The Bobbin Girls (28 page)

He’d once written, telling her where he was, asking her to visit him. And, of course, without hesitation she had come.

‘I couldn’t face you before this,’ he’d explained as they’d sat together, making a futile attempt to eat sandwiches and cakes in a small tea room in Hawkshead.

‘I understand.’ She’d looked so utterly beautiful in short skirt and jolly sweater, a long scarf wrapped warmly about her neck, and her bright red tam o’shanter tugged down over her wayward curls, his throat had ached with love for her.

‘I almost wish I hadn’t asked you now,’ he’d said, on a half laugh.

‘I’m glad that you did.’ She’d reached a hand across the table seeking his, only he managed to remove it just in time. He couldn’t bear her to touch him. She tucked her own hands out of sight and stared miserably down at her plate, not even touching her half eaten sandwich.

They talked about insignificant things - village gossip, Alena’s family, Rob’s new job - and drank endless cups of tea. In the warm tea room there were other people about them and they felt safe. Neither suggested a walk out into the countryside for all it was a gloriously sunny autumn day, and each knew of the dangers being alone could lead them into. Even to catch her eye sent shafts of hot desire pumping through his veins. It was unbearable.

Then she’d leaned forward, her lovely face bright and suddenly alive with hope. ‘I came, knowing it would be painful, because I have something to tell you.’

He could still recall the surge of hope he’d experienced as she began her tale, and the renewal of intense pain as it faded again. ‘You’re saying you might not be the child of my father and Stella Bird?’

Alena nodded, blue eyes as bright as the sky shining through the windows. ‘It’s possible, but there’s no proof. I could be the daughter of this young girl, a perfect stranger, who apparently arrived in great distress, soaking wet and about to give birth.’

‘An orphan from the storm?’ Amused disbelief in his voice, with a hard edge of disappointment to it. ‘Sounds like a Colbert movie. You’ll be telling me your stepfather beat you next.’

‘`Of course he didn’t,’ she said crossly, resolving not to mention the spats Ray had had with Lizzie. ‘I’m only repeating what Stella told my mother.’

‘But she offered no proof. Your mother never saw this - supposed girl.’

‘No. But I’m sure that what James told us was a lie, Rob. Can’t you believe that?’

‘Why should he lie?’ He was growing annoyed, she could hear it in his voice, and frustration mounted in her. Why wouldn’t he listen to her? He always had when they were small. What had changed?

‘Because it’s in his interest to. He’s borne a grudge against my family for years, ever since my father complained over losing his job after the war. He wants to control everybody. That’s what this is all about. Your mother, for one, has had enough. She’s run away, did she tell you?’

Anger flashed in his eyes. ‘My mother tells me everything. She left because she felt he’d driven me away, but I went of my own accord. I’ve accepted it, Alena. So must you.’ He stood up and started fumbling in his pockets for change. ‘We can’t all live in your fairytale romantic world.’

‘Damn you!’ she said, and stormed out of the tea room, heedless of the curious onlookers.

A light breeze had ruffled her curls as they’d stood together at the bus stop. He’d ached to touch her, the sun kissing her cheeks with gold, where his own kisses should be. Then she’d turned and climbed into the bus and was gone from his life forever.

He had wished that day to die of the pain.

He hated the fact that he’d upset her that day, but still woke at night in a lather of sweat over what might have happened between them if he hadn’t been so strong. He was forever tormented by the memory of the silky smoothness of her skin, the vivid beauty of her hair which sprang from her forehead as if with a life of its own. Even her carefully disguised feminine fragility, hidden beneath a more robust tomboy image, and the sheer athletic grace of her slender body. Oh, how he had wanted her then, in that silly little cafe, and still did over a year later.

His own sister!

Now he thrust his spade into the cold wet soil, made four cuts to form a square, turned the last turf over, split it in the middle and pushed in the young tree, stamping it firm. The rain was running down his neck, leaking inside his muffler and soaking the collars of the two warm shirts he wore beneath his pullover and thick jacket. His fingers felt like ice-cold sausages and his feet, in their several pairs of socks and soil-caked boots, hardly seemed a part of his own body.

But for all the cold and the wet, and the back-breaking discomfort of the job, not least carrying heavy bundles of young trees up the fell, he enjoyed working out in the open. He felt a surge of pride whenever he stood back and viewed the result of the gang’s labours, the rows of transplants stretching for miles. Their ganger, a fair man for all he was a tough disciplinarian, encouraged this sense of pride in his men.

‘You’ll be able to show this forest to your bairns and your grandchildren one day,’ he would say. ‘It’ll be growing tall and strong by then, bursting with life. Now that’ll be summat to see.

But Rob knew that he would have no children. Any hope of marriage and a family had died on that tragic summer’s day. A life in which he could never have Alena seemed bleak indeed. Every morning when he woke, he told himself that he would not think of her this day. But he always did.

Alena was attempting, with some difficulty, to settle again to the humdrum life of the mill. At first each day had been a living nightmare, as if she were not in control. She felt as if she were outside her own body, watching it go through the everyday motions of life without actually being a part of it. She saw herself cycle to the mill each day, join the throng of workers who piled off the buses, coming from as far afield as Ulverston, Coniston, Dalton and Haverthwaite in their search for employment, make her quota of bobbins and then cycle back home each evening.

Many of the smaller bobbin mills were having difficulties finding enough orders to keep going since the cotton mills were suffering badly from the depression. Some had even closed down. Much as she would have liked to tell James Hollinthwaite he could keep his job, Alena had no choice but to hang on to it.

It was only the company of the other girls which made life tolerable. They’d sit in the canteen each dinner time, tossing scrap bobbins and bits of waste into the old black fire-range to keep themselves warm (though it was strictly forbidden since all waste was meant to go in the boiler to run the machines), and exchange endless jokes and stories. Alena tried to match their good humour, but her heart wasn’t in it. And she told them nothing of her own troubles.

