to do that? Click your fingers. I think you’re dreaming, our Leah.’
Leah made an exasperated sound. Her mother was such a pessimist. No wonder nothing ever happened in Harwood because most of the people were like her mother. Don’t try anything because it might not work, that was their motto. She was going to be different.
‘I’m not dreaming. I’ve talked to Stephen and he thinks it’s a good idea. I was going to go over to Cheshire to work for his sister, but I’d rather stay here if I can and getting a shop’s the answer.’
How was she going to tell her mother that she’d be borrowing the money from Stephen to start this business venture? Her mother, like most people, was against borrowing or credit of any kind. She would be especially disapproving if it were Stephen who was doing the lending.
‘Stephen’s lending me the money.’
‘He’s what. Oh, no Leah, that’ll not do, what will people think?’
‘I don’t care what people think,’ Leah retorted. ‘They can just mind their own business for once. The loan will all be above board and drawn up by a solicitor, although that’s nobody’s business but ours.’
Emma still looked skeptical. ‘Ee, I don’t like the idea at all. People have always had mucky minds and they’ll think the worst.’
‘Let them.’
‘Well, I know you won’t take any notice what I say. I might just as well talk to meself sometimes. I just wish you’d taken up with someone like Paddy. He’s our kind and I feel easy with him.’
‘Now don’t go on about that. You know how I feel about Paddy. I like him but that’s all.’ Leah had had enough of her mother for one day. She had to get out or she’d go mad.
‘I’m going to see Kathryn. She’s going to help me set the shop up. She’s got some good ideas and she knows a lot of people she thinks will buy from me.’
Emma went out to the scullery still muttering as Leah went through into the front room.
Leah heaved a sigh of relief as she made her way up Glebe Street. Her mother was getting on her nerves. Even Kathryn complained that she didn’t see as much of her since Stephen had come back from London.
The only person who was happy about the situation was Janey. Leah smiled to herself. Now the coast was clear Janey could go hell for leather after Paddy. Perhaps now he’d stop mooning over her, although she doubted it, because the more she knocked him back the more he mooned. It was always the same, Leah thought. You always wanted what you couldn’t have. She’d never encouraged him, and she couldn’t help feeling sorry for Janey because she knew what it was like to moon over someone who didn’t take the slightest bit of notice of you.
The sun was out and she enjoyed the warmth on her face. Her happiness wound itself around her, protecting her from the mean looks she encountered, the odd comment meant to put her in her place, wherever that was. Down there, under their shoes she thought. Why were people so begrudging? If you were down and out you were a lazy good for nothing. If you made good you were getting above yourself, you were ‘uppity’, acting ‘posh’, even people she’d thought her friends.
She swung her bag, almost took a little skip but stopped herself in time. People would think she was dotty as well, but nothing could mar her happiness.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Hall was in an uproar. George Townsend had to be forcibly restrained from rushing over to Cheshire and thumping John Grentham. Jessica, almost fainting on the sofa, was now sat with her hand to her head, her face as white as the sheet of paper she was holding. The letter had brightened her a bit, but this had been completely swept from her mind when Grimsby came in with a message that Marion was waiting to see her in the morning room.
The servants were agog. Gertie Wicklow’s elephantine ears had again managed to hear all that was said in the morning room. She was on the terrace outside at the time, wiping down the window ledges when George and Jessica trooped in. The window was slightly open so she had no trouble at hearing every word, and no conscience in listening either, Maud Walters later commented tartly to Mr. Grimsby.
A few minutes ago Marion had rushed sobbing from the room. George was pacing up and down like a particularly ferocious tiger that hadn’t been fed for days. His face looked as though it had been boiled in a pudding dish. Stephen had just returned from London as Marion and Darkie drove up the drive. He leant on the fireplace, smoking and watching his father pace up and down.
‘Going over there and belting John isn’t going to do any good,’ he said, stubbing his cigarette out. He hadn’t been too surprised at the news, although he was sorry for Marion and angry, like his father, that she’d been subjected to something so distasteful. He’d had his suspicions for some time. He only wished he’d known before the marriage.
Darkie had accompanied Marion into the room and still stood with cap in hand. When Marion rushed out he’d wanted to follow, but thought it best not. He didn’t know what to do. He had seen the look of surprise on George’s face when Marion insisted he remain in the room as she told the story, haltingly at first, stammering and red faced. Then she cooled down and it was only at the end that she lost control.
George Townsend suddenly became aware of Darkie standing awkwardly near the door. He nodded at him. ‘Thank’s for taking care of Marion. God only knows what would have happened if you hadn’t been there. You always seem to be in the right place at the right time where my family’s concerned.’
