A Time Like No Other (51 page)

The little procession left the paddock area and moved towards the woodland. The great oaks were beginning to throw their acorns, forming a dense carpet which would not stay long on the ground, for they would be seized by hordes of birds and squirrels, and by the boys when they were about. The beech trees were showing their vivid autumn colours, glowing and glorious with a mosaic of flaming orange, russet and gold which would gradually darken to a dull copper, leaves already spiralling lazily to the ground. Beside the oak and beech were sycamore and hornbeam. Dora pushed the perambulator ahead of them, trundling it over the acorns and fallen leaves, joggling the baby, keeping her eye on Cat who did her usual performance of tottering, falling, picking herself up, talking to herself, kneeling to admire some plant or perhaps a worm that wriggled out of her baby grasp.

‘I wanted you to be the first to know, apart from Adam, of course . . .’ Susan smiled secretly and bent her head.

‘What . . . what is it that makes you look so . . . don’t tell me you are pregnant?’ Lally bent her head to peer into Susan’s rosy face then swept her into her arms and kissed her soundly. ‘Well, I must say you didn’t waste much time. I might have known that Adam would have you with child the minute he got you into bed.’

‘
Lally!
’ Susan laughed. ‘You really are the limit . . .’

‘Susan, so are you . . .’

Dora turned round to look at the two women who clutched each other in an ecstasy of mirth and could you wonder, Dora thought. They had both been through so much in the last few years, pain and sorrow, a burden of adversity that would have felled most women and yet they were splitting their sides in a way that made Dora fear for their sanity! Really they were a pair but they deserved to laugh, to be joyful with their husbands and children and those in the household who loved them. There were great comings and goings in preparation for the vast celebrations that were to take place at Penfold Meadow which, Dora had been told by the other servants, was to commence work next Monday. The wonderful new mill which even Dora had walked over to see was finally finished and what a grand and stately place it was, an’ all. They were all to go, the servants, the children and the folk who were to work there to a grand opening, a feast the likes of which had never been seen before. A whole oxen roasted on a spit, hams the size of a cartwheel, loins of pork, meat pies, pickles and cheeses, beef steak puddings, home-made bread, and apple pies and cream enough to feed an army. Barrels of ale and cider and two old chaps who would play their fiddles to accompany the vigorous country dances that would follow. The meal was timed for five o’clock on the Saturday to take place in the mill’s combing shed so that the operatives who were to start work on the Monday at the crack of dawn would have a day to get over the worst of their merrymaking. They were all looking forward to it, for it was not often that this sort of thing happened in their hardworking lives.

The laughter of the two women pealed out over the autumn woodland, lifting with the fragrance of the woodsmoke, reaching even Barty and Froglet, busy with a bonfire while ‘them lads’ were elsewhere – for it was a right to-do-ment to keep the little imps from enthusiastically flinging everything in sight into the flames – but what the mistress and her friend were laughing about they couldn’t tell you!

The mill was a marvel and a testament to the skill and ingenuity of the modern young architects who had designed it. Harry had, after many discussions with Adam and the operatives who were to work in it, for their ideas came from the horse’s mouth, so to speak, decided against the slightly rigid plans of Albert Watson. Albert muttered about ‘bloody new men and their bloody new ideas’ but as he was to build the thing and would make an enormous profit he hid his animosity with smiles and much rubbing of his hands.

It was massive, four floors and along the length of each floor were fifty tall windows to let in the maximum of light and each window made to open so that the operatives might have space, light, warmth
and fresh air
. There were four majestic towers, one at each end and two spaced down its centre and across the front in huge letters was the sign, SINCLAIR. MANUFACTURER OF WORSTED GOODS.

Already, in the acres of land about the mill, the foundations for the new cottages that were to house the operatives had begun and Albert Watson rubbed his hands together with glee, confiding to his wife in the privacy of their bedroom where she was performing her marital duties in his bed that if Sinclair went on as he was doing she might have that new mansion in the country she had set her heart on!

