‘I can’t bear to think of spending my life alone. I always expected to marry, didn’t you?’
‘Doesn’t everyone? But that’s not a good enough reason.’
‘I do like Mickey. He’s a bit cocky, yes, but I think that’s a cover-up really, for shyness. Frank Roscoe, his father is such a larger-than-life character, and he left Mickey to his own devices when he was a boy. It must have been an odd sort of life being brought up in the forest, moving from place to place and never being settled. I think that’s why he longs now for a real home, a place to call his own. And he’s always been good to me.’
‘Then compromise,’ Sandra suggested. ‘Let him buy you an engagement ring and promise to marry him when you’ve both saved up.’
‘He’s adamant I should make up my mind soon.’
‘But you’re even younger than me. If he wants a date give him one twelve months from now, when you’ve reached twenty-one. That’s fair enough. And it’ll give you time to be sure.’
‘I hadn’t thought of that. Oh, Sandra, you are clever.’ A long engagement seemed the perfect solution.
Sandra then spoiled her improved mood by asking about Rob, since she was privy to the whole, tragic tale. ‘Will you invite him to the wedding?’ Alena’s qualms came rushing back as the familiar pain pierced her breast. But, like it or not, life must go on and she must learn to live it.
‘No.’ she said. ‘I won’t even tell him.’
Mickey was not in favour of a long engagement but astute enough not to allow his irritation at the delay to show too much.
‘We need to save up, find a place of our own to rent. I don’t want to get married and find I’m still living at home with my mother. What would be the point?’
Since Mickey occupied a single room in fairly cheap lodgings, he could find little argument against that. He heaved a weary sigh, adopted a woebegone expression, put his hand to his breast as if his heart were broken, then gazed at her with huge soulful eyes.
‘How will I survive?’ which set her giggling.
Their courtship continued as before. He became a regular visitor to the house, almost one of the family. He was always ready to sit and argue with her brothers on whether Carlisle would go up in the league, or whether the unions could take action against the government for the huge rise in unemployment.
‘There’s talk of a march from Jarrow. They’ve been hit hard in the north east. Lot of hunger there.’
‘It’s bad enough here. I wouldn’t like to cross Hollinthwaite. Jim admitted, with the caution of a married man. ‘Where else would we find work?
When Mickey and Alena were alone, they talked of more personal matters. Of where they might live after they married and how many children they might have. Mickey loved to plan, and Alena was happy to sit back and let him. Talking saved all that undignified tussle in the back seat of his car. But he remained impatient, constantly dreaming up schemes to bring the wedding forward. When she felt his plans needed to be curbed, Alena would point out the benefits of delay, how she was still very young, and didn’t want to rush into anything.’ And I’d need Ma’s permission, after all.’
‘Your mother likes me, no problem there.’
Since this was true, she tried another tack. ‘We need more time to get to know each other.’
He pulled her close, running his hands over her slender body. ‘We’ve been friends for years, so we know each other pretty well already. But I’d be willing to get to know you even better. Haven’t I told you so a thousand times?’
Laughing, she’d slap his hand away.
Sometimes he accused her of being too missish, in spite of all the kissing and the way the windows steamed up in the little car. ‘Come on, Alena,’ he’d plead, sliding his hand inch by inch over her knee. ‘You know you’re panting for it really.’
‘Mickey Roscoe, I am not!’
He once suggested she should ask for a diaphragm. ‘It’s all right for us to go all the way now, since we’re to be wed, and it would save all this silly business of you trapping my hand every five minutes.’
When she’d expressed shock at discussing such a thing with the family doctor, he’d told her to find a clinic. He’d read about them in some newspaper or other, said they could supply everything necessary. But Alena flatly refused. She wouldn’t even consider discussing the matter with Lizzie.
‘You don’t mind if I keep trying?’
‘You really are a rogue, Mickey Roscoe.’
‘That’s why you like me.’
It was true, she thought, I do like him. He was strong, even masterful, with an impish sense of humour, and quite attractive for all his flashy style. And he carried about him a slight air of danger and promise of excitement, as if he were still a wild creature whom no one could ever truly tie down.
