‘Tell me everything.’ Oh, please don’t let this unspeakable thing happen to us!
Lizzie was moving to put on the kettle. ‘I don’t know about you, lass, but I need more tea.’
The tea made, and a mug warming their hands, mother and daughter sat quietly together as they had so often done over the years. The story took surprisingly little time to tell.
Alena learned that her real mother had not been Stella Bird, as she had feared, but some young girl who had got herself into trouble, perhaps with a soldier who never came back from the front. She’d turned up on the doorstep of Ellersgarth Hall one wild night at the end of October 1916, obviously in labour and suffering from having been on the road for some considerable time. There was mud on her clothing, but it had been a fine silk dress and a good worsted coat, not fitted for the harshness of a Lakeland winter but indicating that she came from a good family.
‘She was young and unused to hardship.’ Lizzie’s voice grew soft, filling with sadness as she became gripped by the tale she related. ‘Happen they’d turned her out because of her shameful condition. Or perhaps the family had an argument and the girl left in a huff before they had time to be reconciled. We’ll never know. There was nothing on her to give a clue, Stella said, not even a purse or change of clothes. The girl claimed to have walked out, taking nothing with her, and never gone back.’
Lizzie didn’t need to remind Alena of the time she had done very much the same thing.
‘The birth proved to be a difficult one which the girl did not survive. You were so small and weak everyone thought you would follow her before the night was out. But you didn’t. Against all the odds, you lived.’
Despite herself, Alena found her curiosity irresistibly stirred by this sad tale. ‘So what happened next?’
‘Stella came for me. We were living on the estate then, in the gamekeeper’s cottage, and since I already had four children of my own I was an obvious choice to look after a sickly bairn, until your future could be settled more permanently.’
Lizzie reached out and grasped her daughter’s hand between her own, giving it a little squeeze. ‘Only when I went to fetch you, I took one look at you, like a little peg doll in the laundry basket, I fell in love with you on the spot. You were the daughter I’d always longed for. I made up my mind, there and then, to keep you for myself.
‘The housekeeper didn’t like it, said the minute you were well she’d find another home for you. But I kept putting her off. You had jaundice, weren’t suckling well, suffered a lot of colic and were weakly. Then she left and, what with a war on, no one else had time to bother about one small infant.’
Tears were frighteningly close. Even now Alena could feel them running down her cheeks as if she no longer had any control over her own body. Was this all true, or another lie? What was she supposed to believe?
‘Ray came home on leave and found me with a bairn. That really put the fat in the fire.’ Lizzie gave a wry smile. ‘In the end I convinced him how it had all come about, that I’d been faithful. So he set out to settle the matter, to make you safe. But when he came home for good, after the war, he lost his job with Mr Hollinthwaite.’
‘Why? Was it because of me?’
Lizzie sipped at her tea, taking her time. What good would it do for Alena to hear of the disputes and recriminations of that time? She’d no wish for the guilt to live on into the next generation. ‘Ray was late coming back because of an old wound that had flared up, and Mr Hollinthwaite hadn’t the patience to wait. There were more men than jobs coming home from the battlefields, so he’d already taken on someone else. Ray never forgave him, though he found work quick enough at the mill, and earning more money too. The mill didn’t belong to James Hollinthwaite in those days. He bought it later. Ray had saved enough to get us this grand little cottage. And a bit left over to put everything on a proper legal footing, so no one could take you away from us.’
Lizzie smiled softly. ‘So, you see, life has its ups as well as its downs, and you haven’t had too bad a life with us, now have you? Or happen you think so. Happen you’d rather have been taken on by someone else?’
‘Oh, Ma. How can you say that?’ Somehow it was no longer a question of forgiveness. Alena knew that she could never have hoped for a better mother, nor one who would have loved and cared for her more. In a strange way she felt even closer to Lizzie now, as if she were the only certain thing in a topsy-turvy world. She was still her ma, always had been and always would be. Tears were running down her cheeks again, soft tears of love, and she wasn’t even bothering to wipe them away.
