Shining Threads

by Audrey Howard

The war with Russia was almost over. Sebastopol had finally fallen but out of the 405,000 men committed to the Crimean War by the British and the French, almost 26,000 were killed on the field and a staggering 39,000 from disease.

  ‘Does your wound need dressing again, Mr Greenwood?’ the nurse said gently to the man by the bed.

  ‘No thank you, nurse. It’s almost healed now. You have been most kind.’

  ‘You really should go back to your lodgings, you know. Your brother is in good hands and should there be any change I will send an orderly for you.’

  ‘I would be most grateful if I might be allowed to stay for a while longer. We were . . . are . . . very close and if he should . . . Well, we are twins, you see.’

  ‘Yes, that is very evident, Mr Greenwood.’ The nurse smiled and hesitated, her kind eyes studying the thin, paper-white face of the young man by the bed, then the flushed and hectic one on the pillow. ‘Very well, a few more minutes, but the surgeon will be here soon and . . .’ She hesitated again as though weighing her words before speaking. ‘I . . . well, I’m sure you are aware of the seriousness of your brothers condition.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The stump has not healed and is . . . I’m so sorry, Mr Greenwood, but I’m afraid the gangrene has taken a firm hold and the surgeon is certain we will have to cut again.’

  The young man bowed his head, no immediate expression of any sort crossing his young/old face and the nurse felt an urge to put out a hand to him for he was no more than a boy. He raised his head and smiled as though he was trying to spare her pain and she felt a hint of the charm he must once have possessed in another world than this, shine through to please her woman’s heart.

  ‘Yes, I understand, nurse. I will remain, if I may, until the surgeon has been.’

  The soldier on the bed began to fling his arms about and his hands clawed desperately at his face. His head moved frantically from side to side on his sweat-stained pillow.

  ‘Get them off me . . . Sweet Christ, I can’t breathe . . . please, oh, please . . . I can’t breathe . . . heavy . . . get them off me . . . Jesus, oh, Jesus . . . It’s the mill all over again, the bloody mill . . . suffocating . . . I won’t go in again, Charlie, I swear it . . .’

  His voice ended on a despairing scream and the nurse looked about her hurriedly, for the morphine with which he was drugged was evidently wearing off and some more must be administered by the doctor.

  ‘And you shan’t, old fellow, you shan’t. Do you think I would let them take you in there again, knowing how you hate it?’ The young man’s voice was soft and filled with love. The soldier calmed somewhat as his brother’s hand smoothed his hair back from his fevered brow and his eyes, almost submerged in the swollen flesh about them, opened a little.

  ‘Brother . . .’ He managed the semblance of a smile.

  ‘I’m here, lad, I’m here.’

  ‘I was having one of those damnable nightmares.’ His expression was apologetic.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re here . . .’

  ‘You can’t get rid of me, lad. The proverbial bad penny . . .’

  ‘I’d . . . I’d have liked to see her again.’

  ‘You will, old chap, just as soon as we get you on your feet.’

  ‘You’ll make sure she knows I love her.’

  ‘You’ll tell her yourself . . .’ But the soldier’s vivid blue eyes had become unfocused again and the brightness of delirium had returned as his voice rambled on about the loveliness of the golden bracken and the swiftness of his bay which would take him to her. He did not want to spend his life in that accursed weaving shed, he declared irritably, when there were so many other more pleasurable things to do. The fox . . . it was away . . .

  He was drowsy now as the drug administered by the doctor took effect and it was only then that the man beside him broke down. What fools life made of us, was his agonised thought, when his brother’s life could now be measured only in hours.

  It was to Annie that Tessa first spoke of Will Broadbent.

  ‘What of Will?’ she asked carelessly. ‘Does he still call on you?’

  ‘Aye, whenever ’e can.’

  ‘And is he well?’

  ‘Champion.’ And nowt to do with you, her manner said but Tessa was never one to be put out by Annie’s close· mouthed asperity.

  ‘Is he . . . did he become manager? There was talk of it the last time we met.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No? Then who got the job? And why didn’t he?’

  ‘It weren’t for ’im, ’e said. ’E were after summat else an’ so ’e ’opped it.’

