‘And where is your time spent, Dolly? Or perhaps I should say, with whom?’
She stared at him, a sudden shaft of fear making her heart thump. Dolly knew she was losing him and hadn’t the first idea how to get him back, or even if she wanted to. She’d longed for the security he could give her, and the child she’d carried, within the respectability of marriage. They’d certainly been good together once, but she realised now that to make a marriage work there needed to be more than sexual gratification, perhaps even more than a bairn. There needed to be love. Did she love Tom? Did he love her? She felt she had too little experience to know for sure. Or else they’d never had the chance to find out. She certainly still fancied his fine athletic body, as he had once lusted for the round softness of hers. She could still recall the fierce excitement of those heady moments in the woods together. But then sex was easier to understand than love.
She tried to remind him of that now, exuding whatever sexual charm she could still muster, awkward as it felt to be using these feminine wiles on her own husband. She stroked a hand softly over his cheek and down over his broad chest while she pushed her face close to his, pouting her lips seductively. Tom gazed impassively into her eyes. His expression made her feel faintly foolish, yet she persisted, certain she could win back his interest if she tried.
‘Look, I know we’ve not been getting along too well recently, but I’d never - you know - go with another chap. You’re my man, always will be.’ She tried a tremulous smile, then ran the tip of her tongue over her rosy lips. Was that a spark of interest in his pale eyes? ‘Forget about having a pint, love. Why don’t we buy a couple of bottles of stout and go home? What d’you say, eh?’
‘Why?’ The coldness of his reply stunned her, and the seductive smile slipped a little.
‘How do you mean, why? Because we’re married, that s why, and it must be months since...’
‘A couple of years, actually,’ he calmly reminded her. ‘But then you wouldn’t be able to keep track, would you? Since you don t need my services any more.’
Dolly felt sweat break out beneath the fullness of her breasts. ‘For God’s sake, who’s been telling fibs about me?’
‘Nobody needs to, Dolly. I’ve got eyes in my head.’
Undeterred she rubbed herself against him, put her mouth to his ear and flickered her tongue around the curve of it. She knew, even as she did it, that she was wasting her time, that it was pointless to plead innocence, genuine though it may be. She tried another tack. ‘If it really is two years since - you know - you must be in dire need. You’re a man, after all, love.’
A small, tight silence in which she became aware of his body trembling, though whether with need or rage she couldn’t quite decide. Then Tom jerked his head away, brushed her fingers from where they were unbuttoning his shirt and pushed her off, as if she contaminated him. ‘Thanks for the offer, Dolly, but if I’m in need of a whore any time, I know where to find one.’ And he walked into the pub.
Rob and Alena were rarely apart after that first reunion. The days at the mill were an agony of waiting, the evening meal an irritating necessity to be got through before she could tear off her working clothes and, dressed in simple blouse and skirt, or even shirt and shorts as in the old days, would hurry from the cottage and run to the woods to fall into his arms, which was where she most longed to be.
He made no attempt to disguise his need for her. It was as real and as sweet as the wood violets that grew in soft clumps by the great oak, as strong and as noble as the thick branches that spread above their heads. He would kiss her till her face throbbed, trace his kisses along the curves of her throat, over the aroused peaks of her young breasts, and when she was gasping with need, retreat to explore the delights of her mouth once more. They clung together as one, heedless of condemning parents or the curious interest of the world at large. They kissed away each year that had kept them apart, reaffirming the bond that held them.
Alena wondered how much longer she could resist him, how she could continue to bear the passion that burned so fiercely inside her, one that cried out to be fulfilled. This was nothing like the bland, almost insipid pleasure she had felt when Mickey kissed her. Making love to Rob was exciting, thrilling, deliciously painful, and yet so entirely right. How either of them managed to hold back from the ultimate union, they could not afterwards have explained.
Certainly not through shyness, since every part of each other’s body become as intimately familiar and far more dear than their own. Nor from lack of love or the desire to show it. Each delicious discovery, every new delight, only deepened their love for each other. Perhaps some inner and necessary voice advised the need for caution, or the desire to mark their union in a more conventional and permanent way first was stronger.
