Shining Threads (76 page)

‘I’m coming, darling,’ she called out again and again as her fingers clawed the rough gritstone rock, glad now of her gloves for her flesh would have been torn to pieces on its
sharpness, thanking the fates which had decided that Joel should not fall in the softer shale for had he done so he would have gone straight to the bottom of the clough. Her heart pounded and
threatened to break out of her rib cage and she was bathed in the sweat of fear.

‘Joel,’ she panted, ‘I’m coming, don’t move, sweetheart.’ Her boots slipped on a patch of wet rock and she almost went down.
Wet?
How could it be wet?
And then she felt the snowflakes rest lightly on her cheek, then more on her eyelashes and she blinked despairingly. She was almost there, surely? She dare not look down, only up and the edge of
the cliff was very high above her head. It was outlined against the dark grey of the sky and from the sky the dread pattern of the slowly whirling snow danced above her, coming to rest on her
upturned face.

‘No, God, no, not now. Haven’t you done enough? Let me at least get down to him. Don’t let it snow now, God.’ She stared with hatred up into the malevolent heavens as she
screamed out His name.

She didn’t know how long it was before her booted feet felt the grass which lined the narrow shelf. Even when she reached it she knew she must be careful for it was only as wide as Joel
himself and she would have little room to manoeuvre. Somehow, when she had satisfied herself that he was alive . . .
and he was alive
. . . that he was not badly hurt . . . oh, why did he
not cry out to her? . . . she must get him up the cliff and on to the back of her mare, yes, her mare for she was more placid than Joel’s little pony. Please God, help me . . . and she began
to inch her way along the couple of feet of ledge which separated her from Joel.

Annie was just about to leave the emptying mill yard when Mr Drew’s handsome bay clattered through the opened gates. Walter was on his back, his face as white as the snow
which had begun to stick between the cobbles and to the rough bricks of the factory wall. She had been in conference with Mrs Poynton and Mrs Bayly, discussing the possibility of those unemployed
mill women who had become good, plain needlewomen in the three years they had been at it, making simple garments such as infants’ underclothes and selling them to the good-class shops in
Manchester or Oldham. There would be nothing fancy but fine cloth and well made, aimed at the middle-class mother, and if she could find a market might it not open up another avenue of work for
them, even when the war was over?

She was startled when Tessa’s groom loomed out of the growing dark and was ready to be sharp with him but his words stopped hers.

‘Tis Miss Tessa an’t little lad.’ A crowd of men had gathered about them, jostling one another to hear what Walter Hobson was saying. Must be serious for he looked as though
he’d seen a bloody ghost.

Annie thought her heart would stop beating and never start again. Though she was only half-aware of it she realised at that moment the strength of the loving bond which lay between her and Tessa
Greenwood and how desolate she would be to lose her.

‘What . . . ?’

‘I’m lookin’ fer men to search . . .’

‘Search? Dear God, Walter Hobson, speak up man. What’s ’appened?’

‘Miss Tessa, ’er an’ the lad are lost on’t moor. Their animals come in not ten minutes since. There’s only an ’andful o’ strong men at Greenacres, Mr
Briggs an’ old Jonathan’s past it an’ . . .’

‘Will yer stop babblin’ yer fool. Where on’t moor?’

‘We don’t know, lass.’

‘
Tha don’t know!
’Ow in God’s name are thi ter find ’em then?’

‘We don’t know that either, lass.’

‘Well, don’t just stand there. Get these men organised inter groups, then ride on to t’other mills an’ fetch all the men there. And on’t way shout tha damned
’ead off an’ tell every man tha meet ter come ter Chapmans. Able-bodied men . . . that’s if there are any left,” she said bitterly, ‘an’ when tha’ve done
that come right hack ’ere. There’s someone I want thi ter fetch. But first of all give me a list o’t places she an’ the lad go to. Every damn one, Walter Hobson, an’
look sharp or there won’t be a soul stirrin’ wi’ this damn snow comin’ down.’

She reached him as the first fine blanket of snow had covered his crumpled figure completely. She could not get past him to reach his legs for she dared not step on his bit of
ledge for fear she would tumble him into the depths of the darkness which yawned below him. She laid a trembling, terrified hand on his face, brushing away the snow from it, appalled at its
coldness and smallness.

