Tangled Threads (13 page)

Eveleen was not finished yet. ‘And isn’t there another parable about the rejoicing in heaven over the sheep that was lost and is found?’

The man grunted. ‘I’m pleased to hear you know your Bible but let me tell you, the lost sheep needs to show true repentance of her sins to earn forgiveness.’

Uncle and niece continued to glare at each other until Bridget said sharply, ‘For goodness’ sake sit down and let’s talk this out calmly.’ Catching sight of Jimmy
skulking in the shadows near the door, the old woman raised her shrill voice and said, ‘Come here, boy, let’s be having a look at you.’

Jimmy came forward reluctantly and stood before her. Bridget glanced from one to the other of her new-found grandchildren. ‘Are you twins? Now I see you properly, you look very
alike.’

Jimmy stuffed his hands deep into his pockets and muttered, ‘No, she’s a year older ’n me.’

Bridget laughed. ‘So she thinks she can boss you about, eh?’ Then her laughter faded and she nodded thoughtfully, but her steady gaze was still on the youth’s face. ‘But
you’ll not be told what to do for much longer, though, will you, boy?’

Listening, Eveleen marvelled at the old woman’s shrewdness. Jimmy had never been easy to control, even as a child, and Bridget had summed him up in seconds. For a brief moment, Eveleen
wished they were staying here. She knew she would have a strong ally in her grandmother. Yet she could not allow her mother to be treated so shabbily by her family. ‘Well, he’ll have to
do as he’s told for a while longer.’ She turned to her brother. ‘Go and ask Bill to turn the dray round.’

‘Now, now, girl, sit down, I said. You too, Harry. Rebecca, make these poor folks a cup of tea. It’s the least we can do.’

Eveleen glanced at the girl, who was already scuttling away to do her grandmother’s bidding. ‘Please could you take some tea out to Bill? We’ve come a long way.’

Rebecca nodded and disappeared.

‘Now then,’ Bridget began when everyone was seated. She did not intend to mince her words as she said, ‘You hurt us all badly, Mary, but we never wanted you to leave
home.’

Eveleen saw her mother glance at Harry, but she lowered her gaze again without saying anything. Bridget too had seen the gesture, but went on, ‘To run off without a word to any of us. That
was almost worse than getting yourself pregnant with the likes of Brinsley Stokes. Your poor father went to his grave not knowing whether you were alive or dead. That was cruel, Mary. Cruel and
thoughtless.’

Mary looked up at last. ‘I thought you wanted me gone. You made my life hell on earth after you found out. All of you. Not one of you had a word of understanding for me. Telling me that he
wanted nothing more to do with me. That he’d gone away. If only I could have seen him, talked to him, just one more time . . .’ Her voice trailed away as Mary relived the misery.

Now Eveleen noticed a quick glance pass between Bridget and her son.

‘You think you could have persuaded him to marry you, eh?’ Bridget was leaning forward. ‘The daughter of a humble stockinger. His sort don’t marry the likes of
us.’

Eveleen shuddered. The words echoed those her mother had used to her only a few short weeks ago.

‘His father could have ruined all of us,’ Bridget went on. ‘Don’t forget, he was the bag man.’ The phrase mystified Eveleen, but now was not the time to ask
questions.

Bridget went on. ‘Your father went to see him.’

Now Mary’s head shot up. ‘I didn’t know that.’

‘Well, he did and was told in no uncertain terms that if the lad married you he’d be cut off from his family without a shilling. The Stokeses were well off by our standards even then
and now they are partners in a factory in Nottingham.’

‘So,’ Mary said, not really taking in everything her mother was telling her. She was still lost in her own bitterness. ‘Brinsley chose to cut me off instead?’

‘He was only eighteen.’

‘Nineteen,’ Mary said softly.

‘Nineteen, then. But he’d still have needed parental consent to marry you. And Herbert Stokes was never going to give that. Never in a million years. Herbert Stokes was determined to
rise in the world. And he did, but he didn’t want his son to make an unfortunate marriage and hinder his grand plans.’ Bridget’s voice dropped and she reached across to touch
Mary’s hand. ‘Didn’t you love Brinsley enough to want what was right and best for him? Never mind what it did to you? Did you really want to ruin his life, because that’s
what it would have done?’

Tears spilled over and ran down Mary’s cheeks. ‘I thought he loved me.’

‘I’m sure he did . . .’

Mary finished the rest of Bridget’s sentence. ‘But not enough.’