The fact that at not quite eighteen they were still too young to marry without permission was, as they both realised, a great stumbling block, and one they dared not explore too closely.
For a whole month this idyll lasted and so beautiful was it, so filled with excitement and the wonder of these new discoveries, that Alena longed for time to stand still so that it could go on like this forever. But, as Lizzie had been so fond of telling her when things were at their worst in the mill, nothing lasts forever. Not bad times nor, unfortunately, good. This was a worry that kept Alena awake at night, and sent her running to Rob with ever greater eagerness, hiding the fear even from herself that one day he might go away again, and this newfound joy would evaporate as quickly as it had come.
During these weeks she did not go out with Mickey once. And when Lizzie warned her that he kept on calling, she refused to be troubled.
‘I’ve seen him at the mill and told him I’m too busy just now.’ She remembered how he had scowled at her, demanding to know what could be more important than seeing him. She’d simply laughed and walked away, too used to his over-inflated sense of self-importance to pay any heed to his sulks. ‘Remind him that I see him every day at the mill. He’ll have to be satisfied with that.’
‘Let’s hope he is,’ Lizzie said, her heart softening as she recognised the glow of happiness in her daughter, watching how she gulped down her supper in her haste to be away. A quick wash, a peck on her mother’s cheek and she was gone. The powder and lipstick had gone too these days. Perhaps Rob didn’t much care for them, so that at least was something, Lizzie thought with a wry smile as she cleared the table around Kit, who was still stolidly eating and had taken no part or interest in the conversation.
Yet she felt anxious too. She hadn’t been at all keen on Alena’s taking up with the likes of Mickey Roscoe. But dropping him might prove even more of a problem. She said as much now and Kit told her not to fret, that Alena was old enough to sort out her own life. It was easier to let her have her way now that Ray was gone, even so Lizzie found it hard to let go of her children, particularly this one, being the only girl and the baby of the family.
She heard again the familiar tap at the door and, sighing, prepared the excuses that Alena had instructed her to use. Will you go?’ she asked her son, but Kit only shook his head.
‘Don’t get me involved in Alena’s mischief.’ And folding the evening paper, he slipped out to his precious allotment, leaving her to it.
At least Harry was happy, Lizzie thought with a sigh as she fixed on a bright smile before opening the door. He was seeing Sandra regularly now, though she suspected the old aunt was still creating difficulties for them. Thank goodness Jim at least was settled, with another baby on the way. She opened the door and kept on smiling into Mickey’s glum face.
Sandra and Harry were, at that precise moment, sitting on the stone wall by Hollin Bridge staring down at the eddying waters in contemplative silence.
Sandra was worried. Harry often took a detour on his way home from the mill, since it was one of the few times they had together and, given half a chance, they’d sit talking far longer than they should. Sandra always made sure Aunt Elsie had her supper early these days,
to leave her free to enjoy this time with him. They would laugh and hold hands, talk about the goings-on at the mill, the doings of the various members of his family, and sometimes he would kiss her. His kisses always left her with a pounding heart and an aching hunger. But today Harry was not his usual talkative self. He seemed quiet, more serious than usual, almost morose. What could be wrong?
Had he grown tired of the twitching curtains, of the number of times she’d been forced to refuse his invitations. Apart from the odd tea or Sunday dinner with his family, they’d never ever been on a proper outing together, to the pictures, or a bus trip, or even out to tea in Hawkshead. Sandra would love, for instance, to go on a steamer ride with him, as Alena had with Mickey. Instead, if they were lucky, they got to walk in the woods or by the lake. More usually they sat here on the bridge because at any moment Aunt Elsie might have one of her ‘funny turns’, or need something fetching, and she’d tap her stick on the parlour window to call Sandra in. This then was the sum total of their courting, and never yet had he stepped inside her aunt’s house.
