More Tales of the West Riding

by Phyllis Bentley

  The Great War came upon us; Ned volunteered, was taken instantly into the army, and—as so often, alas, happened with the best of our youth—was killed before the year was out. Harry likewise presently enlisted, but being younger never actually reached France. Grandmamma Hallam, her hair, though slightly faded, still red to the last, died; at which event, I am sorry to say, all of us except Harry rejoiced. The post-war period brought prosperity for a while to the textile trade; we quietly flourished. Then the slump came. Harry now ran the mill admirably and with immense gusto, and pulled it through after some agonising but daring brinkmanships; he married a nice girl and had a son. Then presently the General Strike struck us a fearful blow.

  It was during the year 1926, and in the very days of the strike, that Joshua Milner died. In Annotsfield it was said that the anguish of the strike killed him. As to this, I do not know, but believe it to be well possible; such a stubborn rejection of his hopes and plans, such total opposition to his will, might well have set up a stroke, as these occlusions were called in those days. On the afternoon after Joshua’s death, my father and I were sitting miserably together in our front room—the mill was closed, so there was no work for him to go to—when the telephone rang, and immediately after answering it my mother came into the room.

  “Harry wants me to go down there,” said she.

  We all knew that this delicately cryptic announcement referred to the imminence of labour for Harry’s wife, who was, as we said in those days, for the second occasion, “near her time”.

  “Will you come with me, Rose?” said my mother.

  Her tone was less assured than was customary with her, and when I looked at my father I guessed why. His face was pale and drawn, and for a moment the horrifying thought crossed my mind that if the strike could kill Joshua Milner, it might kill my father too.

  “No—I think I’ll just stay here this afternoon,” I said.

  My mother nodded agreement, gave a troubled glance at my father and left. A few moments later we heard her close the front door and step briskly down our gravel path. My father and I were left alone together. I pretended to read; my father tried to smoke a pipe.

  After a time he gave up this attempt, and springing up from his chair began to pace up and down the room.

  “It’s no good, it’s no good,” he muttered. “It’s no good, Rose. Probably nobody will ever know. Besides I think Ben knows already. It Wouldn’t do any good to tell. Your mother could triumph—but what good would it do her? Or she might be distressed. Make her even more bitter, perhaps. If the names are all right in the will, everything will be all right. If not, I don’t see what they can do.”

  He gazed at me in piteous appeal.

  “I don’t know, father,” I began—I was about to say: “what you’re talking about,” but it struck me that this sounded impertinent and unsympathetic, so I substituted stiffly—“to what you refer.”

  My father stared at me.

  “She’s not his wife,” he said. “Ada, I mean. Not legally, you know. And so Kate is not his legal daughter.”

  “What!” I exclaimed. I was so dumbfounded and horrified that I really could not think of anything to say. “It can’t be!”

  “Yes, it is. Ada was a girl in his mill, very handsome, and Joshua—well, I suppose he got her with child,” said my poor father, blushing with agony at this, in those days unheard-of, communication to a daughter. “His first wife had a couple of miscarriages, and then she was expecting again, and ill, and Joshua sent her off to the south coast—he Packed Her Off to the South Coast,” cried my father, suddenly almost shouting in his indignation, “leaving your grandfather Hallam in charge of the mill, of course. But the poor thing didn’t die quick enough, so Joshua couldn’t marry Ada before Kate was born. It was more than two years when he came back to live in Annotsfield, you know, and when he came he brought Ada as his wife and Kate as their baby girl. But he couldn’t marry her in time, you know.”

  “But do you think Grandfather Hallam knew about this?” I stammered.

  “Of course he did!” shouted my father. “He just kept his mouth firmly shut and married Joshua’s sister Hannah, so it was all in the family, so to speak. A family secret which of course they all kept.”

  The hint of a slight tinge of possible moral blackmail by Grandfather Hallam in this situation disturbed me; I dismissed it at once, for I knew my grandfather’s character. But would Joshua have felt equally secure? Would the marriage of the nobody Thomas Hallam to the sister of the rich Joshua Milner have been accompanied without any pressure? Yes, I thought so; for they loved each other. All the same, I sought reassurance.