‘We’ll wait till we wed. Till then we’ll just go for long walks,’ she told him, settling the matter once and for all.
Petrol was expensive and Mickey was saving hard, first for an engagement ring, and then a place of their own. So if there were evenings when he didn’t call at Birkwith Row, Alena wasn’t surprised, was almost relieved, assuming he was doing overtime, or helping Jack Turner at The Stag which he sometimes did. He was his own man, after all, he told her, not chained to her leg, lovely as that leg was.
Even so, she was surprised how dull life became when he wasn’t there. She found she missed his Cheerful banter and positive way of looking at things. Perhaps, after all, he was a man after her own heart.
But then she’d given her heart to Rob, hadn’t she? Rob had always been there, her dearest friend, his quiet strength and thoughtful ways becoming an essential part of her life, a part of her. Mickey was at pains to remind her that Rob was still blindly following his father’s dictate, still believing every word James Hollinthwaite said. A part of her felt bound to protest at the unfairness of this accusation, yet she nursed it to herself like a defence, in the constant battle against a very real sense of confusion.
Sandra had got a job helping Mrs Rigg in the village store, thanks to that kind lady’s generous heart. On a Saturday, which was Mrs Rigg’s day off, or sometimes after Alena had finished at the mill, the two girls would sit together behind the counter and gossip, when Sandra wasn’t weighing out little blue bags of sugar or cones of sweets for her customers.
The pay was abominable, the hours erratic, but at least Sandra’s lack of complete vision was not a problem and if she should suffer a headache, as she often did, Mrs Rigg would pack her off home with instructions to go to bed with an Aspro. Sandra rarely managed to do that immediately, having first to prepare Aunt Elsie’s supper, but with luck she’d at least get a quiet sit down and cup of tea, followed by an early night.
Her kindly employer also permitted her a special discount on groceries, which pleased Aunt Elsie enormously, and Mrs Rigg would often give Sandra a bag of broken biscuits or a twist of tea to take home.
This afternoon, as with every other, the two girls had talked through Alena’s problems: how much she missed Rob, how she understood his feelings but a part of her felt despair, even anger, at his refusal to believe Lizzie’s version of events. If he loved her as he claimed to do, why couldn’t he take her word rather than James Hollinthwaite’s?
But then, if he did truly love her, how dare he take the risk?
It was a depressing merry-go-round that only stopped when Alena grew too tired or upset to continue. Fortunately, Sandra was openly sympathetic and in perfect accord with her friend’s misery, for wasn’t she suffering similar emotions over her own dear Harry?
‘To think we could be sisters by now, if it weren’t for Aunt Elsie.’
‘Will you marry when you turn twenty-one?’
‘We hope to wed on my birthday next month. We have it all planned.’
‘And what does Aunt Elsie think of that?’
Sandra’s pretty mouth turned down at the corners. ‘She refuses to discuss it, except to say that she will not be coming to the wedding.’
‘Why? I admit I may be prejudiced because Harry is my brother, but what on earth has she got against him?’
‘If you want my honest opinion it’s got nothing to do with Harry.’ Sandra concentrated on cutting a slice of cheese, mouth tightly pursed. ‘It wouldn’t make any difference who it was, she’d still be against my marrying. She needs me at home, you see. Aunt Elsie isn’t at all well and is afraid something dreadful might happen to her if I am not there. I do worry about that sometimes.’
‘She isn’t your responsibility.’
‘Yes, she is. Aunt Elsie gave me a home and brought me up. I’d have been sent to an orphanage or somewhere equally awful if she hadn’t.’
Alena nodded, understanding the sensitivity of the situation.
‘I can only hope she doesn’t have one of her bad turns on the day, or I’ll never get to that wedding.’ Sandra added the carefully wrapped packet to Mrs Bradley’s order.
Alena was outraged at the idea. ‘Don’t let her walk all over you, Sandra. She’s as fit as a flea really, if she would but admit it. It’s time you stood up for yourself and told her so.’
‘I could never do that,’ Sandra’s hands stilled over the blue sugar bag she was filling, shocked by the very idea. ‘What if she were to have a heart attack? It would be all my fault.’
