More Tales of the West Riding

by Phyllis Bentley

  One January afternoon, when they were skating together on the frozen Clough mill dam, Kate said lightly to Ben:

  “You’ll come on Thursday, Ben?”

  “Of course.”

  He paused; Kate with unusual sensitivity perceived that there was more to come. She waited.

  “Do something for me, Kitty,” said Ben at last. “Will you?”

  Kate was delighted to be called Kitty, particularly as Ben used this pet-name only in private. But remembering her mother’s warnings, she said, though careful to use a flirtatious note: “Depends what it is.”

  “Ask Edward Randal to your party.”

  “Which is Edward?”

  Ben pointed out a tall slender boy, dark with waving hair, decidedly handsome, who at this moment chanced to shoot past them, skating admirably and smiling at them as he went.

  “He skates well,” she said in a neutral tone.

  “Aye. He is good at rugger too,” said Ben. “And dances fine. He’s a friend of mine. In fact,” he added with an air of taking the plunge, “he’s my best friend. He’s apprenticed at our mill.”

  “Oh, really,” said Kate coolly, not in the least interested in a mere apprentice.

  Ben however proceeded to narrate Edward’s history. His father had died young, leaving his widow and children rather scantily provided for, but with a small fund particularly allocated to pay for his son’s apprenticeship to some great textile firm. The two lads, Ben and Edward, were as different in their souls as in their fortunes. Edward kind, gentle, quiet, but full of mild fun, pleasant-tempered, over-generous, honest and honourable and loving towards every thing and person that lived, as well I should know, seeing that he is my father. Why and how these two different natures clung to each other I do not know. Everyone liked Edward, but why should Edward like Ben? But so it was; they were true friends.

  And so Edward came with Ben to the Milners’ house, and danced. (As Ben said, he was a brilliant dancer.) Lucy, delicious in her well-cut cotton frock, sat at the piano (grand) for most of the evening, dutifully playing dances. For her aunt Ada kept calling out cheerfully to her:

  “You’ll play this one for us, won’t you, love?”

  So what else could she do but sit at the piano, playing? All the same her pretty face took on a tinge of melancholy—or rather cross and sulky—air, for Lucy adored dancing. (“And I danced better than Kate,” she told her daughter later, seriously. “Kate was too heavy.”)

  Embarking on the second set of lancers, sadly because with those various figures to get through a set of lancers was a long job, Lucy found herself actually sniffing with vexation. “If I don’t take care I shall cry,” she told herself angrily, tossing her bright head to shake away the tears.

  This action brought into view the figure of a young man, leaning against the piano and gazing down at her from very kind brown eyes.

  “Aren’t you going to dance at all?” he enquired in a compassionate tone.

  “My aunt likes me to play,” said Lucy, telling the whole story in her tone without a word.

  “But it’s not fair to keep you at it all the time. You’ve hardly danced at all,” said Edward. “Don’t you like dancing?”

  Lucy laughed, and her face cleared. (She was a very pretty girl.)

  “Dance with me next time. I’ll wait here. You stand up as soon as the lancers end, and we’ll move off together. Yes?”

  “Yes,” said Lucy.

  “And,” as Lucy years later often told her daughter, “I always liked him best after that.”

  In a word, at that moment Edward and Lucy fell in love, and remained in love for the rest of their lives.

  At first the double courtship was highly convenient. On many an evening, Ben and Edward presented themselves together at Milne Thorpe House or Number 3 Hill Road, and somehow the two girls always seemed to be about together somewhere. The two couples thus chaperoned each other, to the satisfaction of their respective parents. They skated, walked, danced, attended concerts and the theatre, picnicked, ate high tea at one or the other’s homes, and were happy.

  After leaving the girls at the doors of their respective homes, Ben turned off down to the neighbouring valley where that massive Victorian Gothic mansion Clough Lea, the home of the Cloughs, stood, and a comfortable bed awaited him. Edward, on the contrary, walked briskly up the hill to the Clough mill, had a word with the night watchman, who knew him well, entered the warehouse, and throwing himself down on a handy piece of damaged cloth, slept the night there till the morning buzzer, thrilling the air at five-thirty a.m., woke him to the morning’s work. He was never late for work, as old Mr Clough had duly noted.

