Shining Threads (20 page)

9

Will Broadbent’s tiny house, rented from the Greenwoods when he had begun work at the Chapman Mill as an overlooker, was set in a bit of garden at the end of a row of
similar houses. Each had a parlour, a back kitchen which led out into its own yard, two bedrooms above, a good dry cellar beneath and a privy to each family.

Will’s cosy parlour in which he had placed a couple of comfortable wing chairs, one on either side of the fireplace, and a round table covered with a red chenille cloth, was as warm as he
could get it on this cold, snowy Christmas Day. The shelves in the alcoves beside the chimney breast were filled with books and the fireplace had a cast-iron surround with a brass fender and
gleaming fire-tools. The polished floorboards were partly covered by a square carpet and before the fire was a hearth rug. There were curtains at the windows, red chenille again with a fringed
pelmet, and on the walls were several commemorative plates, one produced to mark the 1832 Reform Bill and another the Chartist Movement of 1838. Will had been no more than a lad at the time of the
first event but he had grown up with tales of the daring and recklessness of men of the Radical movement which had aimed to help other men, like himself, women and children too, to work with
dignity and fulfilment in the cotton mills of Lancashire and, indeed, in many other parts of the country. Deeply interested in reform, though not perhaps with the fervour of Joss Greenwood or the
late William Cobbett, he attended political meetings, union meetings, liking to hear an argument from every side before making up his own mind and went each week to the library in Chapmanstown,
erected by Mrs Joss Greenwood for the betterment of the minds of her workers, to read the national newspapers from cover to cover.

Sir Robert Peel, the greatest of all English statesmen in Will’s opinion, had died three years ago when he was thrown from his horse, and his death had affected Will deeply. Indeed, the
whole nation had mourned the great man. It was due to him that the hated Corn Laws had been abolished, thus alleviating to some extent the conditions of the poor, though the deed had lost him his
own office in government. An enormous loss to his country, Will had read, and he agreed with the statement wholeheartedly.

He sat before his own cosy fire, aware at the back of his mind that he was lonely, acknowledging to himself that man was not meant to live alone and that he should be thinking of taking a wife.
For twenty or more years he had lived in the Penfold Valley and for the past six months, ever since he had gone to work for Chapmans, he had lived in this little house, his first home and one that
could so readily be shared with the right lass, perhaps children. And he had made it what it was. Unlike most men who would have been content with a bed, a chair and a table under which to put
their feet, he had found a great deal of satisfaction in turning it into his own place.

Feeling somewhat foolish at first, he had scoured the second-hand furniture shops of Crossfold and Edgeclough, sorting through the sad treasures of women who, perhaps, had fallen on hard times,
finding pieces which pleased his eye. Knowing nothing of craftsmen such as Hepplewhite or Sheraton, nevertheless Will recognised a decent bit of polished wood when he saw it. The lustre of mahogany
and rosewood and walnut, the glowing colours in the tapestry of his wing chairs, gave him immense pleasure. The hard-wearing Brussels carpet, made in Halifax, though worn in places was swirled in
patterns of faded rose and sage, and the hearthrug, come from somewhere in the Orient he had been told by the owner of the pawn-shop where he had bought it, was soft and warm to his stockinged
feet.

In the small scullery behind the parlour was a pine dresser on which he had set out dishes, plates, cups and saucers bought at the Crossfold country fair during the summer. There was some
durable pewter and a copper pan or two and he had smiled as he placed them on the shelves, chiding himself for an old woman, but pleased, just the same, with his first
real
home, his
kitchen, simple in pine and deal. The bedroom upstairs he had furnished in what was, to him, luxurious comfort: a big brass bed with snowy linen and warm blankets covered with a splendid Welsh
quilt stitched in hearts. Again he had laughed at himself, glad that the men with whom he worked could not see his pride and pleasure in what, surely, was a woman’s domain. The fact was, he
liked beautiful things. He didn’t know why and certainly did not disclose the fact to anyone, even though his handiness with his fists and his great strength, well known and appreciated in
the mill, would have discouraged any man from making a disparaging remark about it.