  “Did he ever mention it to you—Grandfather Hallam, I mean?”

  “No. Never. Your Grandfather Hallam,” said my father, calming, “was a man of steel will and perfect integrity. He would never breathe a word to anyone, I am sure. Your grandmother certainly never knew.”

  “How do you know, then?”

  “Garrett Clough told me.”

  “Garrett Clough?” I was stupefied. “But when?”

  “My dear, by one of life’s little ironies—a great one, in this case—it was on the very night of Ben and Kate’s wedding. Garrett Clough got drunk at the reception and old Mr Clough practically threw him out and he wandered round the Annotsfield pubs and finished up at the Station, on his way to catch a London train. Of course, he missed one, and then some kindly porter pushed him out on the platform, and I was just walking along—we were coming back from Blackpool, you know; it was an excursion train and there was a considerable crowd and I became separated from the Hallams, and here was Garrett Clough clinging to my arm and sobbing on my shoulder. Of course I urged him to pull himself together and all that sort of thing, and eventually I managed to push him into the London express which came in on the other side of the platform, and he hung out of the window shouting at me. I’ve plenty to weep for!’ he shouted. ‘My son’s just married a bastard, the daughter of a—’ I won’t use such a word to you, Rose,” said my poor father. “But he meant Ada, you know. Oh yes, he meant Ada. And the moment I began to think about it, of course, I saw it all.”

  “But how did Garrett Clough know?”

  “Trust Garrett to know Annotsfield scandal! He made plenty himself. And I reckon he had told Ben at the reception. He was just in the mood to do it.”

  “Told Ben! But surely Uncle Joshua must have told Ben when Ben and Kate first planned to be married?”

  “Joshua tell Ben! Not he. Ben might have duffed, as we say in Yorkshire; he might have called the marriage off. I don’t doubt,” continued my father in a kinder tone, “that your Great-uncle Joshua married Ada when he could. But it would be later, and in some registrar’s office in some far-off southern place, or London, you know, where nobody up here would hear of it. But a marriage after Kate was born wouldn’t make her legitimate, would it?”

  For in those days such was indeed the harsh law.

  “It’s a terrible story, father,” said I.

  “Aye. It all depends on Joshua’s will now, doesn’t it? If he’s named Ada and Kate as his beneficiaries—Catherine Mary Clough, you know—that’ll be all right. But if he’s just said “wife” and “daughter”, they may be in for a lot of trouble. Especially Kate. I don’t know enough law to say. In any case the daughter matter may come out and be talked about in Annotsfield, because nowadays newspapers publish wills.”

  “Uncle Joshua was far too shrewd not to tie it all up tightly,” I said. “It’s right Kate should have her father’s money.” My tone was a trifle sardonic here, I fear. I meant entirely what I said, and would not have assisted to deprive Kate of Joshua’s wealth for anything in the world, but perhaps I could not altogether resist a qualm of irritation in my heart. I knew too well the troubles lack of capital could cause. A lack which Kate would never know. Would the fact of my own legitimate birth enable me to subdue this qualm more easily? I am ashamed to have to say, yes. But did I want to. be Joshua’s daughter? No!
Not at any price. “Let us be thankful it has nothing to do with us, father,” I said.

  “You think not?”

  “I do.”

  “I don’t want to tell anybody. It’s not the sort of thing I care to do. I’ve kept silent all these years. I’ve kept it from your mother—I didn’t want to upset her. I didn’t even tell Ned. But now I just wonder about Ben’s son.”

  “What does it matter?” I thought with youthful contempt. But what matters is too often what people believe to matter. Still, my father’s thinking of Ned as his first trust helped me, for what would Ned, our dearest and our best, have thought of this wretched tale? I knew well enough, for I had loved my brother Ned.

  “If you had known about Kate’s birth when you were friends with Ben, father, would you have told Ben?”

  “No!” said my father with emphasis. “Of course not! Sure to make him unhappy. Might have spoiled his life. I was too much his friend.”

