The Bobbin Girls (32 page)

He’d spoken with such a firm conviction, as if that should be enough for anyone, that Sandra loved him in that moment, so desperately, so completely that if he’d asked her to she’d have gone and lived with him without the blessing of matrimony, let alone the permission of her straight-laced aunt.

Yet what was the use of such dreams? Aunt Elsie got to her feet and stood regally upon her hearth rug, spine rigid. She informed Harry that although by the end of November, when Sandra reached her majority, she could by rights marry whom she wished, such action was not to be recommended.

‘I sincerely hope, Mr Townsen that as a skilled man you soon find alternative employment. Until that happy day I shall advise my poor dear niece to wait. I am sure the last thing you would want is for her to suffer even more than she has already?’

Harry began to offer assurances that no, indeed he would not, and how he was certain he would find work soon, had in fact set many enquiries in motion. Sandra, anxious to win over her aunt, her mind on her lovely peach satin frock and the hope of lying at last in Harry’s strong arms, went to stand before her. Recklessly she clutched at a hand that was dry as paper.

‘We hoped, at least
I
hoped, that we could still marry next month, as arranged, and that Harry could come and live here with us. We’ve plenty of room, after all, and he can earn his keep by doing odd jobs about the village until something more substantial turns up. There are a few jobs he could do in this house for a start. The porch has been leaking for months. And with my job at the shop, we’d get by,’ she finished rather breathlessly, her heart sinking to new depths as she saw the thunder clouds gather upon her aunt’s thin face.

‘My dear child, what can you be thinking of? I can’t have a
man
living in my house! Let alone one without employment. And I’m certainly not prepared to find him odd jobs to compensate for his being sacked. He must live off somebody else, not me.’

Harry was on his feet, face beetroot red. ‘I’ve never asked for charity in my life, Miss Myers, and I’m certainly not asking for it now. Sandra had no right to ask such a thing. If I’d known ... I’d rather we never married at all, than for me to live off her earnings.’ Stiff with pride, he walked away. The door banged behind him so hard it flew open again and a flurry of dried leaves gusted in and scattered across the floor.

‘There, didn’t I tell you he was using you?’ Aunt Elsie said, and Sandra ran to her room to curl up on her bed and wish she’d kept her mouth shut.

Coils of smoky mist laced the trees as Dolly ran through the woods. Each silver skein, breaking and re-forming about the fragile stems of alder and birch, created a picture as delicate and colourless as a sepia print. The moon seemed to hang from a tree like a pale lantern when, her stomach knotted with excitement, she hurried through a green tunnel of overhanging branches, feet slipping on the carpet of mossy grass in her haste, knowing he would be waiting and that tonight, at last, it might happen.

Marriage? You could keep it. No, far more exciting was this secret life she lived. A life of which no one but herself, and the other person involved, was aware. What did you call it? A tryst? A rendezvous? Even the strange words excited her.

She crept through a gap in the hedge, droplets of the soft Lakeland rain that had fallen earlier dampening her hair. But she paid it no heed, edging her way along, not wishing to walk out in the open in case someone should see her. This was only her third visit to Ellersgarth Hall. On the first, the night of the deputation, she’d dressed James’s wounds and listened sympathetically to his sad tale of a runaway wife and an ungrateful son. Dolly let it be known, by hint and innuendo, that she wouldn’t be averse to offering him a little comfort.

‘A lonely life has to be filled in some way, hasn’t it?’ she’d remarked, seeing the glimmer of interest when he’d thanked her, feeling the way his hand had lingered upon her shoulder as he’d shown her to the door.

The second time she’d called at the Hall with a home-made fruit cake she’d slaved over for hours, since baking wasn’t exactly her strong point but was the only excuse she could come up with to see him again. James had invited her in and offered her sherry in the parlour. He could have told her that Mrs Milburn was an excellent cook and made a superb fruit loaf. Instead the messages they’d sent each other over the rims of their crystal glasses had set Dolly’s heart thudding with the danger of it all.

She didn’t think of Tom. So far as she was concerned, any way she could hit back at her husband for his neglect was surely fully justified.