  ‘’Opped it? Whatever does that mean, for God’s sake?’

  ‘Look, my girl, I don’t press you ter tell me what came o’ that chap you was to wed and then never, so don’t you go pokin’ yer nose in Will Broadbent’s business. It’s nowt ter do wi’ you.’

  ‘Annie . . . Dear God, don’t . . .’

  Instantly Annie was sorry. She had not meant to be so unkind. Had she not been aware that though Tessa had spoken not one word about the surprising disappearance of the man she was to marry, his going had devastated her? She had been ill and Annie had made enquiries about her and had even sent a note but she had received no reply. Not that that concerned her but she had never quite forgiven Tessa for her indifference to Will Broadbent last year. Now here she was asking casual questions just as though he had been no more than an acquaintance.

  ‘’E’s gone.’ Her manner was short, since, like affection, humility was hard to demonstrate.

  ‘Really, Annie, if you don’t stop this . . . this foolishness I swear I’ll throttle you. Can you not just answer a simple question with a simple answer instead of all this evasiveness?’

  ‘I don’t reckon I know what that means but ’e’s gone an’ I were told yer Mam an’ Mr Greenwood were right upset when ’e went. ’E’s an ’ead on ’is shoulders ’as Will and Mr Greenwood told ’im so ’an all.’

  For some unaccountable reason Tessa felt her heart begin to thud in her chest and she was reluctant to let Annie see the awkward and stiff set of her shoulders. She stood up and moved to the window, staring out into Annie’s scrap of garden.

  ‘What is he doing then?’

  ‘’E’s gone up Rochdale way. ’E’s brought the Chadwick spinners and weavers together to form a co-operative and run their own industrial enterprise. Will set up a committee, apparently with ’imself as chairman. They’ve found t’capital, Will said, by selling shares at five pounds each an’ all’t shares were sold within’t week.’ Annie spoke with the care of a child who repeats some passage she has learned by heart but does not really understand.

  ‘They bought some land at a penny a yard, close to’t railway where there’s a siding an’t mill were built an’ in business in six months. There’s 400 looms fer weavin’ and 20,000 spindles fer spinnin’. Will ses that at the first ’alf-yearly meetin’ of‘t company an’ the 450 shareholders, they’d. already med a decent profit an’ look set fer a prosperous future. Will’s managin’ director an’ the last time chap what I were talkin’ to saw ’im he were ridin’ in a carriage wi’ a pretty woman at side of ’im. Whether it were ’is carriage or ’ers I couldn’t tell thi. Now then, did y’ever think ter see’t day when a pauper’s brat, fer that were what he was, could rise ter such heights? Mind, he were a good tackler, were Will. ’E knew engines an’ e’ knew cotton from’t minute it come from’t bale right through t’t piece goods. An’ ’e were fair wi’ people. Now it seems as ’ow ’e’s got a feel fer business an’ all.’

  Annie turned triumphantly to Tessa as though to say, “There, see what can be done with what you considered a mere working-class man not lit for the likes of you,” but Tessa was staring out of the window, her mind far away, scarcely listening and Annie sighed heavily.

  Later Tessa rode down the long slope from Badger’s Edge to Crossfold. The sun was red as it sank over the Pennine hills. There was a great stillnes
s in the air, as there was in her heart and she wondered about it: was it a sadness about what might have been, or was it indifference to what had been?

  She could hear a dog bark at the back of the house as she rode towards it and some bird singing in praise of the beauty of the autumn day. For a moment in the poignancy which drifted like cobwebs about her, through which, if she was not vigilant, she might have to fight her way, she let Will’s face etch itself sharply on her mind. A strong face and arrogant. Not with the arrogance of Drew and Pearce Greenwood nor of Nicky Longworth who all considered themselves to be somewhat above the rest of mankind, but with the sureness of a man who knows his own strength and what he will do with it. Not a handsome face. Vulnerable at times in his love for her since she admitted now that he had loved her. Smoky brown eyes flecked sometimes with green and at others with amber. Curling hair, ordinary, cut short to his head so as not to cause him any trouble. A slanting, humorous smile to his curving mouth, a sardonic twist to it, a lifting of his heavy eyebrows, a smooth and freshly shaved brown cheek.

