The Bobbin Girls
Freda Lightfoot
Originally published 1998 by Hodder & Stoughton Ltd. 338 Euston Road, London NW1 3BH
Copyright © 1998 and 2010 by Freda Lightfoot.
All rights reserved.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
ISBN 978-0956607355
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher. Nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Published by Freda Lightfoot 2010
‘Kitty Little is a charming novel encompassing the provincial theatre of the early 20th century, the horrors of warfare and timeless affairs of the heart.’
The West Briton
‘Another heartwarming tale from a master story-teller.’
Lancashire Evening Post on For All Our Tomorrows.
‘a compelling and fascinating tale’ Middlesborough Evening Gazette on The Favourite Child (In the top 20 of the Sunday Times hardback bestsellers)
‘She piles horror on horror - rape, torture, sexual humiliation, incest, suicide - but she keeps you reading!’ Jay Dixon on House of Angels.
‘This is a book I couldn’t put down . . . a great read!’
South Wales Evening Post on The Girl From Poorhouse Lane
‘a fascinating, richly detailed setting with a dramatic plot brimming with enough scandal, passion, and danger for a Jackie Collins’ novel.’
Booklist on Hostage Queen
‘A bombshell of an unsuspected secret rounds off a romantic saga narrated with pace and purpose and fuelled by conflict.’ The Keswick Reminder on The Bobbin Girls
‘paints a vivid picture of life on the fells during the war. Enhanced by fine historical detail and strong characterisation it is an endearing story...’
Westmorland Gazette on Luckpenny Land
‘An inspiring novel about accepting change and bravely facing the future.’
The Daily Telegraph on Ruby McBride
Acknowledgements
One of the pleasures of writing this book has been the many people I have met who have given so generously of their time and expertise. I express my gratitude to Eileen Thompson, Joyce Wilson and Pat Hogarth for information on bobbin making; Bill Hogarth and Stan Crabtree for coppicing; and Bill Grant for forestry. I also thank the Forestry Commission and the Friends of the Lake District for their assistance. Ellersgarth is a fictitious village in the Furness Woodlands, and Low Birk Mill, if it existed, might bear some resemblance to Spark Bridge, now closed, and Stott Park Bobbin Mill, now operated as a working museum by English Heritage.
Description
Alena Townsen, a fiery tomboy from a large, happy family, wants nothing more than to spend the rest of her life with her childhood friend, Rob, the only son of James Hollinthwaite, a wealthy landowner. Hollinthwaite, however, has other ideas and when he forces the two to part Rob is sent away to school while Alena must start work in the local bobbin mill. Life is hard and her love for Rob severely tested. Torn between two men, her indecision is heightened by the knowledge of a tragic secret. Dolly Sutton has problems of a more intimate nature, while shy and unassuming, Sandra Myers finds herself an unlikely campaigner against Hollinthwaite’s destructive plans for the village when he ruthlessly sacks the man she loves.
Prologue
1916
The windows of the house were ablaze with light as the young girl dragged herself on leaden feet down the seemingly endless driveway, though she guessed her deathly tiredness made it seem longer than it actually was. The farm or manor house, whatever it may be, was by no means grand. Solid and square and grey in the evening light, there was a bare, unloved quality about it that chilled her. Yet since it was the first glimpse of civilisation she had seen for miles in this bleak Lakes country, she kept her eyes fixed on those lights like heavenly beacons and, gritting her teeth, plodded steadily onward.
The wind moaned through a thicket of trees, making the boughs creak and grind together as if they might at any moment tumble down upon her. Rain-soaked hair whipped like a lash against her frozen cheeks but she did not trouble to wipe it away. Once her hair would have borne a sheen as fine as that of her short silk dress; now it was tangled and dirty, uncombed for days, just as the dress was torn and spoiled. Even the thin wool coat that was meant to keep out the bitter cold did no such thing, since it too was soaking wet with mud or blood, or both. It had been bought not for any practical purpose but to conform to the vagaries of fashion. She had no thought now for such niceties.
Not that she had any right to complain. Men were dying in worse conditions on the battlefields of France; dying in a war not of their making. But then she hadn’t committed a sin against mankind either, only against society.
It occurred to her that the bewildering number of lights could indicate that the people within were entertaining guests; they might not take kindly to being interrupted by a bedraggled ragamuffin covered in mud, shivering on their doorstep in her sodden clothing. She should perhaps seek out the kitchen door or servants’ entrance, beg a bowl of hot water from a housekeeper or maid so she could wash before making her request. Mama would wish her at least to present herself well. The thought, coming so unexpectedly and automatically, made her almost laugh out loud, but then the pain gripped her again and she gasped, falling to her knees as it knotted her spine, straddled the swell of her stomach and dragged piercingly down into her groin.
She clutched at a nearby drystone wall, her finger nails breaking in the rough lichen. How much longer could she bear it? As the worst of the pain ebbed away, she pressed her heated brow against the iron-cold stone. Was this how death came, with red-hot pincers?
What if they - the people at this house - refused to give her shelter? They knew nothing of her and her troubles, so why should they agree? Where then would she go? How could she survive yet another night in this wild, empty country? Her time was near.
