Alena was allowed to follow with the other women and children when they went to the felling, but as she collected the brash, her unease grew as she watched the friendship develop and felt Roscoe’s eyes rest reflectively upon her more often than was quite comfortable.
She decided to try once more to persuade Rob to move on.
‘I like the work, Ally,’ he stubbornly protested. ‘I want to stay. It’ll give us time to decide what to do next.’
‘No, we should go.’
‘Where to?’
‘I don’t know. Somewhere. Anywhere. He knows our names.’
‘So what?’
The familiar bickering continued but, unusually for once, Rob refused to back down. The weekend arrived and Roscoe took himself off home on Grizedale Moor for a rest. His place at the camp was taken by his son.
But Frank Roscoe did not go immediately to the comfort of his own fireside. Instead he drove his battered old truck up and down miles of twisting lanes, as far as Ulverston in the south and Cockermouth in the north, asking questions, making enquiries.
The youngsters could have their fun for a week or two, but wouldn’t they tire of the harsh life soon enough? If he found their families, he thought, he could at least put their minds at rest, without spoiling the adventure too much. Perhaps do himself a good turn at the same time.
Mickey Roscoe was as unlike his father as a son could be, at least in Alena’s opinion. She hadn’t been more than five minutes in his company before she was changing her mind about leaving the coppicers.
He made life exciting.
If Frank’s ways revealed a quirky sense of humour and silent watchful ways, Mickey was lively and impishly charming, making it clear he liked her, and welcomed her friendship.
Smaller and thinner than his father and, at nineteen, showing little sign of Frank’s powerful build, he wore his black cap of hair slicked down with Brylcreem. Foxy rust brown eyes, set wide apart beneath winged brows carried a glint that missed little of life’s pleasures. He had ears that lay flat against the sides of his head, and a mouth that had a slight curl at each corner as if he were perpetually smiling. This gave a puckish air of attractiveness to his face, Alena decided, even if you couldn’t call him handsome. He walked with a swinging gait, rolling on the balls of his feet, hands usually thrust deep in his pockets, shoulders back as if challenging you to declare him unequal to any task.
Best of all, he treated Alena as if she were a grown up and not the child that everyone else saw her as, which made her feel all warm inside.
For his part, he looked upon her lovely face, burnished to a glowing pink from her days out in the open and polished by the warmth of the fire, now laughing delightedly across at Kate, and fell instantly and completely beneath her spell. Alena Townsen, he decided in that moment, was the girl for him.
So taken was Alena by Mickey’s sympathetic charm that she confessed to him her feeling of nervousness when Frank was around.
‘Don’t you mind him none,’ Mickey reassured her. ‘He thinks well of himself, ‘tis true, believes in hard work, and above all else will let no man be his master. But then he’s Irish. I’m not. I was born in these parts, as was my mother.’
She listened with aching heart to the sad story of Mickey’s childhood, of how his mother died when he was only a few days old and he was brought up by a series of women, handed from one to the other depending on which happened to be in favour with Frank at the time.
Alena’s eyes grew round with pity. Missing her own mother as badly as she was she could barely comprehend the awfulness of never having known one at all. She couldn’t remember a time when Lizzie hadn’t been there with warm reassurance for some childhood disaster, a pair of comforting arms or wise advice. In that moment her longing for home became overwhelming and, to her horror, Alena found her eyes filling with tears. In seconds they were running down her cold cheeks and Mickey was aghast.
‘What have I said? Have I hurt you?’ He put an arm about her shoulders, patting her, making little soothing noises and being more kind than she could ever have expected.
‘No, no.’
‘That silly lad shouldn’t have brought you into the forest. It’s no place for a lass like you.’
Alena hastily brushed away the tears and straightened her shoulders. ‘I’m perfectly all right. I like the forest.’ What was the matter with her? A little sympathy and she was bawling like a baby. Even so, she might very well have confided more of her troubles to him had not Rob chanced upon the little scene and put a stop to it.
‘Come on, Alena,’ he said. ‘We have work to do.’
Mickey, however, kept his arm about her waist. ‘She’d do better to stay here with me. She wants to, don’t you, love?’
