Cally slid across the seat to catch glimpses of water dancing and slinking behind the houses and mills, the river sporting white, frothy bands as it raced over weirs and stones, the canal inky black and still.
By now, it was late afternoon and as they passed through the villages of Linthwaite, Slaithwaite and Marsden a greyish, yellow mist drifted between the rows of back to back houses, dank with moisture from the Colne and the canal. Cally’s first impressions were mixed. She was awed by the majesty of the distant peaks and craggy escarpments, at the same time dismayed by the dismal clutter of houses. They reminded her of Jackson’s Yard.
The mist dissipated as the road climbed higher, its sides banked with spoilings. ‘The waste from when they dug the Stand Edge railway tunnel,’ Sykes explained. Here there were no grim rows of soot-blackened houses or mills, but single dwellings tucked into the hillside, some of them three storeys high, the upper floors faced with rows of narrow windows. Cally had never seen such quaint dwellings before and pointed them out.
‘They’re weavers’ cottages,’ said Sykes, ‘built in the days when weaving was done at home, before the mills took over. The weavers relied on natural light to work by; so the more windows, the more light. This is the heart of the woollen industry. Further along is The Floating Light: the very inn where the Luddites signed their circular letter against the use of machinery. They were a right bunch of boys were the Luddites. They saw their livelihood being snatched away by the big manufacturers and fought back in the only way they knew how. They crept into the mills at night and smashed the machines. Of course, they were defeated in the end. You can’t hold back progress.’
He turned the car off the main road and down a steep incline into a leafy hamlet. In the distance, on either side of the road, the land rose steeply: rocky farmland dotted with cottages and sheep. Cally gazed in delight at rows of pretty cottages and several larger dwellings, their windows reflecting the rays of the setting sun.
The car trundled over a humpbacked bridge barely wide enough to allow it passage. As Sykes inched the vehicle between the low walls on either side of the bridge Cally drew her arms close to her side as if to take up less space. ‘That’s a funny little bridge,’ she remarked.
‘It’s an old packhorse bridge,’ Sykes told her. ‘The weavers built them that way so they could carry bales of cloth to the Cloth Hall in Huddersfield. They made the walls low so that the bulging bales on the horse’s back didn’t catch against them. Most of the roads round here were packhorse trails at one time.’
‘Were your forebears weavers?’ asked Cally, as the car turned right along a narrow, winding road.
Sykes chuckled. ‘No, Cally, nothing romantic like that. They were mill owners, the very people the Luddites fought against. My family owned a mill in the valley but just as I was about to enter the business it was bought over, and I was given a job as a sales representative. I travelled all over England, and further afield on some occasions, selling yarn and fine worsteds. It seems my father wasn’t the businessman we believed him to be. He left more debts than enough. Copley House was the only thing we managed to hang on to; and here we are.’
Sykes swung the car between imposing stone entrance pillars topped with Grecian urns, then up a long driveway bordered with rhododendrons and stately firs. Cally leaned forward, her head filling the space between his and Mary’s as she peered through the windscreen, anxious to capture the first glimpse of her new home.
It did not disappoint.
The grey-green slate roof and tall chimneys stood starkly against the fire of the setting sun, burnt orange and molten yellows swathed with streaks of deepest purple providing a perfect backdrop to the mellow glow of the Yorkstone mansion. A semi-circular flight of stone steps with balustrades led to a stout front door, flanked on either side by three tall windows. Above these, six similar windows denoted upper rooms and at one end of the house, set slightly back from the main edifice, a glazed conservatory with fluted roof and wrought iron trim flashed and shimmered in the sun’s rays.
‘It’s beautiful,’ Cally whispered, her voice coming out on a gust of pent up breath.
Mary turned and met Cally’s gaze. She smiled. ‘It is, isn’t it? I’ve always loved Copley and no matter how many times I see it I still get the same thrill whenever we turn the corner in the drive. I couldn’t contemplate living anywhere else.’ Her tone, warm with affection, changed to ebullient as she added, ‘and if we turn it into a paying concern, I won’t have to.’
‘We will,’ chirped Cally, bursting with enthusiasm. ‘We can’t fail with a house like this. Everybody will fall in love with it. I just know they will.’
