Lottie’s eyes widened and she drew in a deep, shuddering breath. This extraordinary looking girl with the almost saucerlike eyes and fiercely ginger hair was describing exactly how she felt. And they were cousins. First cousins. And nearly the same age.
“Grandpa would have found your hair … odd,” she said, speaking with an artless truthfulness that had William flushing with embarrassment and Noel reflecting that his youngest cousin and youngest sister had an awful lot in common, “but I think he would have liked you. He never talked about you, though. He never even talked about your mother.”
This was something Rose had long ago accepted. It didn’t mean, though, that he hadn’t often thought of them all. It didn’t mean that he hadn’t made himself just as unhappy as he had made them unhappy.
“Our hair is Sugden hair,” she said, intrigued to note that though both William and Harry were dark-haired, Lottie’s mousy hair was so light as to be almost blonde.
A little to the left of her she could hear Noel saying to William in obvious answer to a question, “We’re all at Bradford School of Art. I’m studying for a Fine Art Degree. Nina is studying Fashion Design. Rose is studying Textile Design.”
“Noel’s the art school’s star.” That was Nina, somewhere to the right of them and talking to Harry. “He’s been chosen by the College for a fellowship. There’s a possibility of shows in Leeds and Manchester, maybe even London.”
Unsaid, but implicit, was that though they hadn’t the benefits of the Rimmington name or Rimmington wealth, they were leagues ahead where sheer creative talent was concerned.
William looked across at his youngest cousin, intrigued. Textile design. He wondered if his father knew. If his grandfather had known. One thing was certain, the Sugdens weren’t remotely the clogs-and-shawl Brad-fordians they’d been led to believe they were. Not that it would have mattered to him. He’d far rather mix with plain-speaking, honest working men and women than with the upper-class chinless wonders his grandfather had always been so anxious he should mix with.
At the contemplation of plain-speaking honest men and women his thoughts, so ruthlessly held in check all morning out of respect for the occasion, immediately flew to Sarah and her family. Would things be easier for himself and Sarah now his grandfather was dead or, now that he was the immediate heir to the mill, would they be even more difficult? At least Sarah no longer worked at Rimmingtons. She hadn’t truly seen how important it was for her not to do so, but she’d humoured him and was now one of the vast army of weavers employed at Lister’s. A pulse throbbed at the corner of his jawline. Whatever people might say when their relationship became public knowledge, they couldn’t say he was taking sexual advantage of one of his father’s workers.
The door opened and his father entered the room, his face strained. William wondered if it was because of the difficult experience he had just undergone, or if his father was already feeling the pressure of his new burdens. He wasn’t a man who enjoyed exerting authority and it was almost impossible to imagine him as an all-powerful mill owner.
As he crossed the Turkish-carpeted room Harry and Nina, Rose and Lottie, mindful of where he had come from and the message he was most likely bearing, fell silent.
Lightly he laid his hand on Noel’s shoulder. “Your mother is waiting for you in the Chinese drawing-room,” he said, raw-voiced.
William sensed, rather than saw, Noel’s sudden tension. He felt a shaft of sympathy for him. Neither he nor Harry had much relished saying goodbye to the waxlike corpse that had once been their vigorous, dynamic grandfather, and the experience would be even harder for Noel, for Noel had never known him. The pulse at his jawline continued to throb. It was a hell of a way for anyone to see their grandfather for the first time.
As Noel dutifully and reluctantly accompanied Walter out of the room, the silence was profound. A moment ago, the social ice had been thawing with remarkable speed. Now, reminded of just why
they were all gathered together, it froze even Lottie into mute
awkwardness.
Fifteen minutes later Caleb Rimmington’s coffin was being carried with majestic solemnity out of Crag-Side, his formerly disunited family following unitedly behind it. Lizzie’s black-gloved hand was tucked into the crook of her brother’s arm. William followed them, Lottie protectively close by his side. Harry escorted Nina. Noel and Rose brought up the rear. Behind them came the myriad other mourners who had been invited to leave for the funeral service from the house. Noel wasn’t sure, but he thought one of the distinguished looking gentlemen was the Rimmingtons’ solicitor. Another he recognized as being Jacob Behrens, patriarch of one of Bradford’s most prestigious wool families.