Eveleen pursed her lips, forcing herself to remain silent. It was not her place, she knew, to say anything, but she felt revolted at what these people had done. They had obviously made life so
unbearable for Mary that she had run away. She had given birth in the dark and the cold in a ditch and it had almost been the death of her. If it hadn’t been for the kindly and, to
Eveleen’s mind, truly Christian Walter Hardcastle, Mary might well have died along with her child.

And yet – Eveleen had to be honest – perhaps they had been right. Perhaps the marriage between two young people of very different backgrounds would not have worked. And Mary had
carried those instincts into the upbringing of her own daughter when she had vehemently opposed Eveleen’s association with Stephen Dunsmore.

And she had been right. So heartlessly had Stephen – just like Brinsley Stokes before him – proved her mother right.

‘So, are we going or staying?’ Jimmy piped up. ‘’Cos Bill says he wants to get unloaded and find himself lodgings afore it gets dark.’

‘You’re staying,’ Bridget said firmly, glancing at Harry as if daring him to defy her. ‘And they can live with you, Harry. There’s only you and Rebecca in that end
house. Plenty of room for three more. And this feller, Bill, whoever he is, he can bed down for the night too.’ She turned to Mary and Eveleen. ‘I’ve got lodgers who work for us.
This place is full, mi duck, else I’d have you here.’

Suddenly Mary smiled. ‘Eh, I haven’t been called that for twenty years. Mi duck.’ And she actually laughed. ‘Now I know I’m home.’

They moved into the end house with Harry Singleton and his daughter, Rebecca, and slipped into a routine remarkably quickly, although the phrase “settled in” hardly
applied. Eveleen felt far from comfortable in the strict, dour atmosphere of her uncle’s house and Jimmy grew more truculent and difficult with each day. As for Mary, she was a bundle of
nerves, jumping every time Harry spoke. Her anxiety to please him was pathetic.

They had been given the attic bedroom. Eveleen and her mother would share the double bed while Jimmy had a straw-filled mattress on the floor under the steeply sloping ceiling.

‘Huh,’ Mary said as she hauled herself up the steep, narrow stairs. ‘My old room back. I haven’t even graduated to a proper bedroom.’

‘I’ll have to tidy it up a bit. We haven’t had any lodgers recently,’ Rebecca explained apologetically.

They pushed their tin trunks into one corner beside a box of Rebecca’s old books and discarded toys. Eveleen picked up a small school slate and touched its cool, black surface, evoking
poignant memories of her father. She smiled wistfully, remembering her own childhood as she glanced at the toys: a game of draughts, a set of quoits, the coloured rings piled on to the wooden peg,
and a child’s cricket bat.

‘Don’t bother on our account,’ Mary said stiffly to Rebecca. ‘We won’t be staying long.’ She went to the marble-topped washstand under the window and laid out
her hairbrush and comb. There was a rose-patterned ewer and bowl and beside them, a linen towel edged with lace. Mary picked it up and fingered the lace, examining it closely.

‘Fancy,’ she murmured, ‘this is one of mine.’ She replaced the towel and turned to the bed, running her palm across the patchwork quilt. ‘And Mother and I made this
together when I was about twelve.’ She glanced around the room, shaking her head in wonder. ‘It’s not changed in all this time.’

Secretly Eveleen was quite impressed with the house. It was much smaller than the farmhouse they had lived in, but the parlour of her uncle’s house, overlooking the yard, seemed to her to
be well furnished. The black-leaded range where all the cooking was done dominated the room. In front of it a pegged rug covered part of the brick floor and to one side was set the master’s
chair, a high-backed wooden Windsor. To the right of the range, set in the alcove, were cupboards and on the left-hand side, beneath the window, was a table covered with a plush gold-coloured
tablecloth. Pictures adorned the walls and one, Eveleen noticed, was a portrait of a sweet-faced woman who looked very much like an older Rebecca. Eveleen presumed it to be her mother.

In the far corner of the room stood an organ and beside it a small table covered with a lace cloth. Standing in the centre was a blue and white bowl holding a fleshy-leafed aspidistra. Beside
that was a brass-faced grandfather clock that ticked solemnly and struck loudly every hour.

Behind the parlour, with a window facing out on to the street, was the kitchen. A shallow stone sink drained to an outside gutter, although all the water had to be carried into the house from
the pump in the yard and heated on the range. Beneath the stairs leading to the two upper floors was a small pantry.

As they had climbed the narrow stairs on their way to the attic room, Eveleen peeped into the two bedrooms on the first floor.