Alena found herself flushing at the endearment, for all it was common enough and surely meant nothing. Perhaps this was because of the way he leaned his face so close to hers as he said it, lowering his voice in an intimate way. She could smell woodsmoke on his skin and the headiness of it excited her.
‘No, she doesn’t,’ Rob insisted, and taking her arm in a firm grip, led her forcibly away.
‘What was all that about?’ she stormed at him, the moment they were alone.
‘I don’t like him. He’s smarmy, and he makes you talk too much.’ Disapproval made his voice sound tight and hard. ‘Too much talk could be dangerous.’
‘For goodness’ sake, he was only being friendly, as Frank is friendly with you.’ Alena shrugged her arm free and marched off, head held high. They didn’t speak for the rest of that day retiring to their respective beds still in a sulk. It was just another disagreement between them, she told herself, except that somehow it felt different.
On the Sunday evening, Mickey departed so as to be ready for his work at the mill the next day.
‘Frank will be here by morning,’ he told them. Only he wasn’t. Roscoe did not appear that day, nor the next. Kate didn’t seem unduly disturbed, explaining that he sometimes took it into his head to go off some place, perhaps to drum up more business or check out a stand of trees for next year. But the work went on just as if he were still there, issuing his staccato orders.
Chapter Five
James Hollinthwaite glared at the man before him as if he would like to strike him dead on the spot. ‘I blame you for this, Townsen. If you’d brought that child up with any sense of discipline, we wouldn’t now be in this pickle.’
Ray ground his teeth together, determined, at his wife’s request, to hold on to his own temper. ‘I’ll admit she’s overly sensitive. Girls are, but she’s not a bad lass.’
‘We’ve only your word for that. But you didn’t see her in this damn’ tarn. I did.’
They stood on the shores of it now, the night wind buffeting them, fuelling their anger. They had searched every cottage, barn and outhouse, scoured the village and the woods to within two miles of both homes, but found no sign of the youngsters. They’d returned time and again to the tarn, as if to the scene of a crime, certain this was where it had all begun and only too keenly aware that less than a mile away, in Ellersgarth farmhouse, the two mothers sat together for once, brewing endless cups of tea while they waited for their menfolk to solve the problem and bring the silly pair home.
‘So I hear. I never thought of thee as a Peeping Tom, Hollinthwaite.’
James flinched. ‘I could have you flayed for that.’
‘You and whose army? And thy lad is innocent, I suppose?’
‘Robert is a soft fool, but I can’t help that, can I?’ His gaze bored into Ray. ‘I’ve heard one of your own sons is making an idiot of himself over a young lass.’
‘Leave Tom out of this.’
‘And you lay off Robert. He’s a son to be proud of.’
‘Be a father to him, then he mightn’t be such a noddy.’
‘I’m doing my best but it isn’t easy, and you aren’t helping, man.’
The two men glared at each other with such ferocity it seemed as if eac
h could barely keep from throttling the other. But, mindful of Lizzie’s wishes, Ray made a move to go. ‘Us having a slanging match’ll do no good. Her ma is half demented with worry. It’s time we set up a proper search party.’ His face creased with concern, and not a little guilt. Was it his own harsh treatment that had sent her off? Lizzie had scarce spoken a word to him since. ‘That’ll happen cost money. Folk’ll have to stop off work and we can’t be expected to make up their wages.’
‘It’s money you’re really after, is that it? As usual. You don’t give a damn about Alena. You never have.’
Ray clenched his fists, making it perfectly clear where he’d like to put one. ‘That’s rich, coming from thee. I seem to remember you were the one who worshipped brass as a God, not me. But then, for a man who’s never been known to keep his word, that’s not surprising, is it? Scruples is summat you’re a stranger to. Backtracking on agreements - putting a man out on t’street who’s suffered near death fighting for King and Country without being troubled by conscience - that’s the sort you are.’
James, glowering throughout this litany, now jerked as if he’d been struck. Here was one mistake he should have dealt with right from the outset. Not that he would admit as much now. He took a step nearer. ‘I seem to recall you weren’t above taking a hand-out yourself, once upon a time. So I recommend you take that back, Townsen, or you might regret it.’