There were six men, big, loutish chaps who looked as though they’d sell their own mothers for the price of a pint of ale, gathered with their leader outside the gates that led into the wide, cobbled yard that surrounded the mill at Penfold Meadow.

‘Bloody ’ell, there must be two ’undred winders,’ one muttered to another, but the man who led them, a tall, well-built man in a dark outfit and cap pulled down over his forehead, turned on them fiercely. ‘There’ll probably be a night watchman and we will have to break in, but for God’s sake be as quiet as you can about it. We don’t want to wake the population before we’ve done what we’ve come to do.’

‘What ’e’s come ter do, more like,’ one whispered to another. ‘As long as I gets me brass I don’t care what ’e’s up to.’

They all stared, impressed for a moment, at the bulky outline of the building that filled their vision from horizon to horizon. There was a moon and the mill seemed to be lit by some unearthly light that reflected in the hundreds of windows across its front but there was no sign of life. It was just past midnight and there was a sense of waiting surrounding the mill, a waiting for it to spring into life, for the machines to start their new lives, which would make an enormous difference to those who were lucky enough to work there. For the moment they must remain in their hovels in St Margaret’s Passage and its environs but within months, so it was promised, the workers would all be moved to the newly built houses and enjoy the open spaces in which they stood.

The glass made an almost silent sound as it broke under the stone held in Roly Sinclair’s hand and tinkled to the cobbles beneath. The watchman in his little hut to the side of the gate had been dozing in front of a good fire, the frying pan with his bacon and sausages in it waiting to be placed on the flames. He thought he heard a faint noise then the cat which haunted the grounds crept round the opening to his hut and he relaxed and dozed again.

Roly wriggled through the window, feeling his way round to the enormous door set in a doorway big enough to accommodate the horses and wagons that deposited the raw fleeces in the yard and took away the worsted cloth his brother’s operatives would weave. He smiled as the thought entered his head, for there would be none of that here if he had his way, and this time he would.

The men crowded in one upon the other. The moon shone on the silent machinery and on Roly Sinclair’s white teeth as he grinned in the darkness. Not until they were inside did they light their torches and with shouts and yells that woke the watchman from his doze they ran loose over the first floor until a warning shout from Roly halted them.

‘Take the top floor first, you fools, or you’ll get burned to death. All of you now, the top floor.’

Although this was the most modern, up-to-date mill in the county with spinning frames and weaving looms made from metal there was a lot of wood about. Beams and supporting posts and even the floors which, though not yet soaked with oil and scattered with waste, were ready to feed the fires. The men with Roly Sinclair had also been armed with heavy sledgehammers which they aimed at the machines with a savagery that sprang from their unthinking minds. They smashed them apart and then at a shout from Roly moved down to the next floor and the next, on each one smashing and burning while Roly stayed behind to make sure the wood on each floor was well alight.

The men were panting with excitement as they erupted from the building and watched the fire begin to dance alight, sweeping from one end to the other. Windows burst open and pennants of flames blew out and the watchman who had dozed in his hut was seen to be running like a hare down the lane that led from the mill. One or two of the men were all for running after him, for their blood was on fire like the building, but they were halted in their stride by a scream, high and desperate, lifting the hairs at the backs of their necks. The scream came from their backs, from
inside
the mill and they turned in horror, for thugs though they were they were capable of horror.

‘Bloody Mary,’ one whispered, backing away from the building which by now was well alight. ‘’Oo the ’ell . . . ?’

They looked about them and for the first time noticed that the man who had employed them on this night’s work, and who had promised them a considerable sum of money to do it, was not among them.

‘It must be ’im. Bugger it, I’m off before the bobbies arrive,’ a man with the face of a prize-fighter told the others.

‘’Ere, wha’ about our brass?’ another clamoured.

‘If yer wanna ’ang about yer can bu’ I’m off.’

The flames from the burning mill shot into the black velvet of the sky and there was a fearful roar as the machines from every floor began to crash down into the basement. The screams from within had stopped and with obscenities pouring from every mouth the men scattered into the darkness, leaving the magnificence that had always been called simply Penfold in an inferno of destroyed dreams.