‘Hear, hear,’ seconded Sykes, bringing the car to a halt. ‘Here’s to Copley House and all who sail in her – or should I say, all who stay in her.’
Laughing loudly at the joke and pleased by Cally’s response, he threw open the car door and jumped out, going round to the passenger side to assist Mary. Cally scrambled after her, the soles of her shoes crunching on the gravel as she marvelled at all she saw. I’ll work my fingers to the bone for these wonderful people and this lovely house, she vowed: to live and work here is a dream come true.
Sykes retrieved a suitcase and Cally’s bags from the car, carrying them up to the front door. ‘Come inside. See what you make of it.’
Cally needed no second bidding.
Sykes ushered her into a spacious entrance hall, its cool marble slabs leading to a sweeping curve of stairs, reflected light from a stained-glass window on the landing patterning each tread with fiery hues. Cally’s eyes roamed from floor to ceiling as she admired the fine plasterwork and tasteful furniture.
Polished mahogany doors to right and left had Cally surmising they would take her into the rooms with the tall windows. She hesitated, not wanting to seem rude, yet eager to discover what lay beyond. Sykes and Mary both grinned, enjoying her dilemma. It was like watching a child on Christmas morning, undecided as to which gaily wrapped package to open first.
‘Go on, then,’ urged Mary, ‘which will it be?’
Cally chose the door to her right. Clasping the gleaming brass knob she gave it a hearty twist and walked into a beautifully appointed drawing room. In sharp contrast to the clack of her heels on marble, a thick, Turkish carpet muffled her steps as she crossed to the centre of the room and stood in front of the ornate marble fireplace, silently surveying the elegant furnishings: velvet and damask covered sofas and chairs, their colours ranging from rosy reds to dusky pinks glowed against the deep cream carpet. Window drapes of a similar shade to the largest sofas contrasted beautifully with the pale cream Chinese wallpaper, its pattern depicting fragile foliage. In one corner there was a baby grand piano.
Cally wandered dream-like, awed by what she saw: silverware on a long, narrow sofa table with elaborately turned legs, delicate porcelain on low occasional tables, and paintings of country scenes on the walls. On the chimney breast was a painting of Copley House itself and at opposite ends of the room matching commodes, crafted in honeyed wood, held large urns richly patterned in blues and reds. Cally paused by the one nearest the door, stooping to inspect its intricacy.
‘They’re Imari jars,’ Mary informed her, ‘from Japan.’
‘They’re beautiful; it’s all wonderful.’ The words gushed out on Cally’s breath.
Mary’s heart warmed at the girl’s reaction. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘let me show you the rest of the house. I’m glad you chose the drawing room first. It’s the one room we’ve endeavoured to maintain. The others are not so grand.’
They crossed the hall into another large room, its broad polished oak floorboards scattered with curiously patterned rugs. One wall was lined with bookshelves, and the chairs and settees comfortably worn. Newspapers, knitting wool and needles cluttered the side tables, and a pair of men’s slippers sat by the hearth. ‘Ignore the mess,’ Sykes chuckled, ‘this is our sitting room.’
Next they visited the dining room, its long oak refec
tory table with ten ladder backed chairs and two carvers speaking of a time when this house had entertained on a grand scale. Then through to the back of the house: morning room, kitchen, larder and sculleries. Finally they made their way into the conservatory, its withered palms and sparse furnishing signs of neglect.
Mary made a dismissive gesture at the missing or cracked panes of glass in rusting ironwork. ‘We don’t use this any more. It’s too far gone.’ Cally marvelled at the domed roof and curving glass walls; it was a truly magnificent structure. How pleasant it would be to sit in on warm summer evenings.
Mary sighed dejectedly. ‘Follow me,’ she said, leading the way back to the kitchen and up the back stairs to the first floor. Cally viewed six ample bedrooms, four with dressing rooms, and at the end of the corridor a modern bathroom. ‘You could turn one of the dressing rooms into a second bathroom,’ she suggested.
‘Another bathroom,’ exclaimed Sykes.