  The Hallams smiled, but Joshua did not altogether approve of Edward’s courtship.

  “He’s a very nice lad, Tom,” he said seriously. “A very nice lad is your Edward. Quick in the uptake. Kind, and pleasant. And honest. You might say good. Yes, I grant you that. But he hasn’t a ha’penny of his own, and he’s a mother and two sisters to keep. What he and Lucy are going to live on, I really don’t know.”

  “He knows cloth,” said Hallam.

  “True, true.”

  “And Ben Clough is his friend,” thought Hallam. He did not say this, but he was not the only man in Annotsfield who saw Edward as the manager of Clough Mills, with Ben as overlord, in the days to come.

  Just for a moment, however, Joshua had other views. That night he put them to his wife.

  “How do you say if I put that Edward lad into Milners’ as manager?” he said.

  “Never!”

  “Why not? We’ve no son to carry on, love. He knows cloth. He’s going to marry Lucy you know, my sister’s child. She’s my niece.”

  “That’s why. Don’t you see, Kate would always be jealous of him? In her father’s business! Lucy’s husband? She’d hate it!”

  “Jealous?” pondered Joshua. “Why jealous?”

  “Kate and Lucy are jealous, surely you know.”

  “Nay, I haven’t seen owt. Why should they be jealous?”

  “Well, they are.”

  “Don’t worry, love,” said Joshua sardonically. “Yon Edward’ll be managing Clough’s before you know where you are.”

  “As to that we shall see.”

  “It’s time young Ben said something to me about Kate,” grumbled Joshua, releasing his braces. “If he doesn’t come up to scratch soon I shall give him a hint.”

  “You’ll spoil all if you do.”

  “Well, I’ll roll my eyes at him a bit, choose how,” said Joshua, laughing.

  “You can do that,” said Ada cheerfully.

  Unfortunately, however—and in the event it proved bitterly unfortunate for all concerned—Joshua, who was not a man for fine shades, rolled his eyes so heavily that Edward perceived it. As the two young men walked off together one summer evening to join the main road Edward said:

  “Why was old Milner rolling his eyes at you like that? As if he suspected you of making off with the silver!”

  His tone was puzzled. But Ben laughed.

  “He thinks it’s time I said something to him about Kate, I daresay.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You can’t go dangling after a girl for ever without coming out with honourable intentions, or something of the sort. Otherwise it might compromise her.”

  “Compromise!” exclaimed Edward in horror.

  “Well, spoil her other chances, like.”

  “But it would be the same with Lucy!” cried Edward.

  “Of course. Kate has been hinting a bit to me lately, I’ve thought. Has Lucy said anything?”

  “No! No!”

  “Well, of course you aren’t in a position to marry, yet.”

  “No. But still—what shall you do, Ben?”

  “I’ll talk to grandfather. He’s quite keen about Kate really. Well, good night.”

  Edward was left in agony. Compromise! Spoil other chances! People hinting! His darling Lucy!

  He dashed to th
e nearest wall, climbed its low rough-cast hurriedly, knocking off a stone or two, rushed up two hilly fields of rough grass, and pressed the bell of Number 3 hard and long. Thomas Hallam opened quickly.

  “Something wrong at the mill?” he cried. Then more calmly: “Oh, it’s you, Edward.”

  “May I have a word with you, Mr Hallam?”

  “Of course.”

  “May I have your permission to pay my addresses to Lucy?”

  “Seems to me you’ve been doing that a long time already, my boy.”

  “Yes. Well. May we be engaged?”

  “You were out of your apprenticeship last New Year’s Day, so you’re free to get engaged if you want to.”

  “Yes.”

  “But you’ll have to find a decent income from somewhere before you think of getting married.”

  “I’ll find one!” cried Edward. “I love Lucy, Mr Hallam.”

  “Oddly enough, I believe you.”

  “May we be engaged, Mr Hallam?” implored Edward with emphasis.

  “Well. Yes.”

  “Thank you, thank you!” cried Edward, seizing his future father-in-law’s hands and wringing them so earnestly as to be painful. “May I, could I, see Lucy just for a moment?”