With almost royal respect the servants had lined up in parallel lines in the palatial entrance hall, and the coffin and mourners passed between them. Many of the servants had tears in their eyes and one young woman, a tweenie, was weeping openly. Noel was impressed. Until the last week or so he had never given much thought to his Grandfather Rimmington, and because of the way his mother had been treated by his grandfather, what thoughts he had given him had not been overly favourable. A man genuinely mourned by those who had worked for him in the intimacy of his home could not, however, have been all bad.
Noel thought back to the mesmerizing moment when, his mother by his side, he had looked on his grandfather’s strongly-carved features. Even in death, Caleb Rimmington’s face had been overpoweringly forceful. His first reaction had been that it was a face he would have loved to have painted. His second, that he now understood why the rift between his mother and her father had gone so deep and been so unbridgeable. Caleb Rimmington had not been a man who would take being defied lightly. With something like awe he realized just how courageous his gentle-mannered mother had been when she had so determinedly followed her heart and married his father.
When they alighted from the closed carriages and entered Bradford Cathedral it was to find it packed to the gunnels with mourners. Nina felt as if every eye in the world was on her as she took her place in the second front pew, Noel on one side of her, Harry on the other. Thank goodness money had come from somewhere to provide them all with suitable mourning clothes! She wondered if the ladies present would be wondering where her stylish costume had come from. She knew no one would assume it had been home-made. Nothing that she designed and tailored for herself ever looked home-made.
The congregation rose and the solemn notes of the organ led them into a deep-throated rendering of Rock of Ages. Rose’s troubled eyes rested on the lily-covered casket before the altar. Instead of this stiflingly formal church service she would have much preferred something beautiful and barbaric. A funeral fit for a warrior. A pyre, blazing Vikinglike, high on the moors over Crag-Side.
Beside her Lottie gave a stifled sob, tears trickling down her cheeks.
Instinctively Rose reached out, taking Lottie’s leather-gloved hand in hers.
For a long, long moment Lottie’s fingers were frigidly unresponsive and then, as the congregation launched into the hymn’s last verse, they slid curlingly between Rose’s fingers, squeezing hard.
Chapter Seven
“And so I s’ppose we’ll soon be shut of you?” Micky Porritt said glumly as he, Jenny and Rose sat in their favourite spot on top of the middens and Bonzo sat disconsolately on the stone-flagged ground, barking mournfully every now and again in order to remind them of his existence.
“No. Why should you be shut of me?” Rose plucked at a blade of grass that was growing out of one the cracks in the midden’s roof. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“That’s not what I’eard.” Micky sat with his knees hunched to his threadbare jacketed chest, his arms circling them. “I’eard you’d all be buggering off to Ilkley now to live wi’your swanky uncle.”
Rose frowned, not because of the swear word but because she, too, had heard the same rumour. Ever since the funeral Nina had spoken of little else. “Mother’s bound to change her mind and agree to our
going!” she had said time and time again. “How can she not? How can anyone prefer to live in Beck-Side Street when they could be living at Crag-Side?”
“My Uncle Walter isn’t swanky,” she said, heading the conversation on to ground she felt more sure of. “He just talks nicely, that’s all.”
“’E talks like a swank and’e dresses like a swank and’e drives a swanky motorcar,” Micky said, not about to let her off the hook, “and he should keep to ’is own sort. ’ e shouldn’t come nosying down Beck-Side Street.”
Rose tossed the blade of grass over the midden’s edge in a gesture of impatience.
Jenny, who hated disagreements of any kind, looked from Micky to Rose with troubled eyes. Ever since the afternoon when she and Rose had turned into Beck-Side Street and seen the swanky motorcar parked outside number twenty-six, nothing had been the same. Gossip about the Sugdens had become rife. Even Albert Porritt, Micky’s dad, had put his two-penn’orth in, declaring that he’d known since the day he’d helped them to flit that there was something rum about them.
