The Loom

by Sandra van Arend

  Good, they should go up like a bomb! Her face was demonic! Fred tried to pull the can away from her and she hit out at him savagely.

  ‘Go back to the car, Fred and let me get on with it.’

  ‘Gertie, you can’t do this. No, you can’t, it’s criminal. We’ll end up in jail if we’re caught.’

  ‘You weak little weasel, we won’t get caught. If you don’t want to stay and help then just bugger off.’ She glared at him, looking like a devilish Santa Clause with that stupid red hat. ‘You go and get the car started and as soon as I’ve done what’s to be done here I’ll dash back up and we’ll be gone before they even know what’s happened.’

  Fred backed up the stairs still watching Gertie as though he couldn’t believe it. She was definitely mad and he wasn’t going to wait for her either. She wouldn’t be stopped and he wasn’t going to be involved in anything like this. His mother had told him Gertie was a strange woman!

  When Fred disappeared up the cellar stairs Gertie quickly emptied petrol on some rags lying in a corner until they were soaked. She took out a match, struck it and then standing back threw it on the petrol-drenched rags, which immediately burst into flames. She watched for a few minutes to make sure they didn’t go out. She pushed them with her foot a little nearer to some wooden crates so that they’d ignite, too, and start a really good bonfire. She laughed like a maniac, watching the flames leap higher, then turned and dashed up the steps closing the door behind her. She could hear voices coming from the kitchen and ran down the passage and out the back door. By the time that lot in the cellar really began to burn they’d be well on their way!

  As he turned the corner of the stables Bob Watkins saw Gertie running down the side of the house towards the drive. He stopped for a moment wondering who it could be. It was a woman in a grey suit and red hat with white dots. Maud! No, it was too big for Maud. His eyes weren’t as good as they used to be. He put his gardening tools away and straightened up. He needed a cup of tea after all that digging. He began to walk towards the kitchen still wondering who that woman could have been and why she was running as though she’d a bus to catch.

  As Gertie had surmised they were having a nice little tea party in the living room. Although it could have been nicer, Jessica thought, if Stephen had been more at ease. How she wished she’d got to know him years ago. He looked so much like her step-son at that age she felt she was in some kind of time warp. The spit image of him as George said when he met him, pumping his hand and telling him ‘what a grand lad’ he was. George had retired upstairs shortly after to have a nap. There was a lull in the conversation as Jessica poured Raymond another cup of tea. He had difficulty getting his finger round the handle. He thought of the big pint pot of tea at Emma Hammond’s place (he had much preferred that).

  ‘Sugar, Raymond?’ Jessica said, holding a cube between silver tongs.

  ‘No thanks, Mother.’ He took a sip of the tea. Stephen was sitting stiffly on the satin covered settee, feeling that at any minute he would slip off.

  ‘So tell me, Stephen, what are you interested in?’

  Stephen swallowed his cake quickly, almost choking. Raymond patted him on the back. ‘Steady there, Stephen.’

  ‘Sorry. Er…I like reading,’ Stephen said lamely when he recovered, his eyes streaming and red in the face. He wished he hadn’t come. He didn’t like all this luxury. He wasn’t used to it and he’d only agreed because his mother had said she thought he should. He wasn’t sure whether he liked the lady who looked like a queen, either. He knew she was his grandmother but he’d never be able to call her that. Never!

  Raymond quirked his eyebrow at his mother; this was more difficult than he’d expected. Jessica smiled understandingly and mouthed ‘it’s all right, darling,’ at him. He nodded.

  ‘I’ll be going back to Alaska quite soon,’ Raymond said.

  ‘Oh, darling, no,’ Jessica protested. ‘You’ve hardly been with us two minutes.’

  ‘I’ve been here a month now and we’re going into the busy time and I can’t leave Mike on his own,’ he said, not meeting his mother’s eyes.

  Jessica remained silent. What could she say? It was his life and she knew that he would do what he wanted so she’d be wasting her breath trying to dissuade him. She’d been a little optimistic that he might stay because she suspected he was more than a little interested in Leah Hammond. She hoped so! Who would have thought that she would condone such a thing, but if this was the case then there was every chance Raymond would stay on in Harwood indefinitely; now it seemed, this wasn’t to be. She wondered what had gone wrong!

  Stephen was also surprised when he heard Raymond’s announcement. He looked at him in shock.

  ‘You’re going back?’ he said.

  Raymond nodded. He could see how disappointed they both were but he couldn’t stay another day in Harwood after what had happened with Leah.

  ‘Well, if you have to…’ Jessica began when there was a loud bang, like a muffled explosion. They all jumped. Another, even louder, made Raymond shoot out of his chair. ‘What the hell’s going on?’ he shouted. He began to run towards the door. Stephen and Jessica ran after him into the large front hall. The kitchen stairs were at the far end. Directly opposite were more stairs, which led to the bedrooms above.

  Stephen stood and looked around him. Then he saw smoke billowing like fat brown cheeks from the door at the end of the passage. A great tongue of flame followed in the wake of the smoke. There was a horrendous crackling noise.