The largest – obviously her uncle’s room – held a wrought-iron double bed. In the far corner was a dressing table and near the door was a washstand with pretty patterned brown
and white tiles. At the foot of the bed was a wooden blanket chest. Everywhere there was evidence of the industry in which this family was engaged. The flounces on the bed and the counterpane were
lace-edged and, though she could not see them, Eveleen suspected that the pillow cases, and maybe even the sheets too, would be edged with lace.

Rebecca’s room was smaller, but furnished in much the same way as her father’s, the main difference being that hers was a single bed. They had to pass through her room to reach the
one above.

Jimmy winked at the girl and said, ‘You’ll have to watch out I don’t catch you in your nightie.’

Rebecca blushed and dropped her gaze while Eveleen smacked the back of her brother’s head.

‘Hey, what’s that for?’

‘You know,’ Eveleen warned darkly, but Jimmy only grinned cheekily at her. ‘At least,’ she went on, ‘now we’re all going to be in one room, you won’t be
able to stay out half the night without Mam finding out.’

She kept her voice so low that only he could hear. The look of dismay on Jimmy’s face made her want to laugh, but then his mouth twisted as he said, ‘Be in bed by ten o’clock
every night? Not likely, Evie. Not me.’

‘We’ll see, won’t we?’

‘Yeah. We will.’

They glared at each other for a moment in a silent battle of wills, until Eveleen relented a little. This tragic change in their circumstances was just as hard on her young brother as on any of
them. She smiled as she whispered, ‘Just be thankful you aren’t having to share the bed with Mam.’

And suddenly the brother and sister were laughing together.

It wasn’t so much the fact of sleeping beside her mother that irritated Eveleen. In truth, in the cold attic, they were warmth for each other. It was not even the woman’s snoring
which kept the girl awake occasionally that tested Eveleen’s patience but rather Mary’s constant entreaty every night as they got into bed.

‘Oh, Evie, when can we go back? I hate it here. When can we go home?’

Eveleen would say, ‘One day, Mam, I promise you. One day I’ll take you back home.’

Sometimes, they would lie together talking softly, going over the day’s events.

‘What happened to Uncle Harry’s wife? Do you know?’ Eveleen asked her mother on the second night of their residence.

‘I asked Mother today. Rose died about six years ago when Rebecca was ten.’

There was silence then Eveleen asked, ‘And Rebecca has kept house for him ever since?’

‘’Spect so.’

‘You’d think she’d want to go out to work. Have a little independence of her own, wouldn’t you?’

‘Independence? With Harry for a father? Oh, Eveleen, you’ve a lot to learn about your uncle if you think he’d even dream of such a thing.’

‘Talking of work, I must start in the morning to look for something. It’s good of Uncle Harry to have taken Jimmy on as an apprentice.’

‘Where is he? He should be in bed by now. Harry will be locking up in a minute and coming upstairs.’

‘Serves him right if he’s locked out,’ said Eveleen, turning on her side with her back to her mother and preparing for sleep.

‘Don’t be so hard on Jimmy. He doesn’t like it here. I know he doesn’t.’

‘Well, he doesn’t have any choice in the matter. Like I say, he’s lucky Uncle Harry’s at least giving him a try.’ She gave a wry laugh. ‘He’s only got
to fall out of bed into work.’

‘Mm.’ Her mother’s voice was growing sleepy, but just before she fell asleep she said, ‘It’s not the best job in the world. Those machines are heavy to operate and
the work’s hard on the eyesight. My poor little Jimmy.’

‘It’s better than a lot of jobs. He’s warm and dry and—’ But the only response from Mary was a gentle snore.

The following morning Eveleen made her way down the brick path to the workshops standing at right angles to the row of cottages.

The noise of the machinery deafened her even as she climbed the stairs to the workroom and beneath her feet it felt as if the whole building was shaking. She stood at the top of the stairs
looking about her. The machines, closely spaced with the operators sitting back to back, were set in a row down the side of the room beneath the long window that she had noticed from the outside on
the day of their arrival. Against the opposite wall, too, there were machines even though the light would not be so good there. On the wall above each machine hung a glass bowl filled with acid to
reflect the light on to the knitter’s work. No one looked up at her appearance at the top of the stairs; they had not heard her above the clatter, so for some time Eveleen stood watching,
fascinated by the rhythmic operation the framework knitters carried out with a series of complicated hand and foot movements. She watched carefully and by the time she turned and went down the
stairs again, she believed she could carry out all the movements in their proper sequence.