‘Joel,’ she whispered, scarcely daring to breathe now that she had reached him, desperately needing to find a heartbeat or pulse which would tell her he still lived. Where? His
throat, his temple, where, dear God, where? She wanted to pull him into her arms, to cradle him, shelter him, warm him but their position was so precarious might she not dislodge the pair of them
if she moved him in any way? Best be slow and cautious, examine him as well as she could with careful hands, since she could hardly see him in the snow-filled darkness. She began with his face and
head, amazed at the fragility of his childish neck, the small bones of his head and face, the soft flexibility of his boy’s ears.

‘Oh, Joel, I love you so much,’ she mumbled and for a moment she was cast back into another place, another time, with another male figure in her arms. He had been unconscious too,
needing her and her strength and she had given it to him, brought him back with her love. But now she must concentrate on Joel, keep him alive, warm until help came. Having come down the escarpment
she knew finally, now that she was here, that she would never get up again, with or without this child she loved.

She had pulled off her gloves, throwing them unthinkingly behind her, not knowing or caring where they landed, and with her bare hands she gently lifted the boy’s head, supporting it with
one as she searched for injuries with the other. She could feel a large bump to the side, just above his ear but there appeared to be no blood. Her hands crept beneath his chin and to her
incredulous joy she felt a pulse throb against her fingers. Oh, thank you, God, thank you, and she lifted her weeping eyes to the blinding snow for a moment.

But he was so cold and so was she now that she had been still for several minutes. If only she had her cloak? It was made of wool and lined with fur but she knew that she could not have climbed
down here with it draped across her shoulders. She brushed as much snow as she could reach from the boy, then carefully eased her jacket off and placed it across his chest. She tucked it under his
chin, leaning across him to protect him from the steadily falling blanket which was an inch deep all over him, wondering if she might ease him slowly, slowly towards her. If she could lift his
small frame . . . so slender, so light-boned . . . up against her where she knelt, might she not keep him warmer, transmit some of her own body heat to him?

She realised then that she was kneeling on his cape which was spread behind him. If she could get it from about his neck, lift it and place it over his uncovered legs it would at least keep the
heavy, wet snow from the lower half of his unprotected body. She shivered uncontrollably, her own shirt wet and freezing to her back, her hair wearing a cap of snow which melted and dripped on to
Joel’s still face. She knew his arm was beneath him, probably injured in the fall but with a little care and a great deal of good luck she might . . .

With a small cry, whether of pain or fear, the boy lurched suddenly into a sitting position, a cry spiralling up into the darkness and completely knocking her from the delicate balance she only
just preserved on the ledge. She grabbed at the rock face, at the tufty grass beneath her, at anything which came to her desperate hands in her hopeless struggle to remain on the ledge. Yet even in
her fight for what she was well aware could be her own life she was careful not to grab at him. She must not hold on to him for as she fell, and she knew she was about to fall, she must not take
him with her.

She made no sound as she went. She had some jumbled idea in her head that she must not frighten him any more than could be helped and her last conscious thought as she slid over the edge into
the snow-dancing emptiness of air was that the only man who could save them no longer loved her.

‘Tell me, quickly, damn your soul to hell! For God’s sake, speak up, man, or I swear I’ll strangle you where you stand.’ The big hands grabbed Walter by
the shoulders and shook him savagely.

‘I’m tryin’ to, sir. Please, I can’t say ’owt with thi ’oldin’ me up like I was a bloody sack of . . .’

‘I’m sorry . . . please . . . I’m sorry. For Christ’s sake tell me . . .’

‘Miss Beale ses yer ter come at once.’ Walter’s tired face was pale in the lamplight which spilled from the open doorway and across the steps, and the snow was like a
shimmering curtain about him. Drew Greenwood’s bay drooped behind him. He had been ridden hard and long this night and Walter knew he would go no further but
he
would once he had
passed on Miss Beale’s message to this big chap. He’d got the list in the pocket of his greatcoat and he was to ask him to pick a place.
The place
. He’d know, Miss Beale
had said, and he was to go straight there with Walter and as many men as he could find. There’d only be one chance – though others would naturally search for as long as they could
elsewhere – and if he made the wrong choice they’d not find her, not this night and not on any other until the snows thawed. Blankets and ropes and lamps they’d take and whatever
this man said was needed, and if he didn’t make the right choice Walter would personally choke the bloody life out of him, aye, and swing for it an’ all. For a moment a picture came
into his mind of a lovely young girl, excited and wild, daring her cousin to cut her long glossy hair. When he had done so, it had lain all over the stable floor like a carpet. After they had gone
he had tenderly taken a shining length of it and he had it to this day in a bit of paper in a drawer in his room above the stable.

