When Lacey didn’t immediately respond, Joan said, ‘I’ve never been on t’canal before. Do you think we’ll be safe?’
Lacey, her thoughts still on the altercation with Jonas Brearley, said, ‘You know, when you come to think about it, Brearley’s not a bad sort. He took our side this morning over t’windows, an’ I bet he didn’t half give Syd a wiggin’ when he got him on his own. What we need to do is make old Brearley see our point of view more often.’
Joan raised her eyes to the heavens. When Lacey got a bee in her bonnet there was no talking to her.
2
Lacey glanced up at the clock on the high mantelshelf above the kitchen range. In one swift movement she drained her mug of tea, pushed her chair back from the large table and hurried out into the passage. At the foot of the stairs her cry would have wakened the Sphinx.
‘Come on, our Jimmy, it’s almost quarter past five; time to go.’
An answering grunt and a thud from above had her darting back to the kitchen. From the large teapot she filled four bottles, stoppering them tightly before placing two in a canvas knapsack and the others in a basket.
Jimmy Barraclough, hair tousled and half asleep, shuffled into the kitchen. ‘Is me snap ready?’ he enquired belligerently, lifting the milk jug and drinking from it.
Lacey glared with distaste at her youngest brother. ‘Aye, an’ I’ve given you an extra bottle of tea. Today looks like it’s going to be another scorcher.’
Jimmy picked up the knapsack and plodded to the outside door.
‘Don’t bother to say thanks,’ she called after him, her tone heavy with sarcasm.
Without another word Jimmy opened the door, letting in a cacophony of honking and squawking and the furious flapping of wings. He stepped outside and Lacey, basket in hand, followed him scrunching her face as her ears and eyes were assaulted by the rumpus. Jimmy, oblivious to the pandemonium, trudged across the yard to the gate that led into the lane. Lacey, on the other hand, took a few tentative steps in the opposite direction, careful to avoid the beady eyed bobbing heads and vicious beaks of the gaggle of geese that gobbled and skraiked around her mother.
‘I’m off now!’ Lacey yelled, her words drowning in the din. Edith, her back turned and a bucket swinging from her hand, flung handfuls of corn into the frenzied melee of long white necks and flurried wings. Reaching her side unscathed, Lacey tapped Edith’s shoulder. ‘I’m off now. See you teatime.’
Edith swung round, a handful of corn dusting Lacey’s boots. ‘Right you are, love.’ Edith squinted up at the sky. ‘Another scorcher if I’m not mistaken.’ She gave Lacey a meaningful look. ‘Don’t go getting into bother.’
Lacey grimaced. ‘I’ll do what’s right, Mam.’
‘Our Jimmy says you’re causing trouble. You could get sacked.’ Edith swivelled her eyes, searching for Jimmy.
‘He’s already left, Mam.’ Lacey watched Edith’s face crease with disappointment.
‘He never used to go without saying, but,’ Edith essayed a smile, ‘I suppose he’s getting too big to bother wi’ such things.’
‘Too big my arse,’ said Lacey, irritated by Jimmy’s thoughtlessness. She dropped a brief kiss on Edith’s cheek before repeating her hazardous journey through snapping beaks and clawing feet and hurried out of the yard into the lane, walking briskly along the rutted path leading to the main road.
At the end of the lane she lingered for a few precious minutes, letting her gaze drift over Netherfold and the wild expanse of moorland beyond it. Out there her Dad’s sheep roamed the bracken and heather and she wished she could join them. But aware of time wasted she quickened her pace, her boots drumming the road that would take her to Garsthwaite.
*
In the week leading up to the outing, the weather holding good, Syd had the windows open wide every day. Even so, the women baited him, Syd taking his revenge by finding fault with Lacey’s work. But she didn’t care; she’d bested him on this occasion and would do so again if necessary.
All week the women talked of little else other than Lacey’s small triumph, and when they weren’t talking about that they talked about the outing. Come Friday evening, expectations were high.
‘See you tomorrow, bright an’ early,’ they called to one another as they hurried through the mill gates.
‘What’ll you be wearin’?’ Joan asked, as she and Lacey walked out of the town, and wondering why Lacey had been most insistent that she should go home with her that evening.