  The sound of a sob made Mr Hallam turn. There, in the doorway of the sitting-room, stood Mrs Hallam and Lucy, both weeping.

  “Here’s Edward come wanting to be engaged to Lucy,” said Hallam drily. “I’ve consented.”

  Edward and Lucy fell into each other’s arms.

  Accordingly next morning Lucy, radiant with happiness, ran down the hill to tell her cousin her joyous news.

  Kate, naturally, was furious. To be outrun at the post, like this, was more than she could bear. She controlled her rage sufficiently to offer suitable congratulations, a suitable kiss. But her face was still white and her eyes burning when in the afternoon Ben, having had a most agreeable interview re income, house, shares and so on with his grandfather, arrived to formalise his suit. Practical as ever, he tackled Joshua in the mill, then came across to the house smiling, entered the room where his love was waiting for him alone (forewarned), took her hand and exclaimed briskly:

  “Marry me, Kate.”

  “You’ve been a bit slow in the uptake, my lad,” Kate told him. This was risky, but she was too angry to care.

  “I am slow in the uptake, love,” admitted Ben. “But when I get there, I’m there. What have I not done now, eh?”

  “There’s that hateful little nincompoop, Lucy Hallam, my cousin, got engaged last night. Got engaged before me.”

  “Well, good for Edward,” said Ben laughing. “Edward’s my best friend, after all.”

  “But it’s so humiliating for me, Ben; it is really.”

  “Not a bit,” said Ben. “It’ll be years before they can get married.”

  “True. And when were you thinking of getting married?”

  “How about September?”

  “Ben, you are always so sensible,” said Kate, smiling.

  They kissed, enjoying it a good deal.

  Discussions of the most delicious kind about the wedding arrangements now went on between Kate and her mother. Joshua intended the wedding of his daughter to be the biggest and finest ever seen in Annotsfield, and if this cost money he was prepared to spend it. Kate and Ada entirely agreed—that is to say, Ada yielded to all Kate’s wishes. On one point, however, Kate was awkward.

  “How many bridesmaids do you think, love?” said Ada. “Two, or four?”

  “Six!”

  “That’s going to be costly for Ben, six presents. But I daresay he won’t mind. Let’s see, there’s his cousin Alice, and our Lucy, and—”

  “I won’t have Lucy.”

  “What?”

  “I will not have Lucy,” shouted Kate with a grimace.

  “But you’ll have to have Lucy, Kate,” objected Ada. “She’s your father’s niece.”

  “I will not have Lucy.”

  “But from being children you’ve always said you’d be each other’s bridesmaids.”

  “I will not have Lucy.”

  “What are you two shouting at each other about?” said Joshua disagreeably, entering.

  “She says she won’t have Lucy as one of her bridesmaids,” said Ada, timid.

  “Yes, you will.”

  “No, father, I won’t. Why should I have my wedding spoilt by Lucy, with her superior airs?”

  “Kate, you must have Lucy. Her mother would never forgive me, otherwise.”

  “Father,” said Kate, stretching her face, crimson with rage, stiffly towards him: “I am your daughter and I like my own way as much as you do. I will not have my wedding spoiled by Lucy.”

  “How could she spoil it?”

  “Just by being there. I’ll be married in a registrar’s office and have no bridesmaids at all, sooner than have Lucy.”

  “And what will Ben say to that?”

  “Ben will do what I wish.”

  “That remains to be seen, my girl. Ben’s a tougher nut than you think.”

  “Ha!” cried Kate, and laughing and tossing her head scornfully, she ran from the room.

  “You’ll have to give in to her, Joshua, or the whole thing might break down.”

  “But what shall I say to Tom?”

  “That’s your look-out. It’s a nuisance, though, for I was hoping Lucy would write out the invitations for us.”

  “Well, she won’t. … Tom,” said Joshua in a diffident and apologetic tone very different from that of his usual orders, next day: “It seems your daughter and mine have quarrelled.”

  “Quarrelled?”

  “Kate doesn’t want to have Lucy as one of her bridesmaids.”

  “What!”

