The band began to play, a signal which obliged Toby Hartwell to leave Polly to her own devices while he, as official master of ceremonies, organized the distribution of tea, souvenir medals and cakes. Miriam, who had been prevented only by the bleak November weather from opening her garden to ‘her workpeople’, smiled, made one of her expansive gestures bidding everyone to eat their fill. Polly, rather more terrified of solitude than of sudden death, appeared dry-eyed but very pale, a little girl again quite lost inside her smart, grown-up coat, overwhelmed by her elaborate hat, her sapphire blue eyes peering timidly from beneath the brim, still looking, perhaps, for her father and finding no substitute. Eunice continued to do her duty behind the teacups, one watchful eye on Toby, her mind’s eye probing fretfully in the supposed direction of her sons. Nola, in a spirit of pure provocation, had summoned all three clergymen into a corner where she proceeded to amuse herself by asking the very questions that they would have preferred not to answer.
‘Explain to me the differences in your creeds. Why do you think you are right and he is wrong? What is your position on divorce, illegitimacy, the afterlife, the social position of women? And, since we are all adults and have heard of Marie Stopes, what about birth control?’
Claire, half listening, half smiling, produced with deceptive ease the polite phrases her upbringing had taught her and then, when they had been adequately delivered, moved away. And although she remained calm and quiet in her manner, her face serene, she knew herself to be in urgent need, enormous need – of what? Release. That was the word her mind offered, repeated, retained. Yet, what form it might take she had no notion. She had simply fallen – fallen deep and hard – into a state of extreme restlessness, fine-strung tension, churningunease, the state, encountered in dreams, of knowing she must set off on a journey at once, that it was vital, essential, could not wait, that she must hurry – hurry not a moment to lose. Run. Catch that train. Listen to the ticking of that clock. Go now. But where? For what purpose?
‘Have you seen over the mill?’ asked Benedict offering her – could it be intentionally? – the respite she needed.
Yes. One afternoon, long ago, in her first trance of adoration for the knight-errant Jeremy, he had brought her on a grand tour of the Swanfield Mills, almost as ignorant as she was herself of the processes by which his family’s fortune had been made. And she had walked shyly beside him, still grateful to him for wanting her, not wishing to put herself forward or appear bold, trying to look serious, intelligent, worthy; on her best behaviour, in fact, as her mother had told her. But her mother had also warned her to be pleasant to everyone, to make a universally good impression, and so she had smiled bravely and equally at every corner of the weaving-shed, trying not to recoil at the sour odours of raw wool and engine grease, the ferocious clatter of power-looms, the dangers of straps and picking-sticks breaking loose; had watched, with more obedience than delight, the sharp-ended, lethally-pointed shuttles flying back and forth the length of every loom, tended by scantily clad women who held voiceless conversations all day long, reading each other’s lips from one loom-gate to the next.
‘They all go deaf eventually, of course,’ Jeremy had casually mentioned. ‘But they can all lip-read so amazingly I suppose it’s better than losing an eye. Although that can happen too, of course. Don’t stand too near the looms, darling, because those picking-sticks do swing loose occasionally – quite hard enough to break an arm. And those shuttles don’t always aim straight either. They fly out, sometimes, all over the place and if one happens to be in their way – well, what I said just now about eyes-!’
She had drawn hastily back, the noise of the machinery an assault in itself, lodging inside her eardrums, woven, by those vicious shuttles, into her mind so that even when it had been left far behind for the dignified silence of the burling and mending room, where better-dressed and, in their own view at least, better-class women sat at high tables, correcting faults in the unfinished cloth with meticulous hand stitches, she had heard it still.
But the weaving-shed was silent this November Sunday afternoon as she entered it with Benedict, the shuttles and the picking-sticks which sped them on their way through a web of yarn, no danger to anyone, the looms looking squat, sullen, but inoffensive.
And standing in the acrid silence beneath the grimy, industrial ceiling that, for all its squalor, was as high as a cathedral, they said nothing to each other of the least significance.
He made no reference at all to her distress, her near-collapse, at the unveiling of the plaque.
She did not mention his letter.
He did not mention his brother, nor she her husband.