With the last dregs of her energy, the girl pulled herself upright and, redoubling her efforts, reached a low flight of stone steps that led up through a wide storm porch to a solid oak door. She doubted her ability to climb them, let alone reach the high polished brass knocker. Her feet slipped on the rough stone chippings and she half fell, half sank thankfully upon the lowest step with an agonised cry, as the pain sliced through her back bone once more with merciless precision.
Chapter One
1930
His first sight of them brought the blood rushing to his head. He could actually hear it pounding in his ears.
The golden light of evening bathed their milk-white bodies in an almost ethereal glow. They had lit several candles on the shingle beside the tarn since it was both Hallowe’en and the boy’s birthday. The flickering flames were reflected a hundred times in the ripples of the water as they splashed and dived beneath the sheltering willow and alder trees. Their laughter drifted across to him on a wayward breeze, bounced back by the surrounding Lakeland mountains, and fear rose in his throat like bile.
A rope hung from a tree down into the water and the girl’s head came up beside it, shaking the sparkling water from the copper locks of her long hair. Then she dipped once more beneath the ripples, twisting her slender body up and over, again and again, like a young otter at play, or some kind of golden water sprite.
When she climbed out of the tam to run along the tr
ee branch, as graceful and slender as a gazelle, he saw how the young breasts were already budding with promise, the swell of her hips and a small triangle of curled hair indicating the first signs of womanhood. She showed not the slightest sense of embarrassment at being naked before the boy, proving that this was not the first time they had swum together thus.
James Hollinthwaite lifted his hand from the rock he had been holding, and found it starred with blood.
What a blind fool he’d been! Why hadn’t he anticipated this? Done something about it.
Because, like a moth attracted to lamplight, he could not resist keeping her in his sight.
But then to be fair to himself, he’d thought of them still as children. Yet they were fourteen, with childhood almost gone. He stepped hack into the shadows, anxious not to be seen, knowing they should not have come to the tarn without supervision, that some ill could befall them if he didn’t send them off home at once. But he did nothing.
Hollinthwaite had never thought himself a coward in all his forty-five years he had faced many trials and tribulations, lived through a general strike and a World War, and met and dealt with them all in the certain knowledge that he was a man in control of his own destiny. He owned a profitable farm, a bobbin mill, and a large parcel of woodland which supplied all the timber it needed. He must be one of the biggest employers of labour in the valley, if not the whole Furness peninsular, thereby gaining himself a position of respect in the community.
He would survive this recent depression better than most. New York might crash and shares fall, but since he’d had the sense to put his money in land, which they’d never be making any more of, he’d do all right. Land would always go up in value, if one bided one’s time, and he had every intention of coming out of this financial crisis with his fortune not only intact, but increased.
He possessed a wife, beautiful and talented, if not so compliant as he would like her to be. Most important of all, he’d got himself a son.
But now, for the first time in his life, he felt matters were slipping out of his control, a state of affairs he abhorred.
Turning his gaze back to the two bathers, ignorant still of his presence, he was forced to admit their air of innocence. But how long did such innocence last? His thoughts grew darker, soured and curdled like bad milk in his mouth.
‘Catch me, Rob,’ she squealed, as once again she jumped into the water. Dragging his gaze back to the boy who ran close behind, reaching for her just a second too late, James saw for the first time, that his son too was near manhood, and the expression in the boy’s bright eyes as he leapt after her told all.
Blind anger erupted, raging through him like a summer storm. The pain of it spread through his chest and ran down his arms like fire. For a moment Hollinthwaite thought he might actually pass out. The urge to pull the heedless, ignorant boy from the water, cart him off home and thrash the life out of him, was almost overpowering. James clenched his two great fists, managing by dint of enormous will-power not to hammer them into the trunk of a nearby alder. He wanted to slap the wanton girl for this flagrant breach of convention, her lack of propriety and shamelessness. Instead he stood transfixed by her beauty, making not a sound as she skipped and ducked and ran between the flickering candles, leaping in and out of the water in a hectic game of tag. He became bewitched by the mounting excitement that flowed between these two young creatures who stood on the brink of adulthood. Sweetly innocent they may be as yet, but dear God, how long before this magical, breathless aura of gilded youth changed to something much less wholesome, far more potent, and a thousand times more dangerous?
Why did he hate her so? Because she was rebellious and undisciplined, or simply a burr beneath his skin that would not leave him alone? Already there had been times when she had looked at him with something like insolence in those damned fine eyes of hers. And she had a brain far too agile and knowing for a child’s.
Even as he fought the urge to bellow his fury at them, the girl raised her arms above her head and, lifting her hair from her neck in a languid gesture, let it tumble down loosely over her bare shoulders. It glowed like molten fire in the dying sunlight as she walked on sure feet along the tree branch. James heard her gurgle of laughter, saw that the simple action held the boy’s gaze spellbound; saw her raise herself high on her toes and dive cleanly into the pool, a perfect arc formed by a perfect lithe body. When she surfaced she was laughing, her lovely young face bright with joy - and something else. Knowledge. Power. The age-old wisdom of all beautiful women.