  “Then be a friend to him still.”

  My father sank down in his chair, looking relieved.

  “I will,” he said.

  Yes, I thought, all those concerned had in their own way loved each other. “I’ve known a hundred kinds of love,” I remembered: “All make the loved one rue.”

  “You’re a good girl, Rose,” said my father.

  “I try to be your daughter,” said I.

  The door opened and my mother came in. She looked so distressed that my father at once went to her.

  “Pamela?” he queried anxiously, naming Harry’s wife.

  “No. She’s all right. It was a false alarm,” said my mother. She paused, then burst out: “It’s Ben and Kate. Harry says they’re going to part.”

  “What!”

  “It’s all over Annotsfield, Harry says. Now Joshua’s gone, Kate and her mother are to live in the south somewhere together.”

  “What about young Ben?”

  “He’ll stay with his father in Annotsfield.”

  “He’s got that big mill to run soon,” said my father, rather grim. “Well, he’s a solid, gruff chap, from all I hear, is young Ben. Knows his own mind and sticks to it, like old Joshua. If he takes my advice he’ll throw that cousin out, first thing. People don’t like that man. He’s not West Riding.”

  “If he takes my advice, he’ll throw his drunk of a father out too,” said my mother, a good deal more grim.

  Jealousy is cruel as the grave, I thought.

  “Nay, Lucy!” my father reproached her, shocked.

  “Well, it’s not our affair, thank goodness,” I said hastily.

  “You know nothing about it, Rose,” said my mother with dignity.

  You will understand, I hope, why I made no attempt to correct her.

  Leila

  1900

  Edward Milner, Junior, was nine years old when, at the beginning of the century, his sister Leila was born.

  It was all very uncomfortable at the time. Lying in bed asleep with his teddy-bear snug at his side—a childhood relic, a very fine large animal with thick fawn fur, which his father had brought him from London—Edward had been awakened several nights in succession by harsh sounds from his parents’ bedroom next door. Voices? Yes, Edward drowsily thought so—but that could hardly be, for the sounds were swift and angry, as if his father and mother were quarrelling, what Annie in the kitchen called “having a row”, and this was most unlikely, as his father and mother adored each other, everyone knew that. Edward remembered his Aunt Audrey, his uncle Gerald’s wife, once drawling in her rather acid tones: “I shouldn’t like it if my husband travelled abroad and left me as much as Claire’s does.” Of course Uncle Gerald was not the brother of Edward’s mother, just her cousin, so he was not a real uncle, one just called him so out of politeness; he was rather handsome, very fair, and Aunt Audrey was, to tell the truth, rather sallow and faded, so she might well feel a little catty towards his mother, reflected Edward. But that wasn’t what he was thinking about. What was he in fact—oh, yes; it was his father’s reply. “Claire has no need to worry,” said his father stiffly, looking aside to conceal his feelings, while his mother, exhaling smoke down her nostrils, lazily, almost triumphantly, smiled.

  Of course Edward’s mother—she never called him Ted, as she did his father—was very beautiful. Very. With wonderful thick golden hair which gleamed in the light, and large brilliant grey eyes, she always attracted a great deal of attention, especially in the evening, in the elegant pale evening dresses she wore. Yes, it was generally accepted in the Milner household that Mummy was superior in looks to practically everybody else in the world. Her name before her marriage had been Lacy, and it seemed there had been Earls of that name in the West Riding a long time ago.

  “But surely, Claire, you’re not suggesting that you are descended from those old chaps?” said his father, laughing.

  “How should I know?” said Edward’s mother, smiling.

  “The name’s the same.”

  “Well, Milner is a good old West Riding name too,” said his father. “There were Milners in Hudley in 1526—I’ve seen a copy of the Will of them.”

  “But they weren’t earls, Ted,” said his mother gently.

  “No—they owned a mill by the river, ground oats and fulled cloth. They were in the cloth trade,” said Ted Milner, “like me. I’m content to follow them.”

