The Bobbin Girls (43 page)

‘Every month, I promise. And you could always come on a visit?’ she suggested, to no response whatsoever.

She’d also made sure that Aunt Elsie would be well looked after. Mrs Rigg had found a large, jolly woman, a Mrs Hutton, only too willing to come daily to clean the house, prepare Miss Myers’s meals and tend to her needs. There’d been so much to do, so many arrangements to make, that the days since Harry’s return seemed to have flown by.

She meant to arrive early at Birkwith Row, because she wanted to hear all about Lizzie’s recent visit to Alena. It seemed like a miracle that they had finally both found happiness. But then, they certainly deserved it after all the years of patient waiting.

This morning, the last in her aunt’s house, Sandra felt too excited to eat breakfast, but took a tray up to Aunt Elsie and then prepared a packet of sandwiches for the journey. When she had made them she went about the old house, saying her goodbyes, checking windows and doors were locked, that every room was neat and tidy with not a cushion or a book out of place, just as her aunt liked it.

She removed the old newspapers from the rack, took them to the pantry, then wasted several minutes folding already neatly stacked brown paper carrier bags. She checked the plate of sliced tongue and pickle that she’d set ready in the meat safe for Aunt Elsie’s luncheon, and finally forced herself to eat a slice of toast and drink a cup of tea, in the hope it would calm her churning stomach. She still couldn’t quite believe her luck that, out of all the girls in the village, Harry should choose her. Her one concern now was to make him a good wife.

By the time the clock struck seven-thirty, her strapped brown suitcase and a small carpet bag stood waiting in the hall. She slipped the sandwiches into the pocket of the latter then went back into the kitchen to make a thermos flask of tea. They would arrive in Liverpool around noon and Harry had arranged digs for them. In separate rooms, he said, all right and proper until he could arranged a hasty wedding for them at the local register office. Sandra had apologised to Lizzie for depriving her of the pleasure of attending.

‘Don’t you worry about that,’ she’d said, kissing them both. ‘I don’t hold with a lot of fuss over weddings. Can’t afford it anyroad. The important thing is that the pair of you are happy.’

Sandra didn’t care how hasty the wedding was. It was all wonderfully romantic and she felt sure she’d burst with the excitement of it all. There was so much happening, so much to be done. A passport to be ordered, forms to fill in, things to buy. ‘Oh!’ She suddenly remembered that Harry had instructed her to bring her birth certificate.

She ran back to the parlour and started searching in her aunt’s bureau. She found a bundle of papers in an old tin box, dropping several all over the floor in her haste as she riffled through them Quickly she gathered them up, leaving them in an untidy pile on the open bureau while she searched the box more thoroughly, frantically unfolding each likely document, then having to fold it up quickly again and go on to the next. Why hadn’t she thought of the certificate before? Now she would be late. One paper turned out to be her father’s will. Barely glancing at it, she tossed it aside.

And then she found what she was looking for. Stuffing it in her coat pocket with a sigh of relief, she’d barely set about restoring order when she heard a loud thud. It seemed to go on forever, and then came the scream.

She flew into the hall to find her aunt’s breakfast tray on the top step, but Aunt Elsie herself at the bottom of the stairs, one leg twisted very badly beneath the other.

Surviving on little but love in the woods was proving to be the happiest time for Alena. She was full of enthusiasm for her new life. She’d been delighted to see Lizzie and grateful for the extra rations she’d brought, but was careful to explain that Rob was a good provider. He caught game and the occasional rabbit, and although strictly speaking she supposed it must be poaching, they had to eat, didn’t they? Who would begrudge them the odd pheasant, or trout from the beck, or even notice they were missing? They were learning of many wild plants they could eat, and of course there were mushrooms and wild raspberries, and they’d even found a few early blackberries.

She was thrilled to hear the news about Harry, and begged Lizzie to call again and bring paper and pen next time, so she could write and congratulate him. She’d write to Sandra too.