An urge to turn and run hit him for the first time in his life. His entire body began to tremble at what must inevitably happen next.
But he was wrong. The pair stood inches apart in the water, not moving, not touching, simply gazing at each other as if they had made a tremendous discovery. It seemed worse, somehow, than any fumbling adolescent caresses.
It was then that he made his decision.
Alena Townsen burst into the small kitchen like sunlight breaking through thick cloud. The woman standing hunched over the table turned at the sound of her running footsteps and, quickly pushing the letter she was reading into her pocket, lifted a face carefully smoothed clear of worry.
Her smallness was more than compensated for by an air of calm capability. Her hair was light brown, and though it bore a natural curl, was cut short and sensibly clipped back from a thin, delicate face. Her blue crossover pinny had been recently starched and pressed and she slid work-worn fingers over the fabric, as if smoothing it down, while checking that no sign of the paper peeped from the pocket.
‘Someone sounds in a hurry,’ she laughed. ‘You can’t be hungry after that tea you must have had?’
‘We had a wonderful tea but I can smell ginger parkin.’ Alena put her nose into the air and sniffed. ‘Oh, I knew you would make some today! Didn’t I say so, Rob?’ She launched herself at her mother, wrapping two thin arms about the slim figure in an exuberant hug of delight.
‘It tastes better if it’s been in a tin for a day or two.’
‘We can’t wait that long.’
Laughing, Lizzie Townsen reached for a knife to cut two large slabs of the still warm cake, face softening as it always did at sight of this precious daughter of hers. That tip-tilted nose, the almost boyish grin and teasing blue eyes in a perfect oval face ... it was a wonder to Lizzie that anyone could deny the lass whatever she asked for. Certainly not the boy who stood, as usual, so compliantly beside her. Their friendship sometimes troubled her. They’d always been close, happen a bit too close, and although he was a grand lad, who could not in any way be blamed for the sins of his father, Lizzie wondered sometimes if she should put a stop to it. But that would break the child’s heart.
She slid a piece of cake into each outstretched hand. Only then did Lizzie register their appearance. ‘Your hair is all wet, the pair of you. Have you been swimming in the tarn, when you know full well.’
‘Oh, Ma, stop fretting! We both swim like fishes. you know we do.’ Alena flung a damp arm about her mother’s waist while, mouth full of cake, depositing a sticky kiss upon her cheek. ‘Not on Robs birthday.’
‘Did you have a nice party then?’
‘It wasn’t exactly a party, Mrs Townsen. Mummy doesn’t like too much noise in the house, but Alena and I had a scrumptious tea, and Miss Simpson let us play Newmarket.’
Alena continued to talk between mouthfuls of cake, despite disapproving glances from Lizzie. ‘I can’t believe we are fourteen. When we were babies, which of us was the most beautiful? Was it me, seeing as I was older than Rob by a whole day?’
‘You were both grand babies.’
‘Did you expect me to be big and blonde and a boy, like my brothers?’
‘I was just glad to have you.’
‘When you and Mrs Hollinthwaite were both. you know - pregnant at the same time, did you go on waddling walks together.’ Alena giggled while Lizzie merely looked nonplussed for a moment then, laughing, slipped the cake
into the tin to hide her awkwardness.
‘Impudent madam! No, we did not.’
‘Did you both wheel us out together in our prams then?’
‘Not that I remember. Mrs Hollinthwaite had a nanny.’
‘But you must have admired each other’s babies, living so close in the same village? Did you compare notes: how much we weighed, what we ate, sleepless nights, or if we were sick? Didn’t you become friends?’
‘Questions, questions. Don’t you want this turnip you asked me to get for you?’ Lizzie handed it to her, thankful for the distraction. ‘Oh, yes, please. Can we make a lantern?’ Alena wiped her sticky fingers on her mother’s apron and, grabbing a knife, eagerly began the arduous task of carving eyes, nose and mouth into the tough vegetable. The job took longer than expected. When it was hollow, Rob lit one of their remaining candles and set it inside. ‘Can we take a walk around the village, Mrs Townsen? I’ll look after Alena. See she’s all right.’
‘I don’t need anyone to look after me,’ Alena hotly protested, but if Lizzie had been about to refuse, the arrival of Jim and Harry, her two eldest sons, home from the mill and anxious for their tea, quickly settled the matter. They came in on a blast of cold air, filling the small cottage kitchen with their thickset bodies and booming voices. Harry, not quite as broad as his younger brother, but taller by a couple of inches, and with a thatch of hair as thick as corn, settled himself in the fireside chair, slid his feet out of his clogs and rested them upon the fender with a grateful sigh.
‘Like blocks of ice they are,’ he groaned, half to himself.
‘Where are the other two, and your father? Supper’s ready,’ Lizzie said, her eyes on the door.
Jim, the biggest and most soft-hearted of her sons, rested a gentle hand on Lizzie’s shoulder. ‘You can guess where our Tom is, but Kit’s had a bit of a shock today. Sally Marsden has dropped him so Dad’s taken him for a quick pint.’
The Bobbin Girls Page 1