Today, James had actually asked her to call, waylaying her on her way out of the mill. He rarely came anywhere near the mill-yard or his workers, so she was flattered. She’d put on a pretty rose-print frock with a deep vee neckline and now hurried along under cover of the hedge on soft feet. Perhaps he would offer her champagne before he made passionate love to her? Although she felt nervous, unsure even, she also felt rebellious. This was a man of experience, of wealth and power, and he wanted her. That would show Tom Townsen!

The sudden grip on her arm caught her off balance and Dolly found herself jerked to the ground before she’d realised what was happening. Winded by her fall, she felt the sharpness of stones like blades of steel against her back bone.

‘What the... ?’

‘I might ask you the same question. What exactly are you up to, Dolly? What the hell do you think you’re doing, creeping about James Hollinthwaite’s place? Or do I need I ask?’

Her lip curled with contempt, even as she struggled to free herself. She could have lied, told him anything, even that she was gathering wood for the fire and he’d be fool enough to believe her. Instead she said on a note of triumphant defiance, ‘Visiting my lover, what else? At least he’s man enough to do what you’re not.’

‘If that’s what you want, then we’d best not disappoint you.’ She thought he meant to let her go and started to laugh, but found both her wrists held in a cruel grip as if in a steel trap. Tom’s other hand was pulling up her skirt, searching for the button that held up her cami-knickers.

‘God Almighty, what d’you…’ She got no further as she needed all her strength now to fight him, using feet and knees, kicking and scrabbling in the mud and leaves in her efforts to hurt him and free herself. She even used her teeth, feeling the sting of blood run over her tongue as his mouth grated against hers. Dolly could smell the beer he must have drunk, taste it in her mouth, and somewhere deep inside a memory stirred.

He was glaring down at her with the kind of expression that brought a bolt of excitement shooting right through her, shocking her by revealing itself in a groan of pleasure as his fingers discovered the soft core of her. ‘You’re
my
wife. Had you forgotten? Not man enough, you say? We’ll see about that, damn you. If anyone has the right to have you, Dolly, it’s
me
!

Her protests were weak. It was already too late. Her underclothing hung shamelessly upon a nearby holly bush and Tom was thrusting inside her, grunting and sweating and groaning, still holding her arms pinned to the ground above her head. She did not resist him. For all her seeming helplessness, Dolly was arching her back and moving with him, her body instinctively responding to the rhythm of his, greedy to capture the full force of his manhood. Then it was over in a cataclysm of emotion and he rolled off her, adjusted his clothing and walked away, not even turning back when she called his name, nor paying any heed to the sound of her sobbing.

Chapter Seventeen

Dolly lay staring up at the leaf patterns playing in the shafts of moonlight upon the dark ceiling, her eyes hot and dry.

She was frantic with worry. Tonight she’d hurried home at the end of her early shift and prepared a tasty mutton hot-pot for supper, put on the rose-print frock, dabbed a bit of ivory powder on her face and outlined her full lips enticingly with a matching pink lipstick. Maggie was out, staying overnight with Mr Turner at The Stag, which meant they’d have the house to themselves for once. Smiling over her plans, Dolly had fluffed out her hair and settled to wait for her husband to come home and be bowled over afresh by her charms.

Now it was past ten and he still hadn’t appeared. Where on earth could he be? He’d been behaving more oddly than usual this last week or two, ever since he’d taken her so roughly in the woods. Perhaps he was ashamed of treating his wife in such a way? But to Dolly, that moment had been a revelation.

‘I don’t blame you,’ she’d told him, when she’d finally followed him home that night and, just as if nothing untoward had occurred, climbed into the big bed beside him in her mother’s front room. They’d lain side by side, like a pair of logs, all silent and stiff. ‘Did you enjoy it?’ she’d softly asked. ‘Reminded me how we used to be so good together. Do you remember?’

He hadn’t replied. Whether he had indeed been recalling their early days, or simply going to sleep, she never knew.