  “I’m as vexed about it as you are, Tom, but there it is. She’s an obstinate piece, is our Kate.”

  “She’s your daughter.”

  “Aye. That’s the way of it.”

  “In view of everything, you won’t expect us to come to the wedding, then,” said Hallam quietly.

  As he was not a Milner, he did not shout or stamp. But his face was pale, his hands quivered; his tone was like ice.

  “But what else could you do, Tom, for heaven’s sake?” queried Joshua uneasy.

  “We shall go to Blackpool for the day,” said Hallam drily.

  This insultingly commonplace solution was received with tears of fury in Number 3. Mrs Hallam wanted to rush down to Milne Thorpe and, as she said, “have it out” with her brother. But her husband forbade this, and when Thomas Hallam put down his quiet foot, it stayed down. On this occasion, his daughter approved his decision.

  “I don’t care a button for Kate’s wedding,” she said cheerfully—lying, of course. “I don’t like the Milners or the Cloughs. It’s sure to be a thoroughly vulgar affair.”

  Unfortunately, however, as with a stone thrown into a pond, there were further ripples.

  “This is a bad do about Lucy, Edward,” said Ben seriously to his friend.

  “It’s a very bad do. Couldn’t you persuade Kate—”

  “No. Marrying Kate takes some doing, I can tell you. She’s very spirited.”

  “Like her father.”

  “Well, yes. Of course when we’re married, it’ll be different.”

  Edward doubted this, but did not say so.

  “Edward, couldn’t you persuade Lucy...”

  “No! It’s an insult to her to suggest it. By the way, Ben,” said Edward sadly: “I don’t know if you’re thinking of me being your best man—”

  “Of course I am.”

  “Well, I can’t do it.”

  “What!”

  “I can’t do it. Lucy would never get over it.” He hesitated and added in a low tone: “I love Lucy, you see.”

  Ben groaned. “This is awful, awful! Perhaps time will heal it all,” he suggested despairingly.

  “I doubt it. Lucy’s a Milner too, you know. And I may as well tell you now, Ben,” went on Edwar
d uncomfortably: “that it’s no use my staying on at Clough Mills. Kate would always have her knife into me—and she’ll be your wife, you know.”

  “But what will you do if you leave us, Edward?”

  “I’ve got a chance to go into partnership with a man up the valley,” said Edward. “Old Jeremiah Sykes. His son’s just died, so he’s anxious to get somebody into the firm. Terms are quite good—considering.”

  “I can’t bear it, Edward.”

  “No, I can’t either. But there it is. When you fall in love, you’re done for.”

  “That is so.”

  “Well—goodbye, Ben.”

  “Goodbye, lad.”

  They shook hands and parted.

  Ten years later, Lucy was walking down one of the main residential roads into Annotsfield, her two young sons at her side, when she encountered, for the first time since their marriages, her cousin Kate.

  It happened in this way. Lucy had been to visit Edward’s mother, old Mrs Randal. She was even now rebuking herself for feeling disappointed to find the old lady in good health, recovered from a slight recent influenza. Mrs Randal is a sweet person, Lucy told herself sternly; Edward inherits much of his kind disposition from his mother; of course I don’t want her to die. (All the same, it would take some of the burden from Edward’s shoulders. No! Perish the thought.) This long highly respectable terrace of middle-class houses was just beginning to be invaded by professional men—a noted surgeon, a fashionable dentist—who enjoyed the solid houses with their long narrow gardens stretching down towards the pavement, terminating in a scrolled ironwork gate and two or three well-built steps.

  Lucy’s elder son, Edward always called Ned, a tall slim dark-eyed boy very like his father in spirit as well as physique, being mild, firm and courteous, walked sedately at her side. Harry, the younger, resembled his mother, being red-haired, blue-eyed, sparkling and rather naughty; he was being slightly naughty as usual. The steps excited him, and presently he snatched his hand from Lucy’s and ran off to them. He seated himself proudly on each top step as he encountered it, to the sad detriment of his white home-made sailor suit, then jumping up with a ringing laugh sprang down to the pavement. Unfortunately the steps, though they remained few in number, increased in depth with the gradient of the terrace.