  Will Broadbent, then. A man she had admired and in a physical sense of the word, loved. A dependable man, truthful, sensuous, gentle, all these words described him and once, years ago it seemed, all this had belonged to her. She had turned away from him, chasing a dream of her own, careless of his hurt and the days which would be so empty for him without her. There were other women in the world for him to love, she had told herself as she had wound herself into Robby Atherton’s arms, and now he had found one. What was so bewildering was the hard knot of something in the middle of her chest which she could not identify and which would not go away.

  18

  The tall, extremely thin young gentleman had changed trains at Manchester and Oldham on his long journey from London. His bearing was very evidently that of an army man though surprisingly, since he was a gentleman, he was not an officer. He was dressed in a motley collection of clothing: the peaked cap of a soldier of the line with the greatcoat of a foot guardsman. His boots were of the Household Cavalry but they were unpolished. There was an air about him of indifferent disregard for his appearance as though that morning he had taken the first garments to hand, whatever they may have been, and flung them on his uncaring body.

  He got off the train at Crossfold and walked slowly along the platform. The station clock was five minutes fast, for every village and town in Britain kept its own time, several minutes before or after that in London, and idly he wondered why.

  The journey had been comfortable. Despite his extreme shabbiness he had travelled first class in a coach which was based on the style of the old stage coach. Through his inertia he had felt a slight pang of pity for those who had travelled third class for the weather was wet and extremely cold. The poor devils had sat in waggons which, unlike some which had sides and seats, were open to the elements and any stray spark from the engine was a definite threat. Passing through tunnels which poured down floods of dirty water, they must have arrived so wet, bedraggled, and begrimed it was a marvel to him they travelled at all.

  The station was almost deserted. A trolley heaped with trunks and boxes indicated that someone of importance had arrived while another was piled with milk churns which a porter was trundling briskly towards the goods van. The gas lights had been lit for it was almost dusk. Soon spring would be here but this March day reminded him of the winter he had spent – was it only a year ago – on the harsh Crimean plains with . . .

  His face moved jerkily and his hand was seen to reach out as though to some unseen companion but he continued his slow and steady pace towards the ticket collector. He handed the man his ticket and briefly their eyes met. The man had seen a hundred such as he in the past six months, dragging themselves back from the Crimea, many worse than he with no coats to their backs, no boots to their feet, no feet, unemployable and bitter. This one, however, he knew personally. Well, not personally, but who in the Penfold Valley was not familiar with the Greenwood brothers? Those blue eyes which were said to have dazzled and charmed the ladies from here to Burnley, were not so bright now, and not so insolent as once they had been.

  ‘Mr Greenwood, sir,’ he said respectfully, for they were all aware that these two lads had fought for Queen and country and were to be recognised for their bravery.

  Two lads? Then where was the other? He stared after Mr Greenwood’s retreating back, arrow-straight and with not so much meat as it had once carried, and wondered which one it was who had been left behind. Not that it mattered really, for there had not been much to choose between them for devilment.

  It was dark when the hansom cab he had hired reached Greenacres, the early dark of a dismal March day. As he stepped from the cab he could smell the rich, damp earth and the faint aroma of daffodils. Daffodils have no perfume, he thought wonderingly, and perhaps it was his imagination but he knew he could smell them just as clearly as he could see them in his mind’s eye, bobbing and dancing merrily in the wind which whipped straight down from the bleak moorland.

  Light streamed from every window of the house, lying in bands across the garden: lamps lit in rooms in which no one would sit, fires glowing where no one would linger. So it had always been since he was a child and before, he supposed, in this household where once there had been no mistress to supervise what the servants did and so they had done what their previous mistress had told them. There was comfort and warmth, always, and an abundance of good, splendidly prepared and cooked food which the servants ate too, naturally, and he pondered on it for the first time in his life.

  The great oak door opened when he rang the bell and Briggs was there, his face smooth and expressionless, though it was certain that in his mind was the disapproving thought that it could be no gentleman calling, unannounced, at this time of the evening.