She did not ask him why he allowed his wife to deceive him, nor why he pretended to be deceived.
Instead she listened, her head on one side, while he explained, crisply, concisely, and one by one, the processes by which the wool, once taken from the sheep’s back, was scoured, then – if it was to become worsted cloth – combed into long-fibred ‘tops’ and short-fibred ‘nails’, or, if it was intended for woollen fabric, carded on rollers, then twisted, spun into yarn, woven into coarse, grey pieces which, having passed the scrutiny of the burling and mending room, would, by the miracles of dyeing and finishing, become camel-hair, cashmere, mohair, high quality gentlemen’s suiting, fancy dress goods for ladies, fabric to upholster the seats of motor cars.
‘I have nine hundred looms in here,’ he said, ‘which can give me 22,000 yards of cloth a day – if I want it.’
‘Don’t you want it?’
‘Only if I can sell it.’
‘But surely – everybody wants to buy Yorkshire cloth. Is there any other kind?’
He smiled but not quite in her direction, just a little over her shoulder so that his amusement was not entirely shared, contact not fully made.
‘So we were brought up to believe. So they are still saying – and rather proudly – at the Piece Hall and the Wool Exchange.’
‘Are they wrong?’
‘No. Our product is excellent. But some of our markets are no longer there. Trade with Russia has collapsed since the Revolution. American import tariffs are discouragingly high. Germany has been reduced to bankruptcy and starvation. And as for the rest of Europe, including ourselves … Well, we do have a hefty war loan which America can’t be blamed for expecting us to repay. We do have to look after our returned soldiers and our second army of munitions workers whose services are no longer required, but who have become accustomed to high wages. And if we can’t employ them then we’ll have to support them on whatever public money we have left, which can’t be much when one thinks of the cost of all those shells.’
‘Oh dear. And I thought we were having a boom.’
‘So they say. So we are. The munitions workers still have their savings to spend, and the soldiers their gratuities. But when that’s done – and if there’s still no work – well, I suppose if the choice should be between paying the rent and buying a Swanfield camel-hair coat, that any sensible man would pay his rent.’
‘So then you wouldn’t need your 22,000 yards of cloth a day.’
‘No. Nor the workers to produce it. But don’t worry. The trust funds are secure.’
‘That doesn’t worry me.’
‘I know. Are you ready to go back now?’
‘Yes.’
But she did not move, feeling an odd reluctance to leave the shelter of this alien machinery, their two voices echoing in the vast, anonymous shed as they played their commonplace, yet so restful, game of question and answer.
‘Do you know how to operate these machines, Benedict?’
‘Of course.’
‘And the spinning-frames in the other shed?’
‘Yes. Why do you ask?’
‘Because Jeremy didn’t know how.’
‘I see you remember something about him.’
‘Yes. That much. Shouldn’t he have known more?’
‘Why duplicate the same knowledge? I haven’t to
uched a loom for years. But I know how it works and what can go wrong with it, and why. My engineers know that I know, which is the whole point of the exercise. Just as my accountants know that I can read a balance sheet – etcetera –.’
‘Yes. But do you like it, Benedict? Is it what you wanted?’
‘Would you like to see the burling room?’
He had not ignored her question, far more than that. He had chosen not to hear it at all, no syllable remaining as he slid open the heavy doors and switched on the lights to give her a better view of the high burling-tables shrouded identically with pieces of grey unfinished cloth.
‘It will all look the same to you,’ he said, accepting her ignorance very calmly. ‘But that’s a heavy worsted – that’s cashmere – that’s mohair –’
‘I see,’ she said gravely, seeing nothing of the kind.
‘Do you? What else can I show you? Or does your conscience tell you that you ought to be listening to the band?’
She returned, refreshed, she thought, although she did not really know what had refreshed her, to the mill-yard where the band was still valiantly playing and smiled warmly at Miriam, who pretended not to have missed her, and at her mother who all too clearly had.
‘Where on earth have you been?’ hissed honest, unwise Dorothy.
‘Come and sit by me, dear,’ murmured clever Miriam, ‘and have a buttered scone.’