‘Come inside, man, and get warm while . . .’

‘
Get warm!
. I’ve no time fer that, beggin’ yer pardon, sir. Here’s t’list. Tell me where ter go an’ I’ll be off.’

‘Don’t be daft, man. We need things. We can’t go off half-cocked or we’ll be floundering to our deaths, and she’ll not live then. D’you not think I
don’t want to run like a madman up on the moors shouting her name? Jesus . . .’ His face worked and in his eyes was an expression of suffering such as Walter had never seen before. He
himself was right fond of a certain laundrymaid and he supposed he would lay down his life for her if asked but this chap looked . . .  well, wild . . . maddened with some savage emotion which
consumed him and lit his eyes to deep brown pits of fire. He’d heard rumours about him and Miss Tessa, hadn’t they all, years ago but he’d laughed at them. Now it seems there was
something in them after all, looking at this chap’s face.

‘Now give me that list,’ the man said and his voice was choked.

‘Right, sir, a cup o’ tea wouldn’t go amiss whilst tha gets tha coat, like.’

The pain in her shoulder awoke her, that and the sound of someone crying. It was a child weeping its heart out in the most desolate fashion, and a child in pain by the sound of
it. God, but she was cold, and wet too, and there was a strange softness, like butterflies’ wings, falling on to her face.

‘Aunt Tess, Aunt Tess, please come and get me,’ the child wept and in an appalling moment of terror it all came back to her. She tried to sit up but the tearing agony in her shoulder
pinned her down to wherever she was. Joel . . . oh, dear Father, who art in heaven . . . take care of Joel . . . hallowed be Thy name . . . and she tried to raise her voice to tell him she was near
but nothing seemed to come out of her mouth and Joel continued to weep.

There was a deep silence when next she regained her senses, soft and gentle and strangely enough she no longer felt cold. In fact, she was most comfortable and didn’t mind a bit waiting.
What was she waiting for? Who? . . . Someone . . . she knew she was waiting for someone. She remembered Joel drowsily, wondering if he was as cosy and warm under his white blanket as she was. She
hoped so. She called his name softly, up into the veil of snow which fell endlessly out of the sky and knew a small pang of misgiving when he did not answer. Perhaps he had already left? Perhaps he
had climbed the rock face and got on his pony and ridden off to Greenacres? A good boy, Joel, and sensible and he’d bring him . . . Who? . . . Who would he bring? . . . Where . . . Where was
she? . . . And how . . . ?

The dogs snarled ferociously, a close-packed, snow-covered, almost invisible shape crouched on her cloak and would allow none to approach them as they guarded her, and what was
hers.

‘Call them off, for God’s sake,’ the man shouted above the howling of the demented wind.

‘Nay.’ Walter’s voice could scarcely be heard. ‘They’ll not shift fer anyone only ’er.’

‘Then bloody well shoot them.’

‘I’ve no gun, sir.’ What did he want with a gun on a night like this?

They watched, the circle of tired men as the big man strode fearlessly through the drifting snow towards the group of savage animals and when they parted for him one or two attempting to lick
his hand as though they knew him, the men surged forward to watch in amazement and a legend was born that night.

‘She’ll be down there. Get ropes.’ He wasted no words.

‘’Ow does tha know, sir?’ Walter shouted, his face gaunt in the light from the flickering lamp.

‘That’s her cloak, isn’t it? And those are her dogs guarding it.’

She felt his arms go round her and though her shoulder shrieked in agony she gave a great contented sigh of relief as she moved thankfully into their shelter at last. Where had he been for so
long, she wanted to ask him but when she looked up into his dear face she merely smiled for she knew he had come as quickly as he could.