  His jaw dropped and he put a hand to his own heart and for a moment there was a warmth in his eyes, almost, one might say, a hint of moisture.

  ‘Sir . . . oh, sir . . .’ he gabbled, ready to move forward, to grasp the young gentleman’s hand. Then he remembered himself. He straightened and stepped back, his duties recalled but the gladness still gleamed in his eye.

  ‘Welcome home, sir. It is indeed a pleasure to have you home.’

  ‘Thank you, Briggs. It is good to be home.’

  The butler waited for a moment, holding the door wide open as the young gentleman stepped inside, smiling, looking beyond him to the porch, the beginning of bewilderment on his face as the hansom disappeared into the darkness of the drive.

  ‘Master . . . ? Er . . . you are alone, sir?’ he ventured, slowly closing the door on the cold and windy darkness, reaching out to his young master, eager to take the shabby army greatcoat from him, to relieve him of the quite battered cap and his one piece of pitiful hand luggage. Beneath the greatcoat he wore the torn and mouldering battle-dress, once a brilliant scarlet, with one epaulette missing, of a common soldier of the line.

  In Briggs’ eye flashed the picture of the last time he had seen Joss Greenwood’s sons, immaculately dressed then in expensively tailored coats and breeches, fine cambric shirts and peacock, watered-silk waistcoats, with boots as superbly polished as the tall bays they rode. Their faces had been dark and dashing, excited by something known only to them, laughing, heedless and reckless as they galloped off madly down the drive intent on some mischief, he had thought sourly.

  And in the two years they had been away something dreadful had happened to them. Here was Master Drew – or was it Pearce? – looking as though he had had the stuffing well and truly knocked out of him, and where was Master Pearce, or was it Drew?

  ‘Is my aunt at home, Briggs?’

  ‘Indeed, sir. She and the family are at dinner.’ He was about to ask should he announce him, for really he was a stranger but this was his home and he was at liberty to go where he pleased.

  His master swayed slightly and Briggs put out his hand solicitously.

  ‘Miss . . . Miss Tessa . . . ?’ he whispered so softly Br
iggs could barely hear him.

  ‘Indeed, sir.’

  Master Drew – or was it Pearce for heaven’s sake? He must ask him, Briggs thought irritably – continued to stand in the middle of the hall, quite incapable, Briggs thought, or so it appeared, of deciding whether to go or stay.

  ‘Are you unwell, sir?’ he asked, wondering whether to offer his master a seat.

  ‘Miss Tessa, you said . . . ?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And her . . . is she alone?’

  ‘Alone, sir? I’m afraid I don’t understand.’ Dear God, surely he had not been . . . well, damaged in his head? He seemed quite dazed, and yet so quiet no one could be afraid of him.

  ‘Has her . . . is her . . . ?’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Is her husband with her?’

  ‘Husband?’ Briggs mouth fell open. ‘Why, sir, Miss Tessa has no husband . . . Dear me, what made you . . . ?’ Then he stopped for it was not his place to question the son of the house on his obviously confused state of mind.

  The young master began to walk unsteadily across the hall. ‘I’ll go in then, Briggs.’

  ‘Very well, Master . . . er . . . I’l fetch Dorcas out, sir, for you and . . . you’ll want to greet your . . .’

  They all stood up, pushing back their chairs quite violently. Dorcas sketched a frantic curtsey as she passed him in the open doorway, her own face wet with sudden tears. Then Briggs closed the door quietly behind him as he always did.

  There was complete silence for the space of ten seconds, though it seemed longer, then Tessa’s voice murmured something in a hushed whisper. It was not clear what she said, even to herself, for it had been no more than a devastated recognition, a wailing cry of torment deep inside her at the realisation that whereas two of her beloved cousins had gone to war, only one had come back.

  ‘Charlie . . . Aunt Jenny . . .’ He stood, like a small whipped boy, not awfully sure what he should do to get himself across the vast expanse of carpet to the comfort he so desperately needed, the haven from the pain, the hoped-for refuge in which to hide whilst he attempted the healing of the part of him which had been torn away at the hospital in Scutari.