So if he’d grown bored and wanted to finish, Sandra wouldn’t have been in the least surprised. What man wouldn’t grow tired under such restrictions? She held her breath and waited for the death knell to fall on their friendship. He began by telling her how much he enjoyed her company.
‘Oh?’
‘You know I do.’
As Sandra glanced anxiously up at him, she saw a smile flicker at the corners of his mouth, but all too quickly disappear as a frown creased his brow. ‘Does it bother you that I’m so much older than you? I’m twenty-seven and you’re, what, nineteen?
Was that all he was worrying about? A tide of relief flooded through her and she gazed at him with shining eyes. ‘Of course not, why should it? What’s eight years between friends?’ Then he was looking at her so keenly, with such an intensity in his gaze that she felt a small shiver of delight run right down to her toes. ‘You must know what I want to ask you, Sandra.
‘Must I?’ She could scarcely catch her breath.
Then he said the magical words, and she could hardly take them in. ‘I’d like us to wed. There’s nothing I want more than for you to be my wife.’ And before she could speak a word, he put a finger to her lips and hurried on, ‘No, don’t say anything yet. I want you to think about it. Eight years is eight years. I need you to be sure. When - if - you are sure, then I’ll go and speak to your aunt.’
‘Oh, Harry.’ She managed a tiny sigh that might have been agreement. He patiently waited for her to marshal her thoughts, not daring to touch her again in case he should frighten her off. Sandra was such a quiet, timid creature for all she was sweet and pretty. He often wondered what she saw in a great oaf like him.
Sandra was struck dumb with shyness, struggling to find the right words. ‘What about my eye?’
He frowned. ‘What about it? It isn’t paining you again, is it? I thought you no longer wore the eye patch...’
‘No, no pain now, only no sight either.’
Quick as a flash he said, ‘I should think you can see enough of me with one. I’m not a pretty sight.’ And he grinned disarmingly, making her smile.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t agree with you there, and yes, I would be honoured to be your wife,’ she said, very formally, casting him a sideways glance from beneath her lashes.
Silence followed, her response coming so quickly and with such certainty that both of them seemed suddenly overwhelmed by the magnitude of the moment. With an edge of hope mingled with disbelief in his voice, he said, ‘You would?’
‘I would.’
‘Oh, Sandra. Darling Sandra. Sweet, delicious, wonderful Sandra, you won’t ever regret it.’ And cupping her face between his hands, he kissed her softly, and then more fervently as she slid her arms about his waist to press her body as close to his as she dared. Neither heard the smart rap on the window pane, nor saw the furious pale oval of her aunt’s whiskered face.
He was beaming when he finally put her from him. ‘Enough of that. I have your reputation to consider. I’d best go and see the old ... your aunt, right away.’ They both giggled nervously, knowing what he’d been about to say.
‘You mean now?’
‘I mean now. No time like the present. I’m getting older by the minute, don’t forget. I’ve none to waste, have I? Not when I can have you for my wife.’
‘Oh, Harry,’ she giggled. But as he kissed her again, some of the happiness faded, to be replaced with concern over the interview ahead.
Mickey, slouched behind a hazel thicket, watched them silently cross the road and walk to the door of the tall terraced house. He enjoyed spying on people, listening in to their private conversations. Such uncalled for scraps of information often came in useful. But for once he was too wrapped up in his own problems, too filled with frustration and a sense of disbelief at the way things were going wrong in his own life, to care one way or the other about Alena’s brother and Sandra.
Yet again Lizzie had turned him from the door. Either Alena was inside, hiding from him, or there was some more sinister reason, and, since Rob Hollinthwaite was home, it didn’t take a genius to work out which.
Nor did it take one to work out that something must be done about it. All he had to do was rid himself of this annoying rival. The question was - how? It couldn’t be too obvious or Alena would spot his involvement. But there were more ways of killing a rabbit than throttling it. It might take him a while, and need some clever thinking to put a plan into action, but when it was done, it would only be a matter of time before Robert Hollinthwaite was history.