They were aware Rob had left, that Alena had been to see him to persuade him to return, but were unaware of the reason he’d refused. They saw only her resulting depression.

Once she’d heard Lizzie’s version of events Alena had been buoyed up by the certainty that if only she could find him, she would easily persuade Rob to believe in it. To receive his letter inviting her to come had been a joy, though Lizzie had warned her against going.

‘But I have to do something. I’m certain James Hollinthwaite lied.’

‘You can’t turn a boy against his own father. It wouldn’t he right. Give it time. Happen we’ll find proof one day.’

‘One day. When I’m old?’ For once Alena had ignored Lizzie s advice and had raced to Rob with a heart filled with hope. When he hadn’t believed a word, had even mocked the story as fanciful nonsense, the quenching of the final glimmer of hope had been dire indeed. Now a small seed of anger had begun to grow. Why did Rob always believe everything his precious father told him? Why couldn’t he see that James meant only to exercise control over his son? It vas some small satisfaction that the man no longer controlled his own wife. Olivia had escaped his cold-hearted tyranny, though it was frustrating that she’d done so before Alena had the chance to discover what exactly she knew of that long-ago night.

Following that futile visit, rebellion had set in and Alena had again taken up with Mickey Roscoe. He’d waited for her one day after her shift and simply informed her that it would be a good idea in his usual arrogant, audacious manner. Alena had agreed. Perhaps that was why she needed him, because she wasn’t capable right then of making decisions?

She almost wished she could hate Rob. But she could never do that. Alena knew she would always love him, even though she accepted she could never have him.

When they had finished their quota of planting for the day, the men made their way wearily back down the fellside, glad of the promised comfort of their respective lodgings. Rob was paid twenty-five shillings a week, ten of which went to his landlady, Mrs Blamire. If his room was small and bare, and never quite warm enough, she at least fed him well, though she charged extra for meals. Nonetheless he was grateful. A man needed a full stomach on this job, and not all of the foresters were so fortunate.

On days when it was too wet or wild to climb to the peaks, he would receive no pay at all. Then he would sit alone in his room, reading or writing letters to his mother. Dull as it was, it seemed infinitely more sensible than playing cards with the other men and running the risk of gambling or drinking away the hard-earned money he’d gained thus far that week.

But he was desperately lonely.

For this reason, if for no other, the letters he received from Olivia were of vital importance to him. The days when he found one of her envelopes beside his plate, crisp and white and smelling faintly of her perfume, were glorious indeed. Over the years, mother and son had developed their relationship into one almost entirely based upon correspondence. Their meetings were so rare, and so far apart, that it was largely through the words they put on paper that they had come to understand each other; at times pouring out their hearts in the way people can only do in a letter. In the past, as now, being able to talk to her in this way had proved a great solace to Rob, counterbalancing the grim times, the heartache, and the loneliness.

Today as he sat down - scrubbed clean and at last warm - to a supper of spicy Cumberland sausage and pickle, he saw the square envelope with a jolt of pleasure. He slid it into his pocket to read later in the privacy of his room, but the anticipation of it kept him bright and cheerful throughout the hearty meal. He enjoyed teasing Mrs Blamire, who had a passion for cats that she fed on brown trout, saying that if ever he came back in another life he’d choose to be one of her cats, since she looked after them so well. She would blush and preen herself as she always did when this delightful young man teased, for didn’t he make her feel like a girl again?

Instead of going down to the local pub for the single evening pint he allowed himself, Rob hurried up to his room, eager to read his letter and perhaps sit down and write an immediate reply
 

He’d felt sorry, if not surprised, to hear that his parents’ marriage had ended. Olivia was now living in a small cottage near Thornthwaite and claimed never to have been happier. He guessed she was not alone, but since she had not yet chosen to tell him with whom she lived, he did not enquire too closely for fear of seeming to intrude.

He ripped open the envelope and read: ‘My darling Rob’. He could almost hear the light, musical tones of her voice. There followed the usual expressions of concern for his well-being, instructions for him to take care, stay warm, and eat his greens. Some everyday tittle-tattle about walks she had taken, visits to Keswick and Derwent Water that she’d enjoyed, and her own inadequacies on the domestic front. He could sense how much she loved it, her enthusiasm for her new life almost leapt off the page. But then the tone changed.

Darling, I have some important news for you. Since you finally confessed to me the terrible reason why you left home, I’ve hardly been able to bear the thought of your unhappiness. I know nothing of any girl coming to the house, pregnant or otherwise. Even so, it is true that your father and Stella did have an affair. It didn’t last long and, as Alena says, the whole tale could just as likely be one of James’s lies. As you know, he is entirely ruthless when it comes to getting his own way in anything. But I can understand why you feel the need for further proof. I shall do some investigating. Who knows? Perhaps I shall have some real news for you soon.

She closed with her usual expressions of love. Rob folded the letter and stored it with the others in a leather folder. He did not allow himself to hope. Even so he read his mail with increased eagerness over the following weeks. No further mention was ever made of the subject. Back in Ellersgarth, Mickey announced to Alena that it was time to consider a date for their marriage.

Chapter Fifteen

Lizzie said that Alena could do worse; that although she herself hadn’t much cared for Mickey’s bragging when she first met him, she’d come to see this as a harmless part of his nature. And he was a useful bloke to have around, calling regularly to offer to do jobs about the house that her four boys never seemed to have time for these days.

Mickey had explained to Alena that he was a hardworking, canny sort of chap and would make her a good husband. ‘And you can’t deny I’m handsome.’

She’d laughed at that. Mickey could always make her laugh. Then he’d gently taken hold of her hands.