They were well built, these houses, he mused, as he strode for the third time to the window to peer out at the snowy world beyond, aware that he was becoming increasingly restless. The road
outside his gate, though knee-deep in snow at the moment, was paved and well lit on a dark winter’s night. There was an air about the houses not exactly of prosperity, for none of the Chapman
employees could be said to have wealth, but of care, pride even, in each well-maintained, well-polished cottage. The windows shone, the gates were intact and oiled, there were curtains, mostly
clean, and steps which were donkey-stoned each Saturday. Gardens in the summer produced a flower or two and at the back was a row of allotments where men like himself grew cabbages and potatoes.
The privies stood by the back gates of the yards, the cleanliness of each depending upon the family it served. For the most part, they were scrupulous, since every house had its own piped water and
the sewage was adequately taken care of by the splendid drains.

He sat down heavily in the chair and picked up a book. He put his stockinged feet on the fender, lit his pipe and prepared to have an hour or two with Mr Charles Dickens’
David
Copperfield
. It had come from Mrs Greenwood’s library in Chapmanstown, where the many young men and women who could read and write were allowed to borrow books.

But it was no good. Somehow David and Steerforth and pretty Dora could not hold his attention and he knew it was because, today of all days, Christmas Day, he was alone. Why should it concern
him now, he wondered, when for the past seven or eight years, ever since he had left the apprentice house, he had been on his own, living in lodgings, without family or friend?

His eyes drifted to the holly he had hung above the fireplace and the mistletoe pinned to the door-frame between the parlour and the scullery. He smiled ruefully, asking himself which young lady
he had hoped to catch in a Christmas kiss when not one soul had crossed his threshold since he had taken up residence here. That was not to say he did not enjoy the company of a pretty woman. He
was friendly with the landlord’s wife at the Dog and Gun, a bonny woman a year or two older than himself with a husband of almost fifty who had lost his appetite for his wife’s curving
flesh. Strange, since she was extremely obliging – to Will and, he suspected, to several others whom he was certain shared her favours.

He nearly dropped his pipe when someone hammered on his door and was severely handicapped for a moment or two as he attempted to brush away the hot ash from its bowl which had fallen on his cord
trousers. His expression was quite foolish as he stood indecisively on his own hearth rug, wondering who it could be when all it took to find out was a stride or two across the parlour and the
opening of the front door. Of course, he could peep from behind his chenille curtains to see who was mad enough to wade through the drifts which were certain to have piled up where the wind had
blown them. It had snowed heavily many times in the past for the winters up here on the edge of the Pennines were fierce and stormy and those of the spinners and weavers who lived in Chapmanstown
and must trudge up to Crossbank, Highbank and Broadbank had tales to tell of finding themselves up to their armpits in snow banks. Mrs Harrison, a woman of ingenuity he had heard, and to be
admired, had organised them into groups so that they travelled together, and if one got into difficulties the others could form a rescue party. It had been quite hilarious, it seemed, and certainly
a novelty, especially as Mrs Harrison had arranged for them to have a bowl of hot soup to restore them to a working condition before they switched on their mules or looms.

And last night there had been just such a blizzard.

She was on his doorstep when he opened the door; not Mrs Harrison of whom he had been thinking but her daughter. She was dazzling, brilliant with delight, like a child who has achieved the
impossible. Her eyes glowed into his, her mouth wide and sweet, parting over her white teeth in a huge grin. Tessa Harrison: the young girl who had, in the last few months, become his friend.