The only difficult part of her mother’s visit was seeing Lizzie’s reaction to their hut. They might well be proud of it, but, with her shining brasses and a kitchen floor you could eat your dinner off, it seemed a poor sort of place to Lizzie for her precious daughter to be living. It had been necessary to calm some of her fears, convincing her that they were not only happy here in the forest, but would do well in it, given time.

‘Once we’ve got a bit of money put by, and we’ve still a little left from Rob’s savings, then we’ll rent a proper cottage where we’ll live at weekends and in the winter. This is only temporary.’

Their presence on this old pitstead was, in fact, welcomed by the land owner, since it meant the forest would be cleared of dead wood, overgrown trees would be pruned and, through coppicing, the vigour of the woodland would be renewed. Rob had no difficulty in securing satisfactory terms to work this section of the forest and once they’d made their home as comfortable as they could, and Lizzie had replenished their larder, he went again to see Isaac to seek his advice on how best to set himself up in business. The old man took him under his wing without a second’s hesitation.

‘I’m more than ready to pass on my skills to you. I’ll teach you all I know, and more besides,’ he declared, as if that were the easiest task in the world.

Rob humbly thanked him.

‘You’re right to think of charcoal as well as coppicing. It is a noble craft, my boy, dating back to Iron Age Man when he used to shape his weapons in the glowing embers of the burn. There aren’t so many of us about any more, but there’s still business to be got. I sell a great deal to industry for fuel, and to seedsmen to mix with bulb fibre and the like. With all this talk of war, even the government is buying charcoal again, though perhaps not for gunpowder these days. Apparently it’s useful in the production of gas-masks, would you believe?’ Isaac gave a resigned shake of his head, making the long feather on his hat quiver. ‘That is a worthy occupation for man and womankind, wouldn’t you say? Salvation.’

Rob agreed, interested to hear of these new business opportunities. ‘When I’ve learned all I need to know, you’ve no objection then to my starting my own burn, on the pitstead near our hut?’

‘Indeed not, my boy. I’m getting on, though I could not, in all accuracy, tell you quite how old I am. Do not become too attached to your little hut. You’ll have to move on, in time.’

‘We don’t mind.’ But although he sounded certain, Rob worried about this. Would Alena mind keep moving about the forest? Alternatively, would she be too lonely if he had to leave her for days on end while he worked with Isaac to learn his trade? Most of all he worried about the cold. He was under no illusions. Charcoal burning was an arduous occupation, and one that must be carried out, because of the felling, mainly through the winter. How would they survive then?

Alena told him, of course, that she didn’t mind at all; that it would all be worthwhile, in the end.

‘I’ve already started work on my besoms, might even try my hand at making a pole lathe if Isaac will show me how to get started. I could fashion us some bowls and kitchen tools from sycamore to use for ourselves or even to sell, using the skills I learned in the bobbin mill.’

She kissed him to seal the bargain, and he couldn’t help but be comforted, for didn’t the happiness shine from her eyes and make her lovelier than ever? He gathered her in his arms and swung her round in a paroxysm of joy and optimism, hardly able to believe that at last they were together.

‘And we mustn’t forget to plant a crab apple tree.’
 

‘Why?
^’

‘How should I know? It’s part of the mystery and magic of charcoal-making, according to Isaac, so let’s not take any chances.’ Laughing, they fell on to the bed together, kissing and touching and pulling off each other’s clothes as if nothing else mattered, for surely it didn’t, so long as they had each other.

If they were apart sometimes during the day, for a little while at least, there would still be the nights when they could be alone in the solitary silence of the forest, and he could stroke her silky skin, find delightful new places to kiss, and bring them both time and again to a height of emotion they could never have dreamed possible. Even now as they snuggled down in their hand-made bed, their naked bodies warmly entwined, he could hear a deer snuffling in the undergrowth and the tap-tap of an industrious green woodpecker. What possible harm could come to her in this beautiful place?