‘What’s this? Crying? And you my tough little tomboy?’
‘Not any more, nor so tough as I like to pretend,’ Alena confessed, the sad fate of the poor unknown girl filling her with such poignant sadness that pride no longer seemed to matter.
‘We’re none of us that, love. Are we still friends? Am I forgiven?’
Alena didn’t even protest when her mother wiped her nose for her as if she were a baby still, and then wrapped her close in a great big hug.
‘For ever and always.’
‘I’ll say this. Your poor mother, whoever she was, would be proud of the way you’ve grown into such a fine young lady.
‘Did you ever see her, this young girl?’
‘Nay, like I said, she were dead when I collected you.’ Lizzie dabbed away the tears from her daughter’s cheeks.
‘But you saw the coffin, went to her funeral?’
A small silence, the hint of a frown. ‘I don’t reckon I know aught about any funeral.’ Now the silence between them lengthened and grew.
Alena kept her brilliant blue gaze fixed upon Lizzie, willing her to say more, to offer some definite information concerning the existence of this young girl. Her thoughts churning, she plucked one out of nowhere. ‘Is that why you were writing those letters that time?’
Lizzie flinched at the realisation that Alena knew of this, must have picked it up from an overheard conversation. Was that one of the reasons she had run away? The pain she felt for her beloved child deepened. ‘I was trying to find out summat about her. I thought you’d want to know. But I’m afraid I failed, love. I could find neither the vicar who buried her, nor Stella.’
‘Then you’ve no absolute proof that she existed?’
‘I have Stella Bird’s word for it.’
‘But that’s all?’
They both saw the implications. If the rumours were true about the affair and a child had been the result, this was exactly the sort of fanciful yarn the housekeeper would need to tell, to divert suspicion away from herself and her lover. ‘I’d no reason not to believe her. I’m not one to give credence to gossip-mongers and, as I said, James Hollinthwaite is a cold fish with a high opinion of himself.’
‘What about Olivia? Do you think she might know anything?’
‘Nay. James’d make sure of that.’
‘Oh, Ma. Do you think it’s true? If we can’t find out one way or the other then what of Rob and me?’ She’d finally managed to say his name.
Lizzie stroked back a damp curl and met her daughter’s pleading gaze without flinching. ‘I don’t know what to think, to be honest. But happen you’d best not see him again, lass. Just to be on the safe side. Not till we know for sure, anyroad.’
Chapter Fourteen
Olivia was frantic. Once more her darling son was leaving and no one would tell her why. Rob was clearly suffering from some terrible agony that he would speak of to no one, not even to his mother. Particularly his mother. She begged and pleaded with him not to go, but he packed a single bag, kissed her tenderly and told her he would write when he’d got settled. Then he walked out of the house and, for all she knew, out of her life.
She turned instead to her husband, but he was no more forthcoming. James had had a long talk with the boy, man to man, spelling out a few facts about life and marriage, and they’d had something of a disagreement. But it was a private matter between father and so
n, he told her, and really nothing for her to worry over. The boy would come round, given time to get over his sulks.
In fact he’d finally made a suggestion for Rob’s future which had proved acceptable. It had been a climb-down in a way, but perhaps would be for the best in the long run, the way things were shaping up. James certainly had no intention at this juncture of divulging any further details to his wife, for she would only start asking too many questions. He’d always taken the view that the less Olivia knew the better. He certainly had no wish to risk any exchange of views between herself and the Townsen girl, or the whole silly business could blow up again, despite the pains he’d taken to drive them apart. So he patronisingly suggested she take a short holiday. ‘Italy perhaps, or France. You like France dear, being so well versed in the language. Shall I buy you a ticket?’
‘No!’ she screamed, beside herself with misery. ‘I couldn’t take a holiday when my son, my own darling boy, has walked out and gone I know not where.’
‘Don’t start on your hysterics, Olivia, the boy said he’d write.