Lacey shrugged carelessly, but there was a gleam in her eye as she said, ‘Wait an’ see.’
*
‘Hello, Auntie Edith,’ Joan said, as the girls entered the kitchen at Netherfold Farm. Edith smiled a welcome and carried on chopping turnip into small cubes. Lacey went and plopped a kiss on her mother’s cheek.
After a quick wash and a bite to eat, Lacey beckoned Joan to follow her upstairs. ‘You can’t come in just yet,’ she said, closing her bedroom door in Joan’s face.
Puzzled, yet willing to play along, Joan stayed out on the landing. Lacey was up to something, of that she was certain.
In her bedroom, Lacey stripped to her underwear. A rustle of silk followed by the fastening of plackets and she opened the door. ‘You can come in now.’
Joan’s eyes widened in amazement and an overawed ‘oooh’ floated from her lips as she entered the room. Sinuously, Lacey adopted an artful pose, one foot flat on the floor with the other on tiptoes, her left hand on her hip and her right hand drooping from her extended arm.
Joan simply stared.
Lacey tilted her head upwards and, lowering her eyes seductively, performed a slow twirl. ‘La Parisienne model awaits madame’s opinion,’ she purred in a mock French accent.
Joan chuckled.
Lacey dropped the pose and reverting to her native Yorkshire asked, ‘So Joanie, what do you think? Is it like that dress in the magazine?’ She performed another twirl, the dark green silk catching the last vestiges of a glorious sunset streaming through the window.
Joan’s expression was a mixture of admiration and envy. ‘It’s beautiful – ‘an’ that green matches your eyes.’
‘Does it?’ Lacey sounded pleased and surprised. She walked a few paces then paused, flicking one ankle to show off the new, shorter length of the narrow skirt.
‘You don’t think it’s too short do you, Joanie?’
‘No, it’s just right: very fashionable. It’s the one we liked best, isn’t it?’ she said, confirming that the dress with its two tiered skirt, elbow length sleeves and square neckline was almost identical to one they had seen in a copy of Weldon’s Ladies Journal. Whenever the ladies Joan’s mother cleaned for threw out the magazines she brought them home for Joan and Lacey, the girls devouring them page by page.
Pleased by Joan’s comments, Lacey performed another twirl. In the past she’d refashioned several items in her wardrobe and made skirts and blouses, but never before had she made a dress simply by copying it from a picture in a magazine. She grinned. ‘Ta, Joanie; you say the nicest things.’
Joan stroked her fingers over the silky fabric. ‘It’s lovely material. Where did you get it?’
‘Grandma Barraclough’s trunk in the attic: after she died me Mam packed Grandma’s stuff into it when she cleared out her bedroom so I could have it. I made this dress out of one of hers. There were umpteen to choose from.’
‘Fancy that,’ Joan murmured pensively, her gaze straying from the dress to take in the spacious upper room in Netherfold Farm. Her thoughts found a voice. ‘You’re lucky to have a bedroom of your own.’
‘I know,’ said Lacey, understanding her cousin’s dejection and feeling sorry for her. Joan shared a bedroom with two younger sisters in the poky little house in Turnpike Lane, the home of Edith’s widowed sister, May Chadwick, and her three daughters.
‘The only reason I have a bedroom of me own is because I’m the only girl in the house,’ said Lacey, ‘and that has its drawbacks, believe you m
e. You don’t see our Matt or our Jimmy washing up or ironing, do you?’
‘That’s ‘cos your Mam spoils ‘em, them being lads.’
‘Never a truer word said, Joanie.’
At the mention of twenty-one year old Matt and Jimmy, sixteen, the girls’ faces registered cynicism, both girls knowing full well that Edith pampered her sons.
Joan sighed. ‘Aye, either being the only girl in the family or, in my case, the oldest means you’re expected to do twice the work, an’ I’m fed up of it. Me Mam never makes our Maggie or our Elsie do as much as I do. I’m turned twenty-one; at my age I should be married with a house of me own.’ She looked close to tears.
Saddened to see Joan so despondent, Lacey struggled to keep secret the surprise she had for her: a surprise that would surely put a smile on Joan’s face. She slipped off the green dress and put on the skirt and blouse she’d worn earlier.