Dolly had realised how much she loved him, and could only hope his taking her like that meant he still had some feelings for her. She’d worried over how to convince him she was sorry, that she would behave better in future. Dolly vowed to talk to him, to explain properly how she felt, how much she really cared for him. But the following morning and every day since then, the subject had never been mentioned. Even now, weeks later, he still refused to discuss their problems, for all she was trying so hard to be a good wife to him.

Dolly hadn’t been near the pub for weeks. She sat at home each and every night, determined to show that she had changed. Tom still went out as much as ever but she didn’t complain, not once. She just kept on hoping he’d notice. The effort was almost killing her, but she’d decided to save her marriage, no matter what the sacrifice involved.

Sandra sat on the dry stone wall staring into the swirling waters of the beck as she struggled to understand what Harry was telling her.

‘So, taking everything into account, I reckon it would be best if we didn’t see each other for a while.’

‘Not see each other?’ Sandra was staring up at him, her face a picture of disbelief. ‘Why? What are you trying to say, Harry?’

He shifted uneasily. ‘I think you can guess.’

‘No, tell me. Look at me.’ She grasped his arms and gave him a little shake. His usually bright, laughing face looked all tight and cold and angry. But he would not look at her. He kept his gaze fixed somewhere over her left shoulder.

‘It’s because of my eye, isn’t it? Because I’m half blind.’

‘No, don’t ever think that.’ He did look at her then yet still not quite seeing her. There was a vagueness to his gaze, as if it were fixed on some far distant place. Only the anger in his voice, harsh and grating, revealed his pain. ‘Your aunt’s right. There’s naught I can offer you. I’ve no job, no house of us own to live in, a few quid in the Post Office and that’s about it. You deserve better, Sandra. More than I’ve got to give.’

‘You give me your love. I don’t need anything else.’ There were tears in her voice, on her cheeks, splashing on to his hands where they hung between his knees, but she could not stop them.

He took her hands gently between his own and set them on her lap, folding them together as if setting her free. ‘Let’s just leave it for now. Consider the engagement at an end, Sandra love, at least until I… Happen I’ll find work next week, tomorrow mebbe, but I can’t just sit here and starve, and pull you down with me.’

‘We could go somewhere else. Start again. Together.’

‘Where could we go? I’ll not risk uprooting you till I’ve summat decent to offer you. Work’ll be hard to find, I’m not fooling myself over that. Everywhere’s as bad these days.’ There was an edge of bitterness to his anger now. ‘Haven’t you heard of the hunger march from Jarrow, the soup kitchens opening the length and breadth of the land? The three million unemployed?’

‘What about the Public Assistance Committee?’ she asked helplessly, knowing his pride wouldn’t allow him to take help from anyone.

‘They won’t do aught to help, since I was sacked. It’s up to me.’

‘But I’ll wait for you, Harry. I don’t mind.’

‘I’ll not hold you to it. If you should meet somebody else...’

‘I don’t want anybody else.’ She felt frantic with anxiety, wanting to cling to him but not daring even to touch him as he seemed so different, so remote and formal. Already he was getting to his feet, had moved a foot away from her. It felt like a mile. He thrust his hands deep into his pockets and then, on a note of bravado, lifted his chin and walked away. She thought the sound of his boots echoing on the stones of the packhorse bridge would stay with her forever.

Alena held Sandra close and let her sob out her pain and misery unchecked. Miss Myers was ‘having a lie down to ease a troublesome headache’, and the two girls were free to sit before a fire of half a dozen small coals that gave off little, if any, heat in the cold parlour. But it was painful to witness her friend’s anguish. Hadn’t she suffered enough? She’d given her love so joyously and unselfishly to Harry, patiently waiting for her twenty-first birthday and her dreams to be realised, Now she felt let down, cheated, overwhelmed by despair.

When the storm of tears subsided, or there were none left to shed, Alena went into the neat little kitchen, turned on the gas and set the kettle over the flame, feeling a righteous burst of anger towards her brother for all loyalty made her able to understand his point of view. Aunt Elsie, though a difficult and selfish old woman, did have a point. Harry could not, in his present circumstances, afford to keep a wife.