‘That’s what she’s banking on, you thinking that.’
But Sandra shook her head. ‘I can’t take the risk. I keep looking at the frock I’ve made. Peach-coloured satin. It’s hanging in my wardrobe, and I wonder if I’ll ever have the chance to wear it. This wedding might never happen.’
‘It will if you make it happen.’
‘And the nearer the day comes, the more I long to - you know - do it. I mean, how we’ve managed to hold back this far is a miracle. Or sheer will-power, more like.’ Sandra dropped her voice, in case someone should come into the shop and overhear this shocking admission. ‘But I do wonder what it’s like, don’t you?’ This was a familiar conversation that would bring on either giggles or tears, depending on their mood at the time.
Alena was not, strictly speaking, in a position to offer advice on the subject, since it was one she preferred to avoid. The fact that she and Rob had never consummated their love had been both a relief and source of regret to her, as if by making love they would have proved they could in no way be related. But the prospect of doing it with Mickey Roscoe had not, as yet, been fully explored. She’d blocked it from her mind.
Sandra said, ‘Do you think it hurts?’
‘Can’t much, can it, otherwise people wouldn’t keep on doing it.’ And they both collapsed into a fit of giggles, propping each other up on their stools and mopping tears of laughter from their eyes.
Their hilarity was interrupted by the arrival of Mrs Milburn, Hollinthwaite’s housekeeper, in a fine lather of excitement that she barely managed to contain as she purchased a slab of Fairy household soap and some dolly-blue for her next washday. Her lips were clamped tightly together, her movements quick and angry as she slapped down halfpennies and pennies on the shiny mahogany counter top. Alena, watching her behaviour with close attention, could finally bear the suspense no longer. ‘What is it, Mrs Milburn? Are you quite well?’
‘If I am, it’s a wonder, what with all the comings and goings I’ve had to put up with lately. It wasn’t like this when Mrs Hollinthwaite was at home. Her dinner parties were allus elegant, polite affairs, not raucous gatherings of noisy men.’
‘Oh, dear.’ Alena and Sandra exchanged barely suppressed grins, struggling not to dissolve into giggles yet again. ‘What has he done now?’ Knowing that there was nothing Mrs Milburn liked better than to gossip about her employer, for all she might maintain otherwise.
‘He’s only gone and decided to turn the whole area into forest.’
‘The whole area pretty well is forest already, Mrs Milburn.’ Alena tactfully reminded her.
‘Not conifer forest, it isn’t. We have beautiful woodland here where once the King himself could come to hunt deer and have sport if he’d a mind to. We’ve grown fine, regal hardwood in this valley for centuries. Wonderful beech and oak that James Hollinthwaite means to cut down, though what right he thinks he has to do such a terrible thing.’ Mrs Milburn plonked her basket down on a nearby bentwood chair and leaned across the counter, propping her capacious bosom comfortably upon its polished surface as she punctuated every word with the stab of one finger. ‘He means to plant up every acre he owns in this valley, and then on Longmire, Thwaite Head, Rusland Heights and Finsthwaite Heights, with Sitka spruce and larch. What he doesn’t own already, he means to buy.’ She jerked her head in a fierce nod. ‘Now what do you think of that?’
Sandra and Alena didn’t know what to think. Mrs Milburn was known for her tendency to exaggerate and both girls guessed even the greedy James Hollinthwaite would have difficulty in purchasing every acre of land he wanted. But they considered this piece of new information with some alarm, for all they both had enough worries of their own.
Alena remembered Mickey saying something about the Forestry Commission planting conifers in Ennerdale, and how he felt that kind of intense forestry threatened his own greatly loved and, in his opinion, more natural coppicing industry. How the smallness of the area could be thrown out of balance by these great towering trees better suited to Scandinavian mountains than cloaking the miniature mountains and fells of the English Lake District.
Choke this whole valley to death it will,’ Mrs Milburn was saving. ‘We don’t want great dark plantations here. This isn’t the place for giant Christmas trees.’
Both girls were struck speechless, unsure how to respond, but equally disturbed by the pictures she was painting. ‘He wouldn’t do that, surely?’