The afternoon wore on. Confectionery continued to be eaten with the enthusiasm of squirrels hoarding for the winter, a great deal of tea to be drunk. How, Claire wondered, with a twinge of desperation, could it be brought to an end? But quite soon the sky above the bandstand grew heavy with the early November dark, a sugar-induced somnolence spreading itself with the consistency of a treacle tart over the gradually wilting throng. A child, stuffed to capacity, had to be led away in sudden extremis, several more began to whimper or look pale, men shuffled their feet, women gathered up scarves and purses and latch keys, averting their eyes in quick distaste from the remaining curd tarts and currant pasties and ginger parkin set out before them; while even the strident music began to curl slightly at its edges like a sandwich left too long on a plate. The time – at last, thought Claire – had come.
A few more clerical words were spoken, each reverend gentleman avoiding Nola’s eyes as he took his turn and then, as a crisp and blessed finale an address by Benedict who, by the simple procedure of thanking everyone for coming, indicated that the entire proceedings should now be considered closed. Miriam, rising slowly to her feet, still fully aware of the graceful picture she made in the midst of those eddying furs, held out both arms to indicate her readiness to shake hands once again with anyone who chose to approach her chair. Dorothy, at a signal from Edward, signalled to Claire that she should do the same. Nola retired to a corner to discuss the fundamental issues of organized religion, the human condition, and Doctor Marie Slopes with the Salvation Army minister, the only one to have stayed her course, his Anglican and Methodist counterparts having tiptoed rather gingerly away. Roger Timms arrived at the precise moment Polly was expecting him and drove off with her in his father’s new car. Eunice’s second son, Simon, put in a sudden appearance looking jaunty and sheepish, a combination which always meant trouble, and spent a long time whispering in his mother’s ear. The bereaved families began to drift homeward in small, quiet groups clutching their medals and souvenirs and bags of leftover buns Toby had made up for the children; some of them to the nearby mill cottages they rented from the Swanfields, others to the tram stop, a long wait in the damp, cold breeze, a long walk over steep cobbles at the end of it.
Glancing at her watch, Claire was amazed to discover the hands standing at four o’clock. Surely it must be later than that? And what now? Hours more, she supposed, of Miriam’s company before dinner, savouring and re-savouring every bittersweet drop of the afternoon, and the cosy chat afterwards by the drawing room fireside, reminiscing over the coffee tray. How, without giving offence – without giving hurt – could she escape it? She was immune now – more often than not – to the photograph albums, the locks of hair, the boyhood escapades, even to the moment, once impossible to bear, when the round blue eyes began to brim with tears, the small chin to quiver, the even smaller voice to whisper, ‘If only you had had a child – a darling little boy like Jeremy – how wonderful.’ But not tonight. Assailed once again by that crashing wave of unease, the panic conviction of an urgent road to travel, a vital task to perform, a frantic sense of haste, speed, of stepping lively, taking wing, of rushing headlong towards no matter what – whatever it turned out to be – she knew that tonight Miriam would be a sore trial indeed.
Eunice, having seen to the proper disposal of the tea-urn and the mill china, having even given some instructions about feeding the leftover milk and meat scraps to the mill cats, shepherded her husband and son into their brand-new, still controversial motor car rather quickly, before anyone should enquire of Simon the whereabouts of his brother.
‘Can we give you a lift, Claire?’ asked Toby hopefully, seeking to put off what, by the expression on his wife’s face, looked like yet another day of reckoning.
‘I hardly think so,’ snapped Eunice, flushing scarlet, her rudeness a sure indication of her agony. ‘Mannheim Crescent is out of our way.’
Claire smiled at Toby and shook her head.
‘I suppose you’ll be coming home with us,’ said Edward Lyall ungraciously, having hoped for an invitation to High Meadows, and turning peevish now that Miriam’s withdrawal to ‘powder her nose’for the homeward journey made it seem unlikely.
‘Oh yes, do come to Upper Heaton,’ said Dorothy sounding much relieved, wanting her daughter’s company and grateful, for her part, to be spared the ordeal of Miriam.