She said now, tentatively, “Perhaps Rose’s uncle won’t visit so often now that her grandfather’s been … now that the funeral is over.”
Micky cocked his head to one side slightly, eyeing Rose, waiting.
Rose’s wide, full-lipped mouth, tightened. Why was everyone so persistently awkward about her Uncle Walter’s visits? Ever since they had begun, Albert’s attitude towards her had changed and Jenny’s mum no longer called at their house half as often as she had used to do.
“It’s not because she thinks your Mam’s too posh now,” Jenny had reassured her fiercely, “It’s just that she doesn’t want to be there if your uncle makes one of his unexpected visits.”
“But why?” Rose had demanded, mystified. “Why does it matter?”
Jenny hadn’t known. She’d only known that it did matter, and that when she’d first told her mam that Rose’s posh Uncle Walter had visited number twenty-six, her mam had dropped the jar of jam she was carrying and had looked as if she was about to faint dead away.
She sat back on her heels now, waiting for Rose’s reply to Micky, her sense of unease growing.
“My grandfather’s funeral isn’t going to make any difference to my Uncle Walter’s visits,” Rose said, unwittingly feeding her friend’s anxieties. “He’s family, and family visit each other all the time, don’t they?”
“Oh aye, normal families do,” Micky agreed, scooping a loose clod of earth from between the midden’s stone roofing flags and throwing it at the barking Bonzo in an attempt to silence him. “But your family isn’t’xactly normal, is it? You didn’t even know your family till your grandpa died and they’re posh, aren’t they? They’re not normal folks like my family and Jenny’s family and Gertie’s family and every other family in Beck-Side Street. And if they’re posh, then it stands to reason you’re posh, and if you’re posh …”
Rose knew exactly what Micky was going to say. He was going to say that if she were posh then she didn’t fit in to Beck-Side Street. Fighting back tears of exasperation she sprang to her feet. “Don’t say it, Micky Porritt! Don’t ever say it or I’ll never speak to you again! Beck-Side Street’s my home and I’ve as much right to live here as you and Jenny have!”
Jenny, ever the peacemaker, scrambled to her feet, saying urgently, “Micky didn’t mean to upset you, Rose! It’s just that he’s confused. We’ve never had anyone in the street with swank family before and …”
Rose wasn’t listening. She, too, was confused. If even Micky and Jenny were going to start treating her differently now that they knew she was related to the Rimmingtons, how were her other friends and neighbours going to begin treating her? And how were they going to treat Noel and Nina and her mother and father?
She ran to the midden’s edge and laying flat on her tummy on the cold roofing flags, slithered backwards over it until she was hanging on only by her hands. Then, amidst a frenzy of barking from Bonzo, she let go, dropping lithely to the ground. Negotiated in this manner the drop wasn’t very deep, though it always slightly winded her.
“Rose … please … wait for me …” Jenny was running across to where a high wall, dividing one set of backyards from another, abutted the middens, providing an easier and more ladylike method of descent.
With a hurting heart Rose saw that Micky was making no similar attempt to follow her. Tears stung the backs of her eyes. Why was the fact that the Rimmington side of her family had money, making so much difference to everything? She was still the same person. She still wanted to have the same friends. In a convoluted way, it was her Beck-Side Street friends who were being snobbish. Why shouldn’t her Uncle Walter visit number twenty-six if he wanted to? Why shouldn’t William and Harry and Lottie visit it as well?
“Which … ever way you lo … ok at it, lo … ove, it isn’t go … ing to wo … ork,” Laurence said with difficulty. “How can Wa … lter’s child … ren vi … sit here? And if we sta … ay here and they regu … larly visit Crag-Si … de, they’re go … ing to feel out of pla … ce both he … re and the … re.”
Lizzie sat, deep in thought, a sewing-basket full of socks waiting to be darned by her side. How could she move her family to her childhood home when, while her father had been alive, none of them had been welcome there? Somehow, in a way she couldn’t explain, it seemed an underhand thing to do.