‘Why don’t you make me?’ Ray lifted a hand by way of invitation. ‘I’ll tell you why. Because for all thee’s a bully, Hollinthwaite, and think you can talk a banty cock into laying an egg, thee’s also a coward You’re reviled in these parts. Where thee’s not a laughing stock, that is.’
It was too much for James. One fist went out, then the other. Blood spurted, but, for all he was smaller and lighter, Ray was certainly no coward. He landed a punch in the softness of Hollinthwaite’s belly, and while James stood winded, doubled up with agony, Ray bunched his bony fists again and popped another on his chin. ‘That’ll bloody show you!’
James retaliated in kind and within minutes the two men were grappling on the ground, feet, fists and knees flying with more fury than effectiveness. A light appeared, footsteps on the shingle as the two women, bringing what they believed to be good news to their menfolk, now struggled to separate them. Frantic hands pulled at their clothing, a scolding voice telling them not to be fools, that fighting wouldn’t help. But the pair were too far gone in their anger to pay any heed. Both men were somehow now in the water, still grappling with each other, still throwing punches. Ray was a keen if undisciplined fighter, but James, being the larger, stronger man, very much had the advantage. They fought with grim determination, not only for the loss of their children, but for all past perceived wrongs.
And then there was only the sound of Lizzie’s crying.
Alena and Rob settled with remarkable ease into the daily routine of woodland life. A favourite part of Alena’s day was to take a walk alone in the early morning. She would dress in one of Kate’s long skirts, her warm coat and scarf, and stride out over the frosted grass, loving the crunch of it beneath her boots and the crispness of the clear air that made her skin tingle. She loved the silent stillness of the forest, sometimes hearing nothing but the sound of her own soft breathing before the birds awoke to fill it with their first joyful songs. She loved too the sheltering protection of the trees, and the rich scents of moss and damp earth, the drift of woodsmoke as the breakfast fire was stirred into life back in the coppicer’s camp.
She watched redwing, tits or a pair of thrushes in their winter plumage. She thought once that she followed the trail of a badger, though never quite caught sight of it. One morning she stood quietly by while a stag rolled itself in a patch of soft black peat and then stalked off with a self-satisfied gait, as if it were all a part of some pre-arranged ritual. Laughing, Alena went off to her breakfast.
The atmosphere always lightened once the main party had gone off for the felling. When they were alone the women would sing and laugh, exchange gossip and offer each other advice in the age-old way that women do: on how to catch a man, rear children and keep themselves young, attractive and healthy.
‘Is young Rob your boyfriend then?’ they asked, eager to know all about the newcomers.
‘Are you in love?’
‘Will you marry him?’
As Alena sat flushed and tongue-tied, not quite knowing how to answer, she was grateful when Kate stepped in, telling them to stop ganging up on the poor lass.
Then Kate would go on to tell them stories about how she was often mistaken for a gypsy. With her long black hair worn frizzed about a face that was somehow bright and knowing, as if she could tell a score of secrets should she have a mind to, Alena didn’t wonder at it. A natural born storyteller with a wry sense of humour her stories kept everyone amused while they worked.
‘Some townsfolk can’t make us out, d’you see? Don’t know what coppicing is, so how can they understand what we do?’
On these occasions, as they talked, Alena would be shown how to prepare the spells and taws which, she discovered, were the names given to the flat strips of oak needed for the making of the coracle-shaped swill baskets. The women worked on smaller baskets, but these others were a skilled craft, produced by one or two of the men sitting astride a swill-horse. Finished, they were practically unbreakable and useful for carrying logs, bobbins, fish or any manner of goods, even being used by colliers down in the mines. For this reason they were an important source of income for the coppicers.
Alena’s hands were chapped from being constantly in water, soaking the pieces of oak to keep them more pliable. Blisters appeared and her fingers became sore from the hours spent splitting or riving the oak poles, then shaving them into the necessary thin strips. But for all it was hard work and tiring, she found it surprisingly satisfying.