‘It was nothing, Mr. Townsend. I was just glad to be able to do something.’ Darkie wondered what Mr. Townsend would have thought if he’d seen him on the bed with Marion. He blushed. ‘I think I’d better go and park the car in the garage. I won’t be going back to Cheshire, either, if that’s all right.’
‘Yes, yes, you can have your old position here, Darkie. Go and get something to eat in the kitchen. I’m sure Maud’s something there you can have.’
‘Aye, thanks, I will.’ Darkie left quickly, glad to get away.
Jessica roused herself when Darkie left. She held out the letter to George. ‘Here, read this. It’s good news for a change. It’s about Paul. He’s met some one he really seems to like.’
George took the letter, still thinking about his daughter. He could kill that Grentham! He put his reading glasses on and began to read.
Jessica watched him for a moment and then wandered over to the window. She ignored Stephen. He made for the door. ‘I’ll go and see how Marion is,’ he said to no one in particular. He’d expected more histrionics from Jessica!
After the library incident Paul had disappeared for months. He’d not drawn his wage at the factory. She wondered what he’d lived on: probably sponging on friends. Even she would admit he was good at that. She had heard that he was in London, although he was not staying at their house in Belgravia. Then he surfaced in his flat in Manchester, a mutual friend informed her.
‘I think you’d better go and see him, Jessica,’ Irene Nethercote said to her. ‘He’s in a bad way.’
Paul had always enjoyed a drink, but Jessica’s decision to limit his visits to Hyndburn had thrust him into a prolonged and self-destructive binge. He was drunk for weeks on end, often not knowing what day it was; he wallowed in self-pity, viciously bemoaning that Jessica could be so callous.
When Jessica finally confronted him in his flat one cold, blustery November day, even in his inebriated state he was amazed at her anger. For the first time in his life he heard her voice reach screaming level.
‘You disgusting, spineless creature, ‘ she said, standing over him, her blue eyes as hard as flints. She noted the state of his bed, his days old beard, bleary eyes (her eyes) looking up at her from some depth he’d sunk and where (and her heart fluttered in terror at the thought) he’d never raise himself.
‘Wassa matter, Jess, missed you.’ He put his hand out to her, pathetically. She had to steel herself not to clutch it to her, to take him in her arms and sooth the hurt (as she’d done so many times).
‘Get up and bathe,’ she said instead, icily. She ignored his imploring look and searched the house from top to bottom for alcohol. She tipped her finds into the sink.
He at last came into the sitting room where she had set out a tray with coffee, cups and sandwiches, still unsteady, deathly white, but at least spruce in clean shirt and slacks. He lit a cigarette. His hand trembled as he put it to his mouth, watching Jessica pour coffee. She had not spoken since he came into the room. She handed him a cup. As he took it some of the coffee spilled into the saucer. He sat down on the settee on the other side of the table.
‘Well?’ he said. Jessica noticed he now looked belligerent. She began to talk, vehemently venting her disapproval. By the time she finished he was almost sober. It was obvious her adamant denunciation of him would hold, and nothing he could do or say would change her mind unless he reformed. Unless he ‘pulled his socks up’, she said to him, his days of sponging were numbered. It finally penetrated that then there would be no more money for him. He would have to find his own way. He was not good at that. He’d always been the weaker of them. It had been Jessica who took the blame for any misdemeanors when they were young, Jessica who had protected him when Bertha had wanted to spank him. He put his cup on the coffee on the table and nodded.
‘I’m sorry, Jess,’ he said. He ran a hand through his hair. The gesture made Jessica look away quickly. He looked like a lost sheep, she thought. A lump came to her throat and she cleared it quickly, continuing in a quiet though firm voice.
‘I’ve written to Uncle Dieter and Aunt Klara in Berlin and they will be happy to have you stay with them until you recuperate. I told them you had been ill and needed a change of scene.’
Jessica saw Paul off from Newcastle. He watched her slim figure on the dock become smaller and smaller as the boat headed for the Hook of Holland. She raised her hand one last time and then turned and walked away.
***********
Raymond Townsend was not the spoilt pampered boy he had been. He had matured into a presentable young man, quiet, withdrawn even. People were amazed at the transformation, which they thought a marked improvement. He was studying hard for his entrance to Oxford, so was cooped in his room most of the time. When he wanted some air he’d put on his boots and warm jacket if it was cold and walk the moors. He found he loved these walks, usually making for Pendle Hill.