And he did have influential contacts, so that he personally need not be smeared by the dirty work necessary to achieve this blissful state of affairs. At which point he was quite certain Alena would fall into the palm of his hand, as sweetly as a ripe peach.
Sandra managed to put Harry off going to see her aunt for a whole week. But come Sunday afternoon, the three of them sat in stiff formality in the front parlour, a strong smell of boiled cabbage lingering from the lunch they had silently partaken of together, dust motes dancing in the shaft of pale sunlight that had been allowed into the room, in view of the visitor and the occasion.
‘I hope you will look favourably upon my request, Miss Myers. I have a good job at the mill and a bit put by, and I love Sandra dearly. I assure you that I will endeavour to make her a good husband, and to make her happy.’
Harry had, in his humble opinion, said all the right things. He’d told Aunt Elsie he knew of a small cottage he could rent, that he wouldn’t rush Sandra into matrimony, in view of her youth, but he hoped her aunt would agree to the wedding taking place sooner rather than later because of their great love for each other. What else could he say?
Yet throughout this long, carefully practised speech, the old lady had not spoken, not even smiled, nor altered her grim expression in the slightest degree. She sat unblinking in her wing-backed chair like some sort of witch from a child’s fairytale, her small, pixie ears taking in every word he said, and many that he didn’t, Harry was sure of it.
‘Happiness, my good man, is an insubstantial commodity. It can vanish in a moment,’ the old lady finally, and coldly, remarked.
Sandra said, ‘Of course we’ll be happy, Aunt. How could we not be when we love each other so much?’ She slid her hand into Harry’s as he sat beside her on the horse-hair sofa. Aunt Elsie’s face froze, then she stood up, tall and regal before the heavy Victorian mantel, the back of her neat grey head reflected in the oval mirror.
‘I think you forget, Mr Townsen, that my niece is but a child. She is a good two years from her majority and I see no reason to allow her to venture into the terrors of matrimony before that date.’
‘Terrors?’ Harry sat stunned, not knowing quite what to say to this. He hadn’t expected the old lady to be overjoyed at the news, but nor had he expected this open hostility.
Sandra tried again, struggling to disguise the shakiness of her voice.
‘But I love him, Aunt. There’s nothing for me to he afraid of. We simply want to be together. And if you don’t fancy the idea of being on your own, I’m sure we could find someone to come in each day to clean and make your meals and such. Or perhaps a live-in companion. I’d still call regularly, of course.’
Elsie Myers gazed upon her young niece in frosty disbelief. ‘Allow a stranger into my house? I think you forget yourself. And they would require a wage, which you know full well I could never afford. Oh, dear me, no.’ The old lady suddenly clutched at her chest. ‘I fear I am about to have a bad turn. I feel quite giddy. Oh, Sandra, Sandra...’ And though both ran to offer assistance, Harry was brusquely swept aside with a strength quite surprising from one so frail and on the point of collapse.
‘Pray leave, Mr Townsen. I cannot abide company when I am ill. Oh, dear, I need my bed, Sandra. My heart is pounding. I feel quite nauseous. You will have to assist me.’
Stricken with guilt, Sandra hurried a distressed Harry out of the door, before helping her aunt up to bed and doing her a nice coddled egg for her tea.
Chapter Thirteen
Once more he stood watching them, and it was as if time were playing tricks, replaying a scene he’d already lived through. True, on this occasion it was high summer instead of Hallowe’en. No candles stood about the tarn, and they were not innocently swimming in their birthday suits. They were not swimming at all, though the waters were an inviting blue on this beautiful day, coolly refreshing, the surface flat calm, not at all in keeping with the way he was feeling. He almost wished that they had been playing and frolicking in the water as once they had done, for this was far worse.
He almost wished too that Mickey Roscoe hadn’t made a point of waylaying him, to inform him what Robert was up to.
‘What of it?’ Olivia had said, when he’d told her. Alena is a lovely girl, and you watched them go off together that evening with your own eyes.’
The Bobbin Girls Page 18