‘I tried to explain,’ Kate said, ‘but this woman was so set on the fact I was a gypsy, she crossed my palm with a silver sixpence.’
‘Did you take it?’ someone asked.
‘Course I took it. How many sixpences d’you reckon I see? I told her she was going to meet a dark, handsome stranger, live to be a hundred and die in her own bed.’
Alena giggled. ‘And did she believe you?’
‘Indeed she did. That’s what they all want to hear, ain’t it? So that’s what they get told. Is it my fault she wouldn’t believe I weren’t a gypsy? Anyroad, if it turns out wrong and she doesn’t live to be a hundred, she can’t come back and complain, can she?’
And everyone laughed, including Alena who wiped tears of merriment from her eyes.
In the evening when the day’s work was done they would sit around the fire and eat rabbit stew, roast venison, salmon or trout from the river, that had been wrapped in wet leaves and slowly baked in the hot ash. Alena never dared ask how this delicious food came about, nor was she ever told. She found a wonderful sort of freedom living and working out here in the forest, and if sometimes she thought of home and her family with a wave of nostalgia, she tried not to dwell upon it.
By Thursday everyone had ceased to expect Roscoe, and on Friday evening Mickey came back. He hadn’t heard from his father either, but didn’t seem in the least concerned.
‘Like I said, Alena, he’s his own master. Freedom to move is his right. Now let me see those poor fingers of yours. Are they sore?’ He picked up one of her hands and, turning it over, began to examine the calluses and blisters that had appeared, smoothing them tenderly with the tips of his fingers. ‘You need something on those, and I have the very thing. Arnica cream. I bought it for a strained shoulder but you can have it.’
‘Oh, Mickey, you mustn’t give it to me.’ But she was grateful all the same. Some of the skin had split and she worried about it becoming infected. The heel of her thumb felt badly bruised and an ache spread right up her wrist and forearm.
His eyes flashed. ‘You’re very important to me, Alena. Haven’t you realised that by now? While you a
re in my care, I shall look after you.’
She found herself blushing as she allowed him gently to smooth on the cream, then wished she hadn’t when she saw Rob hovering close by, a scowl upon his face.
Oh, dear, what had she done now? She’d said nothing untoward to Mickey, scarcely a word about herself, in fact, so what was the problem? She loved Rob with all her heart, but he could sometimes be far too serious for his own good. He rarely smiled these days, and the arrival of Mickey seemed to have worsened rather than lightened his mood.
‘Are you coming?’ he asked, sounding even grumpier than usual.
‘Where to?’
‘With me, of course?’
Heavens above, she thought, startled by her own perspicacity. He surely couldn’t be jealous of Mickey Roscoe? The very idea made her want to laugh out loud. Oh, but she shouldn’t laugh. If he was jealous, then that wasn’t funny at all. It was perfectly dreadful. But what could she do about it? Rob sometimes found it difficult to express his emotions, and the last thing she wanted to do was to embarrass him. Perhaps if she made some casual remark, let him know in a roundabout sort of way that he was the only boy she really cared about, that might bring the smiles back? But even as these thoughts flew through her head Mickey spoke up before she could find the right words to express them.
‘No, she isn’t. Can’t you see she’s talking to me this evening, for a change? At least I take care of her.’ From the bag slung across his shoulders, he dug out a small jar and handed it to her. ‘If you want anything else, Alena, you’ve only to say the word and I’ll get it for you.’
‘Thank you.’ And before she could protest, Mickey took her by the arm and began to lead her away.
‘We’ll take a walk by the beck, eh? It’s a grand evening for a stroll.’
‘All right.’ As if as an afterthought, half glancing back over her shoulder, she called, ‘Coming, Rob?’ But he only mumbled something she couldn’t quite hear and stomped off. Alena watched him go with regret, recognising the slump of his shoulders so expressive of his hurt feelings. Although she was sorry about that, she had to admit that it was flattering to be courted by two such good-looking young men. It made her feel all warm and excited inside. But she’d seek an opportunity to put Rob’s mind at rest, first thing tomorrow.
The Bobbin Girls Page 7