  ‘Fire! Get out of here,’ he yelled at Jessica and Stephen.

  ‘George,’ Jessica said in panic.

  ‘I’ll get him. Now, get out.’ Raymond began to run to the main staircase, which led to the first floor and the bedrooms. He had to get his father out. He was probably still fast asleep, completely unaware of the danger.

  By this time the fire was having a wonderful time eating into any woodwork it could find. It shot up walls, devoured tapestries, ate into embossed wallpaper as though it was famished. It raced to the upstairs bedrooms, eager for different fare, dashing avariciously through every open door. George’s door was closed so it stopped briefly, then carried on past.

  Stephen managed to dodge the fire in its mad race and reached his father’s bedroom just in time. He flung open the door, banging it quickly behind him. Almost immediately smoke began to seep underneath and he began to cough. He raced to the bed (his father was still blissfully asleep) and dragged the comforter off and put it against the bottom of the door. He ran to the bed and shook his father.

  ‘Get up, get up.’

  George woke with a start. He’d been having a lovely dream where he and Jessica were in America. Marion was somewhere in the scene but he hadn’t quite grasped where when he heard a shout. ‘What?’ He sat up with a jolt.

  ‘Fire. Get up.’

  He still felt groggy from the pills he was taking. He saw Stephen standing in front of him and then saw it wasn’t Stephen but Raymond yelling about a fire.

  Raymond was busy pulling the sheets off the bed.

  George suddenly realized what was happening. He jumped out of bed and helped Raymond tie some sheets together. Raymond made one end fast to the bed and then threw them out of the open window. By this time the comforter was beginning to smoulder. It suddenly burst into flames with a great whoosh, fire shooting across to where Raymond and George were standing.

  ‘Get out of the window,’ Raymond yelled.

  They were both coughing now, eyes streaming. George swung himself over, and let himself down, dimly aware of people watching them. He looked up.

  Raymond was leaning out of the window, flames behind him, almost at this back.

  Maud and Alf ran into the passage when they heard the explosion. They stopped in shock when they saw the fire, which was roaring like an express train straight from the cellar and up the stairs to the upper floor. The fire, confined in the cellar for some time, had at last exploded like a bomb (as Gertie had predicted) forc
ing the cellar door right off its hinges.

  Maud and Alf turned and ran back into the kitchen, slamming the door behind them. Beattie and Jenny had just come down stairs for their cup of tea.

  ‘Get out of here,’ Alf yelled. Jenny dropped a cup she was holding and Beattie stood up quickly and knocked the teapot off the table.

  ‘What’s the matter…’ she began.

  ‘Fire,’ Maud and Alf yelled simultaneously as they disappeared out of the back door. Jenny and Beattie followed like a flash. They ran out of the back door and around to the front of the house. When they looked up thick smoke was billowing out of the upstairs windows.

  The town was slumbering, somnolent in the aftermath of a balmy day. The streets were deserted except for a few children playing hopscotch. Tea time is early in Harwood, usually bread and butter, pickled pork or pressed tongue, or very occasionally, cold lamb. Also pickles, tomatoes and usually a dessert (trifle quite often). The main meal of the day is eaten at lunch.

  Leah had made pressed tongue, something she hadn’t done in years. Her mother would be surprised (she was not wrapped up in cooking like Emma, had never swapped a recipe in her life or discussed how to make the best parkin). They’d have it for tea, just the three of them, because Stephen was having his tea or ‘dinner’ as Raymond had put it, at the Hall. Emma would appreciate the tongue because she wouldn’t feel like cooking after travelling all that way back from Blackpool.

  She looked at her watch. Five fifteen! Stephen and Raymond would be at the Hall by now so she could safely go to Glebe Street without fear of confronting Raymond. She couldn’t face him after yesterday! It was no good crying over spilt milk (her mother again) and when you made your bed you had to lie in it (ditto). She cringed when she thought of lying in bed with Walter. No, never, not that, anything but that. She’d sent Raymond away but she also knew she couldn’t carry on with Walter. That was finished as well!

  She covered the tongue (in a dish) with a towel and put it in a basket. She locked the front door and made her way down the garden path and onto Belmont Road.

  The field was filled with hazy light, the sky a clear blue, birds winging their way towards the smudge of mauve-grey, which was the Pennines. The sky had lost the glare of midday. She lifted her face to it, to the scraps of chiffon cloud streaming across one section, the beginning of gold where the sun would eventually begin to dip. There was a slight breeze, which cooled her face and made her dress billow. Walter would be at her mother’s by now, boring her to death probably. She was well aware what her mother thought of Walter. Poor Walter! He did so want to be popular but he was so humourless most of the time.