They wept, all of them who came to look at the wreckage that lay smouldering in the yard at Penfold Meadow, even the man who had built it. He had been summoned by frantic knocking on the door of the bedroom he shared with Lally and when, still half asleep, he had failed to respond, Biddy had taken it upon herself to stumble into the room lit by the flickering flames of the fire in the grate, and shaken him violently into wakefulness. Harry had made love to his wife, leaving them both languorous and satiated, sleepy in each other’s arms. They were both naked, their limbs draped about each other, the sheets flung back, but Biddy was beyond caring about their modesty as she screeched in her master’s ear that his magnificent new mill was ablaze from end to end.

‘What . . . what . . . ?’ he mumbled stupidly and it was not until she had the temerity to slap his silly face that he came fully awake.

‘What the hell . . . ?’ His voice was aggrieved. Behind him Lally rose up in the bed, her breasts falling forward in rosy beauty.

‘The bloody mill’s on fire!’ Biddy shrieked in his ear so that he winced away from her, then, still stark naked, he leaped from the bed.

‘Look out the winder,’ Biddy shrilled and indeed when he stumbled across the room he could see the glow in the sky north towards Halifax.

‘Dear sweet Jesus . . .’

‘Aye, well never mind ’Im. There’s a chap at door . . . a bobby ses yer ter go at once. Fire engine’s there and . . . Oh, dear God, what next . . . what next?’ And Biddy, staunch, calm, always steady, began to weep broken-heartedly, for surely to God hadn’t these two suffered enough?

It was all over by the time Harry and Lally got there, Harry on Piper, Lally on Merry, both wearing an assortment of clothing they had just flung on any old how. Lally had picked up the first garment that came to hand, the silk gown she had worn to dinner the evening before, riding astride with her nightgown, the one Harry had taken from her in a leisurely fashion only an hour or two ago, flung on beneath it and beneath the gown the kid breeches and boots she wore for riding. Adam was there, leaning bonelessly against one of the big square pillars that supported the gates, his arm round Susan. For that moment they were both mindless, blindly seeking comfort from one another, waiting to be told what to do next, where to go next, how to cope with this latest disaster. What was left of the mill was still burning fiercely but the fire brigade, with several engines, realising they could do nothing, were standing silently away from the building. A great company of police, as they had done when High Clough was destroyed, stood helplessly by, hanging their heads as though in shame that they could do nothing, failing to look directly at Mr Sinclair who had only just recovered from the last disaster and was doing his best to help so many in this township. It was not to be borne and how was he to bear it, they asked one another. His fine new mill which was to open on Monday gutted so ferociously and how the hell had it happened?

There were crying women and even men, crowds of them, who had thanked the Lord for a man like Harry Sinclair who was to make their hard lives bearable and now how was he to mend it all, if he was?

A police inspector approached Harry and cleared his throat apologetically. Neither Harry nor Adam, still dazed by the catastrophe, had thought to ask about casualties. There was no one in the mill and it would not have been until Saturday – which it now was – when the great party was to be held for the men and women who were to be employed in this huge mill, now lying wounded and dying before their eyes, that it would be filled with people. But the inspector, having caught Harry’s unfocused eye, put a hand on his arm as gently as a mother will to a desolate child.

Harry, still clinging to Lally as though she were the one firm piece of ground in this quagmire in which he found himself, turned his head and stared at the inspector.

‘Mr Sinclair, I’m sorry . . .’

‘Thank you,’ he answered politely.

‘No, sir, it’s not just the mill . . .’

‘I beg your pardon?’ he quavered.

Lally tightened her grip on him, for this beloved man was not to fall if she had anything to say about it and anybody else who upset him would have her to answer to.

‘I’m sorry, sir, but there’s a body.’

‘A body . . . ?’ Harry could feel his sluggish mind beginning to function. ‘The watchman?’

‘No, sir, he’s safe.’