Today he felt particularly unsettled. He wasn’t sure just how much he wanted to go to Oxford. ‘Not his cup of tea’, really as the saying went. He wasn’t an academic, never had been and studying did not come easily. He had studied for three hours, then put some music on his phonograph. He was weaned off ragtime and now preferred something a little quieter, a symphony, Beethoven or one of the classics.
He suddenly decided that he had to get out of the house. His room felt claustrophobic. He switched off the gramophone and then made his way down the wide staircase to the hall. He paused outside the drawing room when he heard voices, although if it was his mother he didn’t particularly want to see her. He had found it hard to be normal to her since his discovery. He knew how much this hurt her, but could not help himself. He felt bitter towards her, was cool but polite. He knew this puzzled his father, but George had not pressed him for reasons for his change in attitude, quite possibly because he had stopped all his stupid ways and been thankful for that.
Raymond listened outside the door for a few seconds as the voices drifted through the slightly open door. He recognized them instantly. Marion and Darkie! What were they doing in there, he wondered? They had been together a lot since Marion had come back from Cheshire. Like everyone else he’d been shocked. They were having a heated discussion from the sound of it.
In the past few weeks, Marion has the distinct feeling she’s shed the shackles of dependency, from her husband, her parents and, in some way indefinable way, the restrictions of her era. It’s given her a strange kind of freedom; she’s stepped over the great divide and is ready to face the world on her terms – or almost. There’s still a frisson of doubt, although her feelings for Darkie are still intact but she has qualms still about leaving John. It’s her parents (especially her father) and their violent response to her predicament (to be expected if one is rational about it), which dismays her. She and Darkie must come to some kind of arrangement, get things in proper perspective; decide what to do with their future.
Raymond, still intent on what was being said, frowned. There was something going on here he couldn’t understand.
‘They want to send me away.’ That was Marion’s voice.
‘Where do they want to send you,’ Darkie asked.
‘I’m not sure, maybe to London, although I doubt it; probably somewhere at the back of beyond where I can’t get into trouble because they blame me in some way.’
‘Blame you? How can they blame you?
‘I have no idea.’
‘Don’t you think we should tell them?’
‘Not yet. They haven’t got over John. Goodness knows what they’ll think about us. It’s just too soon.’
‘Well, you’d better do something or they’ll send you away, then we’ll never see each other. That might be the best thing, anyway.’
‘Don’t say that.’
There was silence for a few minutes. Raymond risked a peep round the door. His eyes opened wide in surprise. Darkie and Marion were kissing. A sense of déjà vu hit him. Hadn’t this happened before?
‘Maybe it would be a good thing for you to get away for a while to really think this over,’ Darkie said as they drew apart.
‘No.’ She pulled him closer and kissed him again.
Raymond was transfixed. He couldn’t have moved, even had he wanted to.
Darkie laughed, a little with relief, as he looked down at Marion. ‘The only thing I can think of is to run away,’ he said, jokingly.
‘Why not,’ she said suddenly, ‘why not?’
Run away, Raymond thought in shock. What was going
to happen next? His mother would have a fit. She was already looking ‘frazzled’ he’d heard Maud Walters say, with ‘the goings on’. This would really frazzle her! Serve her right. He still hadn’t forgiven her.
‘You know your father would come after us and bring you back,’ Darkie said.
‘Not if we run far enough away.’
‘How far away,’ Darkie asked, looking at her skeptically.
‘Mm…America?’
‘America! That is a bloody long way.’
It was Marion’s turn to laugh at Darkie’s incredulous expression, which gradually changed as he thought of what Marion had just said.
‘What are you thinking about now,’ she said.
‘That might not be such a bad idea. I have a relative in America who started those penny bazaars, an uncle on my mother’s side, the Winfields. They might be able to help us when we get there. I’ve got some money saved, so that’s no problem.’
America! Raymond’s mind raced. He’d always wanted to go to America. That was it! If Marion and Darkie were going to America then he would go with them. He was fed up of Harwood, fed up of studying, didn’t really want to go to Oxford and read dreary law. It was also a chance to get away from all that had gone on, away from his mother who was a daily reminder, when he was home, of everything that had happened. He was still bitter and unhappy, unable to handle the situation, often lashing out at anyone indiscriminately.
Marion and Darkie turned as the door burst open.
‘I heard,’ Raymond said.
Darkie went to the door and closed it quickly.
‘Keep your mouth shut then,’ he said sharply.
‘I want to come with you.’
‘What do you mean, come with us?’ Marion said. That was all they needed, Raymond’s meddling.
‘To America,’ Raymond said.
The Loom Page 19