Cally nodded. ‘You’ll need it if you fill all these bedrooms with guests. You don’t want them queuing on the landing battering at the door.’ Mary chuckled but Sykes groaned at the thought of extra expense.
They climbed the next flight of stairs to six smaller bedrooms filled with bits and pieces from time immemorial. ‘Plenty of sleeping accommodation and plenty of junk,’ Sykes remarked, ‘and I suppose you’re going to tell me we’ll need another bathroom up here.’
‘Yes,’ said Cally, firmly, ‘and one for our own use at the back of the house.’
Sykes scratched his head. ‘It’s a far bigger undertaking than I thought.’
‘If it’s to be a success we need to do it right,’ Mary exclaimed, ‘now let’s go and make a cup of tea. I’m absolutely parched.’ They descended to the ground floor by way of the main staircase, Cally imagining herself in a smart dress, stepping down to meet her guests.
They sat at the kitchen table devouring thick cheese sandwiches and strong tea: they had not eaten since they left Bradford. Ideas floated back and forth, Cally jotting them down in a notebook Sykes had produced. Gradually the reality of the undertaking cooled their ardour, the mammoth task of altering Copley to accommodate guests was daunting. Tired and sobered, Mary called a halt.
‘Rome wasn’t built in a day,’ she chided, sensibly. ‘It’s late and we’ve still to prepare a room for you, Cally. We’ve plenty of time to sit and make plans but now it’s time for bed.’
Sykes nodded agreement, a frown creasing his brow and his eyes lacklustre. ‘I’ll have to look into the finance before we do anything. It might not be possible. I hadn’t taken extra bathrooms or a more up-to-date kitchen into consideration. I’ll pop along in the morning and see George Theaker – the bank manager,’ he added, for Cally’s benefit.
Mary showed Cally up to a bedroom at the back of the house. ‘This will do for tonight,’ she said. ‘It’s the only other bed in the place that’s aired, saving the one Sykes and I share. I used it only last week when my nephew came to stay for the weekend. I’ll get clean sheets and pillowcases and we’ll have it made up in quick sticks.’
She disappeared onto the landing, returning in minutes with an armful of crisp, white bedding. Between them they made the bed. ‘I do hope you’ll be happy with us, Cally, no matter how things turn out.’ Mary dropped a kiss on Cally’s cheek, and with that brief, warm gesture she left Cally to savour her first night in Copley House.
Although she was bone weary, Cally couldn’t resist going to the window to gaze out over the courtyard and the paddock. Beyond them ranged the hills, standing sentinel throughout the night. She pushed up the sash, and leaning out over the sill breathed in the scented night air, provocatively sweet after the warmth of the summer’s day.
At last, lured by the comfort of the quilted bed, she undressed, a glorious shiver of anticipation flooding her veins. In bed she hugged the feeling close, not wanting it to dissipate. This was the start of a wonderful adventure, a challenge, and she would give it everything she’d got. That night she dreamed of new pots and pans hanging on the walls of a bathroom in which stood the tin bath from Jackson’s Yard flanked by rose coloured velvet chairs.
15
‘Theaker’s agreed to a loan; he gave me everything I asked for.’ Sykes had just returned from his appointment with the bank manager, and his triumphant cry echoed in the hallway, bringing Cally and Mary hurrying from the kitchen.
‘Now we can really get started,’ cried Cally, her eyes gleaming with anticipation.
*
The summer months were hectic. Plans and lists of materials were drawn up, estimates sought and plumbers, electricians and plasterers hired. Roofers fixed the slates and, the top floor now watertight, bathrooms were installed and the kitchen refurbished with gas cookers, two large pot sinks and extra cupboards.
‘I can’t bear it,’ Mary shrieked, as workmen made holes in the fine plaster ceilings or removed ancient oak panelling and skirting boards to connect the pipes. ‘They’re wrecking the place, and for what? Those radiators are positively hideous.’
She insisted Sykes abandon the project but her complaints ceased once the heat from the coke fired boiler penetrated her bedroom on the first chill autumn night.
The dining room was another bone of contention. ‘I can’t let it go,’ Mary cried, placing her palms firmly on the long refectory table.