Friend! Dear God, if anyone of her family became aware of it, particularly those reckless cousins of hers, he would be hounded not only from the mill, his job there and this snug cottage, but
from Lancashire itself; and yet their relationship was completely innocent. It had begun on the moor, on the top road from Chapmanstown to Edgeclough. It had begun an hour or two after she had
snarled her wild Greenwood temper at him in the mill yard. It had begun when he found her waiting for him to enquire whether he had got the job he had asked for. It had begun when she had shared
her family history with him, who had none, and had been enthralled by the tale of his sad beginnings. It had begun and flourished on the few occasions they had met when her cousins had ridden off
without her, she said mutinously, refusing to include her in some wild and reckless folly. He had walked the moors every Sunday, not looking for her since she was no more than a child, he told
himself, and a child of the class to which he, as a millworker, had no access. When they met it was by accident, an encounter neither looked for nor planned, but which both enjoyed; perhaps for
only a few moments in which she enquired of his job and his progress in it, he to admire her growing hair, to joke about her cousin’s cutting of it, to ask politely after her uncle’s
health. After the incident with the Irish tinkers he had been somewhat short with her, subconsciously recognising that his exasperation was more than one human being’s concern for another,
but she seemed not to notice. Sometimes they sat on the rough grass together, saying nothing, at ease in their silences with no need to make the small talk they both found so irksome. He was often
amazed that he found such pleasure in the company of a young girl, one in whom, he told himself, he had no physical interest, nor shared interest at all, really, for she was no reader and had
neither heard of, nor was concerned with what he read. He did not care about the hunting of the fox, nor the shooting of game birds, which it seemed she did and was good at, she boasted, but
somehow they met on a bit of common ground, neither realising what it was, relishing one another’s company. They had come across one another at Annie Beale’s cottage, sharing a cup of
tea and a joke, easy with one another, and with her, as a mutual friend.

But there was something different about her today.

She was beautiful: not in the way a child, or even a young girl, was beautiful, but as a woman. Alive, vibrant with her own joy of getting here against almost overwhelming odds, the tenacious
hold she had on life which gave her the strength and courage carelessly to thrust aside whatever obstacle might be thrown in her path. There was not another female in Crossfold, in Lancashire, he
believed, like her. Not one of them would have tackled the walk from Greenacres to Chapmanstown, a distance of more than three miles, on foot over ground which, though it was not exactly high
moorland, was rough and hazardous with deep hollows and sharply rising inclines, and in three feet of freshly drifted snow.

‘Look,’ she beseeched him before he could speak, lifting her feet, first one then the other, on which she had strapped what looked like a pair of round, flat, mesh sieves, something
the gardener would use to riddle his soil free of large objects. They had a handle protruding from somewhere at the back, made of wood, clumsy and comical, but she was clearly beside herself with
her own ingenuity.

‘What the devil are they?’ The delight, the wondering emotion, intact and perfectly shaped and which had become quite clear to him at that moment was mercifully hidden from her by
the obligation to admire what she obviously considered her due.

‘They’re bats of some sort. I found them in the cupboard where Drew and Pearce keep their cricket things, fishing tackle, walking sticks, stuff like that. I think they play tennis
with them. You know tennis, don’t you? The Squire has a covered court . . . Anyway, when I was deliberating on how I might get here I saw these and remembered a picture in a geographical
magazine, in Canada or North America I believe it was, and the man in it had these on his feet so I thought what a splendid idea to strap them to my boots. Briggs found me some leather straps . . .
the mesh is ever so strong and when I stepped on to the snow – well, you could see the servants all expected me to vanish from sight or at least sink up to my waist but I walked on top of it.
Can you imagine? Lord, it was wonderful. I’ve never been out before, not on the moors, I mean, when it was like this, and if you could have seen it! Oh, Will, I wish you could have seen it .
. .’ Dear God, so did he, so did he . . . Her voice became hushed and her eyes were like crystal, a clear-cut grey with a darker grey rim and around the iris the most incredible white, as
white as the snow over which she had just tramped to come to
him
.

He felt the pain spear him in his fierce masculine need to sweep her off those ridiculous things she had on her feet and into his arms. Into his heart, for that was surely where she would be
from this moment. He could feel his arms begin to lift and his body sway towards hers. Though she was tall her head would fit neatly beneath his chin and her long body curve itself snugly against
his. He could feel it there already and his rose to meet it, his maleness instantly knowing the rightness of it and demanding to be recognised. Dear, sweet Lord, but she was beautiful and no matter
what they said of her in the valley, her heart was good, her nature warm for who else had taken the trouble to remember Will Broadbent on Christmas Day?