A Time Like No Other (52 page)

‘Then . . . ?’

‘He was trapped under one of the machines. Not . . . er . . . burned; the machine sheltered him but it fell into the basement and he . . . went with it.’

‘He . . . ?’

‘Will have to be identified by a member of his family. I’m sorry, sir.’

‘But what has that to do with my husband?’ Lally asked fiercely, edging herself in front of Harry like a kitten spitting into the face of a bulldog.

‘He . . . we think . . . it might be your brother.’

For several days they all despaired, particularly Lally, that Mr Sinclair would never recover from this blow that had struck him. Not only had he lost the magnificent building of which he had been so proud, but it was his own brother who had done this to him. He mourned the Roly they had known for only Harry, and perhaps Lally herself, could remember when Roly had been a slip of a boy getting into scrapes with Chris Fraser, a young lad, handsome and wild but basically good-hearted. What had twisted him? What demon had turned him into the man neither of them recognised?

Though he had ruined their hopes, perhaps for ever, the men and women who had hoped to work at the new and splendid Sinclair mill turned out for his funeral, crowding the churchyard so completely his family had to struggle through the masses to get into the church. His young widow, clothed from head to foot in black with a veil so dense her face could not be seen, moved slowly between her mother and father, followed by her brother and sister-in-law though it was noticed they did not speak. Poor soul, they said, to be widowed so young, knowing nothing of the ways in which the dead man had done his best to destroy not only his own brother but had given her the black eye that was fading beneath the veil.

Carriages stretched up the length of the lane that led to the church gate, bringing the wealthy manufacturing classes to see one of their own put tidily away, though many of them were fully aware of the scandalous ways young Roly Sinclair had adopted. None knew, of course, that it was he who had burned down his brother’s mill else they would not have come to pay their respects at his funeral. The general belief was that he had died in perhaps some heroic manner trying to save the mill and Harry had done nothing to enlighten them. Black coats, trousers and mourning bands, black swathes of veils, and afterwards there were refreshments at the Priory, reminding Lally of the day of Chris’s funeral when there had been Harry to console her.

Lally stayed close to Harry lest he slip back into that strange and sombre mood that had separated him from her just after the mill fire and Roly’s death but she need not have worried, for Adam Elliott was eager to embark on the rebuilding not only of Harry’s mill but his own life and would not allow Harry time to consider the enormity of it. Adam was not about to brood over the demise of a man who had done his best to destroy them all but was over the day after the funeral, bringing with him the plans that had been drawn for Penfold Meadow and also what he now considered to be his family.

They were all in black still, though Lally meant to alter that as soon as she was able.

‘Let’s all walk over to Tangle Wood,’ Adam insisted. ‘It’s a grand day to be out,’ staring up into the mild blue sky. The air was soft and warm and at the back of the house where the farms lay men and women were bringing the harvest in, their cheery calls to one another echoing over the rooftops. ‘We could pick blackberries. Mrs Stevens has promised a blackberry and apple tart with cream for tea; oh yes, we have all been invited, and then Harry, after tea you and I, and the ladies, of course, since they have had a hand in the whole thing, can go over the plans for a new mill. Now don’t tell me you want more time because, with a family to provide for, like me, you need to look to the future.’

Harry began to laugh, the first time he had done so since the fire. ‘Bloody hell, man, you don’t mince words, do you, nor waste time. And remind me to watch my language when my children are about.’ He turned to look at the lawn where Jamie was showing Jack how to do what he considered to be a cartwheel. Harry’s face was relaxed and Lally exchanged a heartfelt glance with Susan and was confounded when her friend winked at her, lifted her skirts, shocking Barty and Froglet who were watching, and performed a perfect cartwheel, to the wide-eyed admiration of the children.

‘Dear God, my wife never fails to amaze and delight me,’ Adam spluttered, running down the slope to catch her before she did another. Harry took Lally’s hand, following slowly, and as she watched him as she had done for the past week, she knew he was going to be all right. He would recover from this blow as he had done others. He would build another mill with Adam’s help. He would fulfil the dream that she had shared with him and the housing community, the school, the park, the library would all come to fruition. They would better the lives of those who worked for them and perhaps others would follow.

The blackberries were thick as the stars on a clear night, the children eating as many as they gathered. They had to laugh, which they found came more easily as the afternoon wore on, for they had brought nothing in which to put their harvest. The perambulator containing the amazed baby who had been propped up by Dora and who didn’t know where to look to keep all these clever people in his fascinated view, was found to be the most sensible place and without further ado Martin was lifted out, hefted on to his father’s hip and the blackberries were piled on to the waterproof mat which was placed in the bottom.

‘I bet I’ve picked the most,’ boasted Jamie, who fancied himself the leader of the gang of children, six in all, though he was not the eldest.

‘Well, we’ll never know,’ his mother said placidly, her own mouth stained with blackberry juice. She smiled as her husband kissed her lips, licking his own to show he relished the taste.

‘I think Boy’s done very well,’ Susan remarked, always wanting to give the lad a bit of praise to boost his confidence.

‘No, he hasn’t,’ Jamie shouted but they were all silenced by the boy himself.

‘My name’s not Boy,’ he said patiently, as though to reprove them all. ‘It’s Sam.’

Audrey Howard was born in Liverpool in 1929. Before she began to write she had a variety of jobs, among them hairdresser, model, shop assistant, cleaner and civil servant. In 1981, while living in Australia, she wrote the first of her bestselling novels. She lives in St Anne’s on Sea, her childhood home.