‘It only seats twelve,’ Cally objected, ‘with smaller, separate tables we can accommodate twice as many.’
Mary threw up her hands in despair. ‘This whole idea is ruining my home. First you ripped out my lovely old range and replaced it with monstrous gas ovens, next you cluttered up every room with those hideous radiators, and now you’re expecting me to get rid of a table and chairs that have been in this room for a hundred years. I wished I’d never agreed to any of it.’ She was close to tears.
Cally cast an anxious glance in Sykes’s direction. They’d had minor tiffs on other occasions but this was the first time Mary had voiced her objections so strongly. Cally’s spirits drooped. Was the dream about to end? She had to do something, and fast.
‘We don’t have to get rid of it. We’ll put it in the conservatory. We can serve afternoon tea in there, spread the food out like a buffet.’
Sykes harrumphed. ‘You can’t expect people to sit in that dump. It’ll fall down round them. It’s not even watertight.’
‘I bet if you asked Jim Gibson to replace the broken glass and give it a lick of paint, he’d jump at the chance. Jim can turn his hand to anything.’ Jim, the part-time gardener had already proved to be a most useful ally. Enthused by the idea, Cally added, ‘we can hide the imperfections with lots of pot plants and flower arrangements. You could make it look like the Garden of Eden, Mary. You have a flair for creating beautiful spaces.’
Mary, intrigued by the idea, looked somewhat appeased. ‘I can see it now,’ she said, ‘a large silver tea urn and pretty cups and saucers, and cake stands full of delicious pastries. The guests can help themselves. Maybe we should invest in some basket chairs and low tables as well as palms and climbing plants.’ Cally and Sykes smiled affectionately at her enthusiasm. The crisis averted, it looked as though they were back on track.
The drawing room and the one that had been the Balmforth’s sitting room to the front of the house remained just as they were and in the upper rooms there were beds and furniture to meet every need. Those rooms only required cleaning, polishing and rearranging.
‘Polish them chests and wardrobes till your arms drop off,’ Cally laughingly instructed Sally and Susan, two local girls Mary had hired to help with the cleaning. Three weeks of scrubbing floorboards, brushing carpets and rearranging furniture and the house was almost ready for paying guests. If some of the draperies were faded or the coverings on sofas and chairs slightly worn it only added to the ambience. Every room in Copley House was warm and welcoming, due in no small part to the new heating system, installed at great expense in terms of both money and nerves.
By late autumn the m
ajor alterations had been completed and only the final details remained before they opened for business in December. Cally placed advertisements in several publications including The Countryman magazine. In them she’d expressed the delights of spending Christmas in a country house hotel, festive food, spectacular scenery and a host of amenities to suit all tastes. Anxiously they awaited the post each day.
*
On a bright but chilly late October morning, Sykes called Mary and Cally into the morning room. Now their private sitting room, it overlooked the courtyard, the paddock and the moors, just as Mary had insisted, and was furnished with her favourite pieces. An adjoining games room had been converted into a bedroom and bathroom. An elegant yet cosy apartment, it suited them perfectly.
Sykes sat at his desk, sheaves of paper covered in jottings evidence of his morning toil. Tossing aside his pen and running his fingers through his hair he addressed the two women dejectedly. ‘It’s no use, girls. The bank loan just about covered the cost of the alterations but there’s no way the funds will stretch to buying bed linen, towels and cutlery. I’ve checked the list over and again and I can’t reduce the cost. And even if I did we couldn’t meet more than a week’s wages for the staff. George Theaker can’t, or won’t, extend the loan and I’ve used up most of my savings. We’ll have to postpone the opening; wait till spring. Maybe, by that time, I’ll have found a solution.’
‘George Theaker refused you!’ Mary’s words held more than a hint of contempt. ‘After all the years we’ve banked with them, never owed them a penny and never asked for one before now. How could he?’
‘Quite easily,’ growled Sykes. ‘He says it’s not up to him; says his superiors need proof of the venture. If it goes well they’ll consider giving me more, but we have to show a profit before they’ll do that. I told him we can’t get to the profit making stage without the last few bits and pieces but I couldn’t sway him. So that’s it.’
The Child from the Ash Pits Page 14