  When she crossed the Square she glanced into her shop window and felt an odd sensation. The dress, arranged so tastefully, was slowly dissolving before her eyes and instead there was a man in a striped apron brandishing a long knife as he prepared to cut up what looked like a pink foetus but which was, in fact, a rabbit. As she watched he brought the knife down with a huge thunk and the rabbit was split in two. She noticed that the striped apron he wore was all bloody. He was talking to a woman who stood behind the counter watching him. The woman wore a long dress (brown), neat brown boots (very shiny), a poke bonnet and she wore white lace gloves. The woman was saying something to the butcher, whose knife, catching the glint of the sun through the window, looked as though it was on fire.

  Terrible what happened at the Hall, the woman was saying.

  Would that be Hyndburn, Leah wondered and shook her head, the scene slowly fading and there was her creation of white chiffon with the hand-painted roses she’d copied from her own dress she’d worn to Blackpool so many years before. She must be going mad! Seeing butchers with knives aprons covered in blood and a woman in a poke bonnet in her own shop, for heaven’s sake! They’d be committing her soon!

  She hurried on and turned down the Co-op into Glebe Street. The sudden scream of a siren made her stop in surprise. She didn’t think she’d ever heard the siren before because she couldn’t remember there ever being a fire in Harwood. Not in her lifetime, anyway! She’d heard horrific tales of fires in mills before the new laws were enforced. She quickened her step, noticing that people were standing on their doorsteps. Her mother, Christine and Walter were standing outside number five. When Emma saw Leah she waved, although there was something in the wave that made Leah’s heart miss a beat. Something frantic in it! She began to run and the dish with the tongue slithered around in the basket, banging against its sides. A cold hand clutched!

  ‘There’s a fire at the Hall, Leah,’ Emma said as soon as Leah was within hearing distance. ‘Now don’t get upset,’ she continued when she saw Leah’s face change from red with running, to pasty white.

  ‘A fire,’ Leah repeated, a sudden fear seizing her. A fire at the Hall and Stephen was there. Raymond and Stephen!

  ‘Now don’t get all het up, Leah,’ Walter said, putting his hand on her arm.

  ‘Mam, Stephen’s at the Hall. Will he be all right?’ Leah heard the fear in Christine’s voice, which echoed like a gong in her own.

  She thrust the basket at her mother and without a word brushed past them and began to run. As she ran the full impact of that word (fire) really hit her. Smack! Like a punch in the face. She could hear voices calling to her as she ran. Faster and faster, she wanted to sprout wings to get her there quicker. That was her driving need, to get to the Hall as quickly as possible.

  Down St. Hubert’s road she went, unaware that she was moaning aloud as she ran, past the church, flying down Princes Road and then over the Cock Bridge and across the meadow. Now she was in the lane leading to the huge gates of Hyndburn and she could smell the smoke. Beyond the trees she saw huge billowing black clouds against the blue of the sky. The acrid smell filled her nostrils. Mixed with the bitter taste, was that of fear.

  She sped through the gate and up the long, winding drive, her mad pace kicking up the gravel. Sweat poured out of her, running into her eyes, stinging, dripping off the end of her chin. She was drowning in her own sweat and fear.

  When she turned the last bend and came upon the house she cried out loud. It was engulfed, flames licking around the windows, the smoke giant mushrooms billowing from the rooftops.

  The fire brigade was there and men who had come to help. She pushed her way through calling Stephen’s name, but her words came out in a croak after all the running. Then the crowd fell back with a gasp as windows burst with the heat.

  Constable Huxtable ordered people to get back.

  Leah’s heart pounded in her chest as though it would burst. Then she saw him standing next to Jessica Townsend. She thought she’d faint with relief, swayed for a moment.

  ‘Stephen!’

  He turned as he heard his name. Leah almost collapsed onto him, clasping him to her. He struggled against her tight grip.

  ‘I’m all right, Mam.’

  ‘Raymond?’

  ‘They’re still in there, George and Raymond.’ Jessica’s voice was tight as she stared intently at the burning house.

  Raymond suddenly appeared at the window of the upper story. A shout went up from the spectators. He threw out a knotted sheet. Then he helped his father over the sill and some of the watching men rushed forward to catch him as he fell the last few feet. Raymond watched until his father reached safety and then he, too, climbed out, the room he was so hastily vacating now a giant fireball, lapping the windowsill as he let himself down. The flames ate through the sheet as he was halfway down. He yelled as he fell.

  Leah rushed forward as Raymond collapsed on the ground.

  George and Jessica followed her.

  She was in a time warp again. It was a nightmare of the past, a re-enactment of the scene with Stephen when they’d come off the bike. She put her hand out to touch the man lying prostrate. If this was to be her life then she didn’t want it. This repetition of disaster was driving her mad. Raymond’s face was blackened by the smoke, hair singed. She saw the pulse beating in his neck like
a delicate bird. She began to sob with relief. At least he wasn’t dead. Her tears plopped onto his cheek.

  He opened his eyes, staring blankly at her for a moment. Then he smiled. It was as if the whole world smiled at her. Then, unbelievably, he winked (only Raymond would have thought to do this after what he’d been through, she thought later).

  ‘How do you like your toast, light, medium or well done?’ he said.

  She laughed through her tears.