If Sandra had felt restricted before, now she felt trapped. She’d called the doctor right away, running to Mrs Rigg’s shop in order to use her phone. Then she’d had to race home again, afraid to abandon Aunt Elsie for more than five minutes where she’d left her, propped against cushions at the foot of the stairs. Sandra raced in through the front door and almost ended up with her own leg broken as she fell over a stool lying in her way, so anxious was she to reach her aunt before she succumbed to the oft-threatened heart attack.

There hadn’t been too long to wait before the doctor arrived. After a brief examination he declared there were, in fact, no broken bones, only a severe sprain. He gave Miss Myers a stern lecture on how she shouldn’t gallop downstairs at her time of life, prescribed a painkiller and ordered her to rest her ankle for a week before putting any weight on it.

Only when the old lady had been comfortably and safely installed back in her own bed did he give a thought to Sandra. In the front vestibule he paused for a fraction of a second, his mind already on his next call.

‘You can manage to look after her, I take it. No need for a nurse?’

‘No,’ Sandra agreed. ‘No need at all.’ And for some reason she could never afterwards fathom, kept smiling as she showed him out. By then it was too late to do anything else, wasn’t it? The train would have gone, and Harry with it.

Sandra had underestimated him. The doctor had been gone barely ten minutes before Harry was there at her door, his bag beside him, anxiously demanding to know what had kept her, telling her he knew he’d missed his train but couldn’t bear to leave without her. Falling into his arms, she poured out the whole sorry tale. But it was no more than a respite, they both knew that.

‘I can’t leave her. Not like this. I’ll have to speak with Mrs Hutton. See if she can arrange to move in for a while.’

‘I’ll not go without you,’ Harry stubbornly insisted, holding her fast in his big, brawny arms. Tears stood proud in her eyes as Sandra lovingly stroked his face with her hand.

‘You go and start getting things organised in Liverpool. I’ll sort out everything here and join you later.’

‘Promise?’

A tear splashed on to his hand but Sandra managed a smile, praying for control. ‘I promise.’

When he had gone she closed the front door with a quiet click and the sound reverberated throughout the silent house.

The day was filled with endless hours of running up and down the steep staircase. Kettles had to be boiled and hot water brought for a ‘good wash’, coffee and biscuits at eleven, poached buttered haddock for lunch, tea and toast with Gentleman’s Relish at four, which had to be made afresh three times because the first was too well done, and the second too cold by the time Sandra had brought it, for all she almost ran up the stairs. Clean nightdresses had to be aired and warmed, the creases ironed out and then aired and warmed all over again. Hot water bottles made, and camphorated oil rubbed on Aunt Elsie’s chest, since the shock had brought on her cough.

Nothing Sandra did was quite good enough, and throughout it all was the constant harping on about how it had been her fault; how if she hadn’t chosen to run away, none of this would have happened.

‘But I wasn’t "running away", as you call it. I was simply leaving home to get married. Girls do that all the time.’

But she knew her arguments fell on deaf ears.

It was only when she finally fell into bed each night with a deep sigh of relief that Sandra had time to think of her own situation. She thought about Harry, of how he would even now be alone in the Liverpool boarding house where they should have been together. She could think of little else as the tears flowed, dampening her pillow and making her heart ache with the pity of it all.

For a whole week Sandra endured the sharp edge of her aunt’s tongue. Despair and guilt were well set in and she had given up all hope of ever managing to join Harry.

Lizzie called regularly on her way home from the mill to sympathise and fuss over Sandra, bringing tit-bits to make sure she was eating properly, and insisting she should not be a martyr.

‘Stand up for yourself, lass. She’s only using you.’

Miserably, Sandra could only agree even as she shook her head. ‘Except that she really is ill this time. She had a temperature this morning and was quite feverish. It’s all my fault.’

Lizzie, who wouldn’t have put it past the woman to overheat herself with all those blankets and hot water bottles she insisted upon, was unimpressed. ‘She’ll mend.’