The Bobbin Girls (35 page)

Deep down she knew she still loved Rob. Her longing for him was like a sickness, but there was also a burning anger that he’d abandoned her, apparently for good this time. How different life would have been if only James Hollinthwaite hadn’t told that shocking lie. She hated him for it. She wished she could hate Rob too, as if he were to blame for her unhappiness. So many secrets and lies.

Where was Rob this Christmas? Had he spent it with Olivia, or all alone in his lodgings? Would he one day regret his decision to believe James and not her? Or perhaps find himself another girl to marry? A King would willingly give up a crown for the woman he loved, yet Rob Hollinthwaite couldn’t give up his belief in his father, even when that father lied. No doubt because he’d never loved Alena quite as much as she loved him.

The sudden bleakness of this thought kept her awake so long into the night that she felt sick and exhausted the next morning. But in the bright light of day, with her mother laughingly scraping the brace of pheasant they’d enjoyed on Christmas Day for any meat fragments she could put into the Boxing Day soup, and her brothers their usual boisterous selves, with even Harry in a jolly mood, for once, Alena felt as near to contentment as she ever had since Rob had gone.

Sandra was coming round later, and there’d be Dolly and Tom who seemed much more relaxed, almost reconciled, also Jim and Ruby with their brood, and still a whole day of rest and fun to enjoy. They’d no doubt go sledging, pound each other with snowballs, then eat Lizzie’s delicious soup followed by her famous mince pies. Play silly games like Blind Man’s Bluff and Snap, giggling as much as the children and finishing off with a lusty rendition of carols. Oh, yes, she was lucky. It made Alena feel guilty to realise just how fortunate she was. She had a loving, happy family about her, and now Mickey as well. She really shouldn’t be so selfish as to deny Rob the same. Their friendship was over. A fact of life she really must come to accept.

During the cold weeks of January, Sandra seemed to be taking over her aunt’s house as much as the campaign was taking over her life. She still worked at Mrs Rigg’s shop, still took care of Aunt Elsie’s constant needs, but once these essential chores were done, she devoted herself entirely to the campaign. The harder she worked, the less time she had to think.

Papers lay everywhere. Several people had replied, sending their best wishes and support, or making helpful suggestions. A few even sent money, which was greatly appreciated, for the much-depleted funds. She borrowed material on the subject of afforestation from the CPRE, and from the Friends of the Lake District, and spent hours reading and studying it, trying to understand the long-term implications. The latter organisation had been particularly helpful and had themselves taken up the case by writing to Hollinthwaite and to the Westmorland Gazette on the matter

At one point she followed up their suggestion to ask him if he would be willing to take on the services of a landscape architect to plan how the new softwoods could best be blended in without spoiling the appearance of the present woodlands. Hollinthwaite refused. She wrote again, since he refused to meet her in person, asking if he would at least consider mixed woodland, or staggering the boundaries of the plantations he meant to put on his open land so they were not square blocks.

He did not reply.

Sandra understood the reason he did not agree to any of these things: because they would detract from his profits by making the timber more expensive to harvest. Sometimes she became tired and frustrated, wondering if her efforts were getting her anywhere at all, and then one day she heard that a group of contractors had moved in and the first few acres of hardwoods were in the process of being felled.

All the villagers rushed to watch, even abandoning their lathes at the bobbin mill to stand in horror as beautiful beech and ash trees fell, for no other reason than the pursuit of cash and the need to create space for what Hollinthwaite considered to be more commercial timber. The fact the destruction was taking place on his own land seemed little consolation as they considered how much of the village and its surrounding area he actually owned. The felling proved that he was entirely serious about his plan.

Pandemonium broke out. Men and women, usually mild-mannered, quiet country folk, shouted and railed at the contractors. Several scuffles broke out, people crowded into the woodlands so that no more trees could be felled without endangering lives. One man’s legs were trapped by falling branches but suffered only a sprained ankle. He’d been lucky, a more solid part of the tree and he might have been less fortunate.

The result of this near disaster was that at last people began to sit up and take notice. Sandra finally won herself an interview with a young and enthusiastic reporter who was eager to take the story back to his editor. He wrote down all her carefully thought out arguments, and described how the women of the village had devised a shift system for watching over the woodland, since their menfolk must go back to work, to ensure that the felling could not recommence. The piece was published in the local paper together with a huge photograph of Sandra, standing with her arms wrapped about the massive trunk of an ancient oak.

Within days of this appearing she was inundated with offers of help, requests for more interviews, had become something of a celebrity. She even began to be invited to give talks at various village halls and organisations far and wide in the Lake District. Sandra forgot to be nervous, since she was so concerned to spread the word. Her days had never been so full and she blossomed beneath the spotlight of attention, enjoying herself as the campaign gradually gathered steam.

Her finest moment came when the local authority demanded that Hollinthwaite fell no more trees until the matter had been fully investigated. It may well be his own land, they said, but the trees were another matter. Besides, they couldn’t allow the lives of village folk to be put at risk or the countryside ruined simply for the sake of his profits. He must present his case properly, then they would look into the matter and report back to him in the fullness of time.

James, as might be expected, was furious, but not even his influential friend, George Tyson could alter the decision. James had no control over Sandra’s activities these days, since she was no longer in his employ, but he often wondered why he didn’t sack Alena. Ever a thorn in his side, he blamed her for the campaign as much as the Myers girl. But there was something about her confident demeanour, her complete fearlessness when she faced him, that undermined his determination to act against her, and brought out in him only a grudging admiration for her courage.