Joan looked on, a doleful expression masking her plump, pretty features as fleetingly and unfavourably she compared her own dumpy shape and blonde curls with her cousin’s attributes. Even with her finery removed Lacey still managed to look beautiful.
Tall and slender with an ample bust and small, neat waist, her striking features were topped with a mass of glossy brown hair. And what was it about Lacey tonight that made her glow with an inner light? Naturally, she’d been excited showing off the dress but even now, the dress put away, there was an air of anticipation filling the room.
‘There, that’s me sorted,’ said Lacey, her smile fading when she saw Joan’s woebegone expression. ‘Oh, don’t look so miserable.’
Joan shrugged. ‘It’s all right for you. You look lovely in whatever you have on, and you can sew. Me, I can’t sew to save me life.’
‘You’ll never have to, Joanie, I’ll do it for you.’ Thinking it wise to mention one of Joan’s best attributes Lacey added, ‘you might not be much use on a sewing machine but there’s nobody makes a better sponge cake.’
Joan grimaced. ‘I can’t wear a sponge cake. I’ll have to make do with that blue gingham you made for me last Easter. Tomorrow you’ll turn the heads of all the lads on the outing in that one.’ With her thumb she gestured at the wardrobe.
‘Ah, but remember, Joanie, the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. You’ll catch a lad before I do. Anyway, you look lovely in blue. It sets off your blonde curls and,’ Lacey grinned mischievously, ‘it matches the colour of your eyes.’ She reached into the wardrobe. ‘That’s why I made this for you.’
‘Ooh Lacey, it’s gorgeous, just gorgeous!’ Joan squealed, as Lacey flourished a kingfisher blue dress, its square necked bodice and slender skirt cut in the latest style. Joan leapt to her feet. ‘Here, let me try it on. Will it fit me?’ She began shedding her outer clothes, tears brimming her eyes, her cheeks flushed with pleasure.
‘It should. I used the measurements I took when I altered that grey wool dress Mrs Hibberd gave you a couple of months ago.’ Joan’s mother also cleaned for Reverend Hibberd, the Methodist minister.
Joan slipped the dress over her head, jigging up and down impatiently whilst Lacey fastened the plackets. Then, almost afraid to look, she approached the mirror. ‘Ooh Lacey, I never had anything so grand; an’ it fits perfectly. We’ll both turn heads tomorrow,’ crowed Joan, dancing round the room, the cut of the dress making her appear slimmer and taller.
Lacey smiled, but try as she might she couldn’t conjure up a face or a name of any lad whose head she wanted to turn. Not that she wouldn’t get offers; she would and plenty of them. She’d had boyfriends in the past but none of them were what she was looking for.
The dress perfect, no alterations required, Lacey gathered up her tape measure, scissors and thread. Hands full, she walked over to the sewing machine in front of the window, carefully replacing the items in the narrow drawers either side of the wrought iron treadle. Then she covered the machine’s working parts with the top box to keep out the dust. The sewing machine was Lacey’s most treasured possession.
‘There,’ Lacey said, dusting her palms, ‘that’s me tidied. And you, Joan Chadwick, take that dress off before you wear it out with all that jigging. There’s a big paper bag in the bottom of the wardrobe. You can carry it home in that.’
‘Can I show Auntie Edith first,’ Joan begged.
‘Aye, I’ll give her a shout. She’s already seen it but she’ll get her eyes opened when she sees you wearing it.’
A shout down the stairs and Edith came up, wiping her wet hands on her apron. ‘You’ve done titivating then,’ she asked as she entered the room, her eyes widening when she saw Joan. ‘My, you look a picture, our Joan. I’ve never seen you looking so lovely.’ Joan giggled, her cheeks pinking at the heartfelt complement.
Lacey groaned. ‘Don’t say any more, Mam. She’s likely to swell up with that much pride it’ll not fit her tomorrow and,’ Lacey addressed Joan, ‘if you don’t get a chap on this outing I’ll strip you down to your knickers an’ chuck you in t’canal.’
Lacey’s mocking threat had Joan laughing until tears ran down her cheeks. Lacey always did something kind or had something cheeky to say so in her company she rarely stayed miserable for long.
Edith went back downstairs to the scullery. She’d just slopped a shirt out of the washtub and wedged it between the wooden rollers of the mangle when Lacey and Joan joined her.