‘Letters? What good are a few letters? I need him here, where I can see him, touch him, talk to him. Why do you always drive the boy away? You must find him for me, James. Apologise for your silly quarrel, whatever it was. Make him come home!’ Anxious to appease her, James patted her shoulder and promised that he would do everything he could, while having no intention of doing any such thing.
For a week Olivia languished, weeping and railing by turn, all her carefully nurtured forbearance finally crumbling away. Love. Was that too much to ask? For years she had endured the stultifying confines of a loveless marriage. She’d done her duty by James, hadn’t asked for passion or excitement, only warmth and kindness, a feeling that she was cared for. She’d tolerated her husband’s coldness because of Rob, and perhaps for the sake of propriety. Now, if she was to be denied these essentials even from her beloved son, who had been driven from the house, her life seemed pointless.
One morning she woke perfectly calm, as if a storm had passed. She dressed in sensible warm clothing, packed a bag of essentials and, without asking James’s permission, drove his new motor up the drive, along the lanes and headed in the direction of Grizedale. She drove at a reckless rate, uncaring of what or whom she might encounter on the way, the wind whipping her hair into disarray. When the road ended she abandoned the Morris and walked, nearly ran, the rest of the way to that secret place in the woods she knew so well.
Here, Olivia found her lover, rested her cheek against the hard expanse of his chest, stroked his beloved weathered face and cried. ‘Find my boy for me. Frank. Find him!’
But they did not find him. Frank Roscoe because he did not know where to look. James because for all he could easily guess, he had no intention even of trying. And neither of them, for their different reasons, greatly minded that he was lost, or wished him to be found.
By the time Alena sought out Olivia at Ellersgarth Hall, Mrs Hollinthwaite had, according to a dour-faced Mrs Milburn, ‘Packed her bags and done a moonlight flit. Run off God knows where, with lord knows who. Seems to be a fashion in this house.’
There was only one person who could answer her many questions, and that was James Hollinthwaite himself. Alena didn’t think he’d be likely to oblige. Even so, she meant to ask. Every day she called at the house, varying the time in her determination to gain admittance, but was always denied entry. James insisted that he had no wish to see or to speak to her. In the end Mrs Milburn convinced her to stop trying.
‘He’s that cut up about the missus leaving, I reckon the poor man’ll run mad if you pester him too much. Leave him be, lass. He paces the rooms of this empty house night after night. You wouldn’t believe he’d feel her going so keenly, and the boy too. What a pandemonium!’
Alena was of the more sceptical opinion that James Hollinthwaite grieved the loss of his family as he might his sporting gun or his favourite cherry-wood walking stick rather than for their own sake, but she ceased to call on the embattled housekeeper. Then one Sunday she met him coming out of church, and bravely followed him along the lane until he was forced to turn and face her.
She felt nothing but loathing for this man. Never had she experienced such hatred for another human being. For all the difficulties she’d had with her father (she still thought of Ray as such), and for all his casual brutality, it paled into insignificance besides this more calculated evil.
‘I will not have you hounding me, Alena Townsen. Pray desist.’
‘I want the truth.’
‘You have the truth. Would it make you feel better if I were to repeat it?’
‘I’d be more likely to believe you were it not for the fact I know how determined you are to separate us.’
He stood watching her, saying nothing. Alena experienced a strong desire to fight him, to shout her denial, to run and find Rob and make him come back to her no matter what the cost. Her emotions swung from hope to fear and back to hope again. But what if she were wrong? What if it were not a lie? Could she afford to ignore this worm of a doubt and perhaps suffer terrible consequences?
‘It was a lie, wasn’t it? Ma has told me all about the girl who arrived at your door that night. Why won’t you admit it?’
Again that unnerving smile and Alena felt heat rise up her neck and flood her cheeks. But she really mustn’t lose her temper. No good would come of that. Nor would she let him see how she feared his answer. Chin up, face set, every line of her graceful body showed a raw and desperate dignity. ‘Where is he?’