Sandra couldn’t help but think how, if it weren’t for James Hollinthwaite’s vindictiveness, she and Harry would have been married on her twenty-first birthday. Seeing him at Christmas had brought it all back and, despite her efforts and the success of her campaign, of which she was justly proud, the image of the man she loved was always at the back of her mind. She coped with it by sitting up late, writing letters till her hand hurt, rather than face the prospect of another sleepless night dreaming of him.

Aunt Elsie kept reminding her how fortunate she was to have escaped the restrictions of marriage, and how agreeable it was that the foolish young man was no longer around to interfere in their lives, which was no help at all.

Sandra watched Alena make a slow start on preparations for her own wedding. At first she was envious and then, taking more careful note of the expression on her friend’s face in unguarded moments, whenever she thought herself unobserved, she realised that for all Alena’s brightness, things were not right, not right at all.

It didn’t take a genius to work out that she still loved Rob. And If James Hollinthwaite really had been lying, then these last few months of Alena’s freedom were Rob’s final opportunity to discover the truth and put things right between them.

Perhaps her own suffering made Sandra sensitive to that of her friend, or maybe her constant tiredness from looking after Aunt Elsie affected her capacity to reason. Or perhaps it was simply the fact that writing letters had become so much a part of her routine that she did it without undue thought. But whatever the reason one night she dashed off a letter to Rob, care of the Forestry Commission HQ at Grizedale, telling him of Alena’s plans to marry Mickey. She mentioned how quiet and depressed her friend was, not at all her usual lively self, and how as yet she hadn’t even bought the material for her bridal gown

Sandra posted the letter the next day, along with the rest of her mail, and crossed her fingers for luck. Perhaps Rob did still care and would be prepared to reconsider the stories James had told, or perhaps he’d already found somebody else and grown out of his fancy for Alena. Either way Sandra had done her best. Now it was up to him.

Rob had little time for romance since his days in the forests were long and hard. But though he might not always agree with the current policy of his employers, he was nevertheless reasonably happy in his work. If he ever thought of home, he tried not to do so with regret. Alena was a distant and bitter-sweet memory.

He continued to receive regular letters from his mother. Occasionally they would meet and have tea together in a smart hotel in Keswick. They would sit beside the potted palms and listen to a trio saw away at violin, cello and viola, while they ate buttered crumpets and exchanged news.

To his great surprise Olivia finally confessed to taking Frank Roscoe as her lover, and said she had been living with him happily for some time. The news had shaken him at first, but then he’d looked into his mother’s beautiful face, seen how her eyes were bright with happiness, and realised that she still needed love as much as a younger woman might.

‘Frank is tender and kind, as well as a fascinating man. He’s never afraid to show how much he adores me. Whereas James will only have realised how he felt about me now that I’m no longer there.’ She gave a rueful smile and Rob gained the distinct impression that his father must have shown very little love to his wife over the years, perhaps because of some foolish sense of his own inferiority.

Olivia had cut her hair to a swinging bob, taken to wearing long woolly cardigans and sensible brogues, and sported a cigarette holder. Her long, slender hands now looked workworn, with signs of soil still lurking beneath the fingernails. She seemed a different woman, one free to express her own personality. It would no more have occurred to this woman to hold a dinner party for influential guests than it would to Frank Roscoe to buy a Bentley and employ a chauffeur. They lived very simply but were undoubtedly happy, and Rob was pleased for her.

No mention was made of his request for investigation into his father’s revelation, and he couldn’t quite bring himself to ask her again, fearing that to do so would only reawaken a dormant pain. He doubted she’d discovered anything of interest. He noticed that Olivia was careful not even to speak Alena’s name. Neither did he. Instead, they spent an agreeable hour together discussing inconsequential things, with no knowledge of James’s latest controversial project. Finding a newspaper let alone the time to read one, was not a priority for either of them these days.

On the day James was defending his trees from a mob of villagers, Rob too was involved in felling. This group of conifers had been planted in the eighteenth century, perhaps one of the plantations that had given rise to Wordsworth’s remark that a larch wood was like ‘a sort of abominable vegetable manufactory’. Rob tended to agree with this sentiment for all it brought him work, and the situation had not been improved by the Victorian landowners adding acres of Sitka spruce and Douglas fir to their own estates.

But for now his only concern was to choose which tree must come down next. They always cut from the centre of a group so as not to waste any, and deciding where safely to put a tree down was a chief priority. A very tall tree would be allowed to fall against another, so that it slid slowly down without breaking, for it was worthless if the trunk broke.

Rob back-cut the tree below the throat. This way it fell part-way at an angle before the back finally gave, thus slowing its fall. When it was safely down, he wiped the sweat from his brow and carefully set aside his axe to take a short break while he considered the next. It was then he heard the familiar voice behind him.

‘Not quite the whipper-snapper you once were, but I can see you’ve remembered my lessons on how to use an axe.’

He turned to find Frank Roscoe grinning at him, Bracken the dog by his side as usual.

Rob grinned. ‘I keep it sharp enough to cut the hairs off the back of my hand. And never lend it.’

`Good lad.’ Laughing, Frank slapped him on the shoulder. They greeted each other as the old friends they undoubtedly were, Bracken leaping excitedly between the two of them, tongue lolling, barks echoing through the forest, wanting to join in the celebration. But it was not until work was finished for the day that they were able to walk from the forest to the local inn. Here Rob ordered tatie pot and set up a pint of ale for each of them, not forgetting a bowl of water for his old canine friend.

As they ate and drank by a roaring log fire, the smell of damp wool, muddy boots and dogs strong in the overwarm room, they settled to a long and comfortable chat. Frank talked about Olivia, anxiously reassuring the young man that he would take very special care of her.

‘I’m sure you will,’ Rob replied, and the two of them smiled, content with the way things had turned out. Rob noticed Frank made no mention of Alena, any more than Olivia had. It was as if she had ceased to exist.