‘Wouldn’t he just, if it made him a deal of brass.’
And they all realised that this must be true. James Hollinthwaite had never considered anybody but himself in his entire life. Why would he change now?
It was a week later, and Dolly had decided she’d grown tired of marriage. Respectability was not all it was cracked up to be, so far as she was concerned. Tom was a bore. They lived such separate lives these days, you’d never think they were man and wife.
Every evening she made supper which he ate, usually in silence, and then either he went out to the pub, or she put on her glad rags as he called them, and went out to enjoy herself. They both usually ended up at The Golden Stag, for where else was there for a bit of fun in this village? But, as with their journeys to and from work and the nights in the big wide bed, each completely ignored the other.
Tonight he’d insisted on eating early since he was going out, first to a meeting with his brothers and then on to The Stag, and Dolly certainly had no intention of sitting in waiting for him, it being a Saturday.
She spent an hour getting ready, aware of his surreptitious gaze as she rested each foot on the arm of his chair while she rolled on her stockings. She positively drenched herself in Essence of Violets, then pulled on her underwear with languorous care. Tom kept the newspaper sturdily before him throughout this performance, but Dolly sensed his attention by the way his hands clenched, or the number of times he moved his chair and fidgeted. He did glance at her once, his face scarlet with anger, then snatched up the paper, ripped over a page and turned away.
She stood before the mirror wearing only a pink brassiere, French knickers and her stockings and suspenders while she slapped pancake stick on to her face, pressing it in with a damp sponge. The tension in the small living room was so strong she almost forgot to breathe. She rubbed rouge into her cheeks and, pouting her lips with conscious seductiveness, applied the most vivid red lipstick she could find. With anyone else the result might have been catastrophic, but whether it was Dolly’s skill or because make-up actually enhanced her natural prettiness, by the time she’d pencilled her eyebrows, blackened her lashes with a dab of Vaseline and soot, and pinned up her thick brown hair, she looked every hit as glamorous as one of the screen
-goddesses she worshipped so ardently.
Dolly stepped into her dress, fastened it slowly, button by button, then with feigned innocence, one hand resting on the provocative thrust of one hip, gave him a smile. ‘Wouldn’t you say I look a real corker?’
Tom cast her a contemptuous glance, taking in the voluptuous curves of her figure, the new red dress and high-heeled shoes which suited her so well, and must have cost a pretty penny.
‘Where did you get the money for those?’
Dolly merely shrugged, telling him it was really none of his business, and he’d no right to be so disapproving since he’d shown no interest in her for ages. There was no doubt at all in her mind that marrying Tom Townsen had been a terrible mistake. Now he was accusing her of letting other men buy her drinks.
‘You never offer, so why shouldn’t I accept?’
‘Because you’re my wife. It only makes you look cheap.’
‘Oh, that’s it, is it? You don’t want to be seen out with me, your own wife, but neither can I go out with anyone else. What am I supposed to do, twiddle my thumbs here all night?’
‘You could come to this meeting with me.’
‘Why the hell should I?’
‘There’s something up, something to do with James Hollinthwaite. Harry wants to tell us all about it.’
Dolly examined her lips in the mirror and dabbed at a smudge with the tip of her little finger. ‘I’ve told you, I’ve made other plans.’ Then she collected her smart new coat, but didn’t put it on until she got outside the door so that he could get a good view of her silk-stockinged legs. Tom watched her go with burning eyes.
It was quiet that night in The Stag with the place half empty. So quiet in fact that Dolly almost wished she’d gone to Harry’s daft meeting. She found it hard to imagine what could be so important as to empty the pub. There was hardly anybody there at all that she knew, apart from a few old men, and she certainly had no wish to sit with them.
Then, as luck would have it, she saw James Hollinthwaite come in. He bought a whisky and took it to the table by the window. Dolly considered him. He was old enough to be her father, but then she didn’t have a father, and he wasn’t bad looking for his age. And certainly very rich. A fact no girl should ignore, particularly one in her situation with a useless husband and no reason to stay married.
The Bobbin Girls Page 22