‘Where you won’t find him.’
‘You’ll not keep us apart. He’ll never stop loving me, nor I him. You can’t ever take that away from us.’
Callously, cruelly, he laughed, then just as quickly the sound died, his face closing in like the weather darkening the tops of the Furness Fells, and where formerly had been sunshine and the happy song of the thrush in the peaceful quiet of the lane, now there seemed to be only silence and a deep, shivering cold despite the fact that the sun still shone warm on her back.
‘Much good may it do you both. Love cannot be deposited in a bank. It won’t build a man a house or make his fortune. In fact, it has no value. Whether you believe me or not is really quite irrelevant. Rob does. And because of that belief, my son may have your love, if he feels so inclined, but he can’t have you. Ever!’
She saw then the extent of his victory. Her views on the subject were really of no account. Rob believed what his father told him. And Rob had gone.
James had little time during the next twelve months to worry too much about his disobedient son or straying wife. Not for a moment did he doubt that his actions had been justified, so why should he concern himself? It didn’t even trouble him that there were rumblings of war in distant Germany. If war ever came, and hopefully it wouldn’t, he’d make sure he was on the winning side and make money out of it. He’d got a good price for the larch he’d already sold. And he had more to offer, which the Navy would undoubtedly need.
The bobbin mill might do well, but who knew what the future might hold? James Hollinthwaite did not believe in keeping all his eggs in one basket.
He noted with interest the public outcry over the purchase by - the Forestry Commission of 7,000 acres of land in Eskdale, the Duddon Valley and Ennerdale. He studied the reports and letters in the press, pumped his friend George Tyson for every scrap of information he could muster, listened to news of questions in the House, of petitions and arguments from people in every walk of life from the lowest to the highest in the land. Keenly, he mapped every detail of the campaign.
Eskdale, a magnificent curving fellside of broken crag and bracken, possessed without doubt a noble loveliness which made it one of the finest of the Lake District valleys. Duddon Valley, which ran from the stepping stones below Grass Gars to the head of Mosedale and as far as Wrynose, was uniquely remote and unspoiled with breathtaking views of Scafell. The fells of Ennerdale were surrounded by some of the fin
est peaks of Lakeland: Pillar, Windy Gap, Great Gable, Haystacks and Steeple to name but a few. These, then, were the areas under threat.
The Council for the Preservation of Rural England and the Friends of the Lake District were the ones fighting the plans. holding conferences and meetings, negotiating, making demands. The Commission reminded them that afforestation actually began back in 1919 when Whinlatter, a pan of Thornthwaite Forest near Keswick, missed by a single day the distinction of being the first planting of larch by the Forestry Commission. Eggesford in Devon held that record. Even then they were only following a fashion begun by private landowners: the Curwens of Belle Isle: the Spedding family of Mire House. Even the Brocklebanks of Liverpool had planted larch, calling them ‘exotics’, in the grounds of their famous mansions. Later they’d turned to commercial production for the lead and copper mines of Derwent Water and Coniston.
It was this last argument which was of most interest to James. He believed in following in the steps of fine families and the traditions of their noble houses. Except that he, not being constrained by their more conservative principles and tender hearts, could do even better. Sitka spruce was a better tree to plant than larch, his research informed him. It was fast-growing and well suited to a damp climate. Not for a moment did he doubt that the Commission would win, or that his own plans, when he put them into operation, would be equally successful.
Life was hard for Rob in the upper reaches of Grizedale. He’d spent months working on these heights, planting in all weathers, sometimes in conditions so bad he could barely stand against the lashing wind and rain.
But he was thankful for this job with the Forestry Commission, better paid than his previous one with the private landowner his father had put him on to. The Commission had recently bought the estate of Grizedale intact, 2,500 hectares, including the Hall and cottages, from Harold Brocklebank, part owner of the Cunard Line. The moment Rob had heard, he’d come looking for work and found it.
The Bobbin Girls Page 20