  “You’re wonderful, Ted,” drawled Claire; she turned her beautiful face up to his and he stooped and kissed it.

  Of course, even a child like Edward could hear that Claire Lacy sounded better than Ted Milner. And though Ted Milner was not an ugly man, he couldn’t of course compare in looks with his beautiful wife. Ted was of middle height, sturdy, with broad shoulders, mid-brown in an ordinary way, with a firm jaw and a pleasant smile. The Milners appeared to be rich, or at least well-off, and this, so at least Annie said—Annie had been Ted’s nurse when he was a child, it seemed—was entirely due to Ted’s efforts. Edward took this for granted; of course his father was rich, if that was the right thing for a father to be. Naturally his father was everything he ought to be. A father ought to be strong, sturdy, with a plain name and a beautiful wife. Edward adored his mother and loved his father with his whole heart.

  It was lovely when sometimes, in his school holidays, he rode off in the car beside his father down to the mill. His mother stood on the steps of the Hall and waved goodbye to them as they drove away, and Edward felt proud and happy.

  Better still when all three Milners drove off together to some entertainment—a circus visiting Hudley, the sailing club on a reservoir up on the moors, the golf club where Edward walked round the holes with his father.

  Best of, all when Edward and his mother went to the station to meet his father on his return home from one of the business trips he was always making in order to sell his cloth. It was tremendously exciting to see the signal go down for the train, see the train come round the corner in the far distance, watch it grow larger and larger and finally steam into the platform, enormous. Edward felt quite pale with excitement at this crucial moment and even his mother looked a trifle wan as if she felt excited too. Then his father came down the steps from a first-class coach and walked steadily towards them, smiling, and then he took them both strongly in his arms. That was splendid.

  So that now to imagine that his father and mother were quarrelling was really quite absurd.

  All the same, some odd things seemed to be happening in the house. His mother began to look pale and almost haggard, so that her beauty was decidedly diminished. His father appeared cross and abrupt, and two vertical lines began to show down the centre of his forehead, giving him an angry and resentful air. They talked very little, so that meals were eaten almost in silence. Then there came an afternoon during Edward’s Easter holidays. His father being at the mill as usual, his mother said she had a headache, and sharply bidding Edward leave her, went to her bedroom to lie down. The rain was pouring down outside and Edward had finished his library book, so he wan
dered slowly along the landing after his mother’s rebuff, wondering what to do. Observing a little-used bedroom door standing open, he strolled in for lack of any better occupation, and saw the single bed made up and his father’s hairbrushes lying on the dressing-table, his father’s dressing-gown hanging on the hook at the back of the door.

  The shock was very great. He did not know what this separation of his parents meant, but knew it was something awful.

  Sure enough, next morning Annie came to him before he was up, and said he must rise at once, as they had to catch a train at half-past nine.

  “Where are we going?” whispered Edward. His sense of disaster was so strong, he dared not speak aloud.

  “To your grandmother’s.”

  Dazed and frightened, Edward did not even venture to ask which of his grandmothers was meant. He did not care for either of them much. Mrs Lacy was handsome and elegantly dressed, with beautiful white hair, but there was never much to eat in her flat, and she was rather hard and a bit of a liar. Mrs Milner was a good deal older; she always gave one plenty to eat and she was not sarcastic, but her iron grey hair, her clothes and her morals were all decidedly grim. They were both widows, and lived in widely separated seaside resorts on the south coast.

  Edward’s father, looking really very ill, drove Edward and Annie to the station, and kissed Edward goodbye with a kind of despairing warmth, as if he never hoped to see him again. Edward’s mother was not visible that morning, and Edward dared not ask for her. In the uneasy rush his bear was left behind.

  It turned out that Mrs Milner was to be his hostess. She met her guests at the station, and though looking extremely unhappy, greeted them very warmly. Her house in South-stone was a large old-fashioned affair, well situated near the sea, well appointed, well kept, with an old neat maid in the kitchen, who turned out to be Annie’s sister. Annie was to stay at old Mrs Milner’s to assist in the burden understood to be caused to the household by Edward’s presence.