There were other things to take into consideration, too. The fact that when she had married Laurence she had done so knowing she was deliberately turning her back on the kind of lifestyle Crag-Side offered. Ever since she had met and fallen in love with Laurence, she had only ever wanted from life what he could offer her. And what he could offer her now was Beck-Side Street with all its sanitary inconvenience and cheering friendliness.
She clasped her hands together in her lap, her resolve growing. If they moved to Crag-Side there would be no big, booming-voiced Gertie Graham calling in every day in order to chat to Laurence. There would be no Albert Porritt calling in to give him a game of draughts or dominoes. No Polly Wilkinson popping in with a cheery word. No Jenny and Micky running in and out, treating the house as if it was their own. On his bad days, Laurence wouldn’t be able to lay in bed and see people passing up and down the street. He wouldn’t be able to wave to them and to feel part-and-parcel of a little community, as he did now – and nor would she.
Her fingers laced together, tightening. If they moved to Crag-Side she would leave friends behind it would be impossible to replace. True friends, like Polly and Gertie. Friends who would willingly help her out no matter what trouble she might face. And she didn’t want to do that. Certainty flooded through her. Despite all the many physical comforts Crag-Side could offer, she didn’t want to live there. She wanted to remain in the little back-to-back she had made their home. She wanted to remain in Beck-Side Street.
“I don’t think Noel and Nina and Rose will feel out of place if they remain living here and yet regularly visit Crag-Side,” she said at last, looking across at him with a heart full of love. “They’re like me. Adaptable.”
Beneath his moustache, grown heavier in order to conceal the slight rictus at the side of his mouth, Laurence gave her a lop-sided smile.
“Ro … se certainly is. I’m no … t sure ab … out No … el and Ni … na though.”
Lizzie frowned slightly. She, too, wasn’t sure how Noel and Nina would take the decision to stay on in Beck-Side Street. She said slowly, “All that matters to Noel is his work, and now he’s been chosen for a fellowship, and has a grant, he’s indifferent to everything else.”
“And Ni … na?” Laurence prompted gently. “All her li … fe she’s drea … med of Cra … g-Si … de and of li … ving the ki … nd of li … festyle Wi … lliam and Ha … rry and Lo … ttie lead. If Wa … alter is ha … ppy for her to li … ve there, shouldn’t we at lea … st ask her if she wo … ould like to?”
“Without us?” Lizzie stared at him. “You mean for her to go and li
ve at Crag-Side while the rest of us stay in Beck-Side Street?”
He fumbled awkwardly in a pocket for his pipe. “She’s a young wo … man, Li … zzie. She isn’t a chi … ild any … more. It’s a dec … ision she sho … uld be all … owed to make for her … self.”
Lizzie looked swiftly away from him, picking up the sock she had been darning, pricking herself clumsily on the thumb with her darning needle as she did so. He was right, of course. She knew he was right. And if it wasn’t Nina moving away from home to live at Crag-Side, it would be Noel leaving home in order to live in Manchester or London. Even Rose was barely a child any more.
“The … re comes a ti … ime when we ha … ve to let th … em all go, lo … ve” Laurence said, reading her thoughts, his pipe remaining unlit in his hand. “And Cr … ag-Side is as go … od a pla … ce as any for Ni … na to ma … ake a sta … rt.”
Lizzie nodded, wryly aware that Laurence, like herself, thought it a foregone conclusion that when given the choice of moving to Crag-Side or remaining at home, Nina would opt for Crag-Side.
“But why only cousin Nina?” Lottie asked bewilderedly as her father settled himself at the breakfast table. “Why aren’t cousin Noel and cousin Rose coming to live at Crag-Side as well?”
“Because they’re intelligent enough to know that living in an ostentatious mausoleum is not the be-all and end-all of existence,” William said, helping himself to kidneys and bacon from a silver dish on the sideboard. “Noel uses the art school as his personal studio and doesn’t want to be further than walking distance from it, and Rose simply prefers to remain living in Beck-Side Street with her parents.”
“But why?” Lottie persisted, struggling for understanding. “The houses in Beck-Side Street are mill cottages, aren’t they? How can anyone prefer living in a mill cottage to living at Crag-Side?”
Yorkshire Rose Page 10