‘Mam, it’s Friday night,’ Lacey expostulated, ‘Why on earth are you washing?’
‘It’s only a shirt. It’s our Jimmy’s favourite. He wants to wear it for t’outing, bless him.’ She turned the mangle, the shirt gradually disappearing between the rollers, then plopping into a wicker basket on the floor. ‘He forgot to put it to wash. I’ll dry it in front o’ t’fire an’ iron it afore I go to bed.’
Lacey raised her eyes to the ceiling, irritated by Jimmy’s thoughtlessness and her mother’s acquiescence. ‘You should have told him to wear summat else. Just because he forgot, doesn’t mean you have to dance to his tune.’
Edith looked pained. She didn’t like to hear Jimmy criticised. She marched from the scullery into the kitchen. The girls followed. Seeing the hurt she had inflicted, Lacey took the shirt from Edith’s grasp and draped it over the clothes horse. ‘You put the kettle on for a cup of tea an’ I’ll iron the shirt after I’ve seen our Joan off.’
Lacey knew how hard Edith worked. She constantly chased her tail as she juggled the household chores around the demands of the smallholding. However, Lacey rarely left her to struggle alone.
‘You’re a good lass, Lacey.’ Edith plodded to the sink, kettle in hand.
The outer door opened and Matt came in. ‘Are you ready for off, Joanie?’
He always walked Joan back into Garsthwaite on the evenings she came up to Netherfold, stopping off on the return journey for a pint or two in the Plough Inn.
‘Goodnight, Auntie Edie,’ said Joan, pulling on her coat then picking up the paper bag containing her dress.
Matt walked on ahead, Joan and Lacey walking behind him up the lane. ‘Don’t be late up tomorrow,’ Lacey advised, as they reached the spot where they would part, ‘Me an’ our Jimmy’ll call for you at nine. The charabancs leave at half past an’ we don’t want to miss ‘em.’ She raised her eyes skyward. ‘I hope it stays fine. A day out on t’canal won’t be much fun if it’s raining.’
‘It’ll not rain.’ Joan pointed in the direction of the moor. ‘There’s a red sky, an’ you know what they say.’ Together the girls chanted the old adage.
‘Aye, but we’re not shepherds, we’re weavers. Does it count?’
‘Course it does.’
Joan hugged Lacey. ‘Thanks for the lovely dress. You’re the best cousin in the whole world.’
‘That makes two of us,’ quipped Lacey. ‘See you tomorrow then.’
‘Come on, Joanie,’ Matt shouted, ‘don’t stand nattering all night.’
Lacey walked back down the lane, the night time sweetness of yarrow and wild parsley stir
ring her senses. She loved living on the moor, away from the mills and the narrow, mean streets surrounding them. Barracloughs had farmed Netherfold for four generations, her ancestors tending sheep or planting swedes and beet in the unforgiving rock strewn fields behind the farmhouse as did her father, Joshua, and her brother, Matt. Lacey couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.
At the end of the lane Lacey leaned on the yard gate, and as the night sky darkened to deepest purple, her thoughts turned to tomorrow’s outing – and romance. She considered her options. Maybe she’d give Sam Barton another chance: of the lads she’d courted he was the most likeable, and he was good looking. After all, she was nearly twenty and some of the girls she worked with of a similar age were now married with children. She didn’t want to rush into marriage for the sake of it, but she would like a romance: one that made her blood tingle and her heart beat faster because she was with the right man.
Lacey gazed up at the darkening sky and sighed. Finding the right man was the problem. She wanted one who shared her interests: a well read man, interested in local politics and with enough get up and go to improve his station in life. She didn’t want to be married to a mill hand like Sam, content to talk whippets and horse racing. Neither did she want to be a weaver all her life; for now it was a necessity, but Lacey had aspirations that led her to dream of much better things.
If I stay out here all night I’ll not come up with any answers, she told herself. All I know is that I want to do something really worthwhile with my life and do it with someone I truly love.
By the time Lacey was back in Netherfold’s kitchen, Joan and Matt had reached Turnpike Lane. ‘Be seein’ you, Joanie,’ said Matt, leaving her at the end of the street.
The Girl from the Mill Page 2