How could she refuse? Yet, on the other hand, how could she possibly endure Edward – and an out-of-temper Edward at that – in her present humour? Yet to decline his invitation would upset Dorothy. Therefore she must accept it, endure him as long as she could – not long, she suspected – and then surely, inevitably, annoy him, defy him, bring on an attack of his indigestion, so that Dorothy would be upset just the same.
‘Oh Claire – there you are.’ Benedict’s voice startled her and then, as she understood its message, utterly dismayed her. ‘Miriam asked me to find you. She is expecting you to drive back with her and have dinner, since Polly is out for the evening. If you’d like to wait over there I’ll send Parker when the car is ready.’
He indicated a chair in a deep alcove by a window and she sat down in it meekly, knowing herself to be caught, and watched as he put one hand on Edward’s shoulder, the other beneath Dorothy’s elbow and led them out into the mill-yard, an attention which was clearly so gratifying to Edward that his temper and Dorothy’s prospects of a peaceful evening, seemed much improved. Could Benedict possibly be aware of that, Claire wondered, leaning forward a little to study what she recognized as a cool and very deliberate display of charm? And if so was he being kind, or devious, or simply amusing himself with Edward’s deference? Or was it simply that she herself was beginning not precisely to hallucinate again but to drift into some hazy no-man’s-land between fact and fantasy, which might well be the prelude to hallucination? Very likely. Too likely. And she must not allow it to happen. She must get up now and go back to Mannheim Crescent alone and at once. Yet the prospect of her own company, her own undivided scrutiny, seemed no less an ordeal. What then? There was Euan who, having ghosts of his own, would not be alarmed by hers. There was Kit. Either one of them. She had no need for solitude. She could be with a man – either one of them – who, by the act of sex alone could exhaust her body and ease the restless aching of her mind. Was that, indeed, the root of her turmoil? Sexual desire, the altogether natural demands of a healthy body for a healthy body, of sound lungs for sound lungs; straightforward sensation – and gratitude – in place of complex emotion? Was that it? Was that all? And, if so, how obvious – how simple – how sad.
/> She saw Parker bring the car to the front steps, get out and salute Benedict with military smartness.
‘Ready for the ladies, sir.’
But instead of sending him to fetch her, Benedict simply nodded and began to say something about the running of the car which she made no effort to understand. Had he forgotten her? How marvellous if Miriam would forget her too so that she could just take a tram – something Miriam had never done in her life – and go. Small chance of that. She heard the tap of Miriam’s diminutive feet, the swish of her furs, saw her coming down the main staircase and across the hall, Nola stalking behind.
They did not see Claire. She realized, indeed, that sitting deep in the window embrasure, no one could see her. But it made no difference. In a moment she would be called for, sent for. Benedict would remember.
‘Has anyone seen Claire?’ asked Miriam, a little out of breath, since even for her it had been a long day.
There it was. Claire rose to her feet and then abruptly, incredulously, sat down again.
‘Claire?’ said Benedict., his voice so level, so neutral, that even Claire, who knew he was lying, could not quite believe it. ‘She went to Upper Heaton with her mother.’
‘She can’t have done.’ Miriam sounded very positive, and then, as the effort of being cross proved too much for her, rather less so. ‘Didn’t I ask her to wait for me? Well – perhaps not. Perhaps I just assumed she would. Are you sure she’s gone, Benedict?’
‘I’m afraid so. I watched them drive away.’
And because it did not enter her head to disbelieve him, as it had not entered Edward’s or Dorothy’s a moment ago – since he had certainly lied to them too – she pouted a moment, shivered and, complaining of the chill, allowed Parker to drive her and Nola away.
Claire watched them go, at the slow pace appropriate to royalty, through the mill gates and up the rise to High Meadows. She watched Benedict get into his car and ease it forward to the exact spot which Miriam’s Bentley had occupied a moment before. How strange. How extraordinary. How very interesting! What, she wondered, her mind hovering, quite feebly, between amusement and alarm, might happen next? Surely, on this most peculiar afternoon, anything was possible? And getting up, feeling like a sleepwalker who might at any moment succumb to a fit of wild, weak laughter, she went outside to the man who was waiting and, without a word, got into the car beside him.
A Winter's Child Page 22
