‘Bloody ’ell, there must be two ’undred winders,’ one muttered to another, but the man who led them, a tall, well-built man in a dark outfit and cap pulled down over his forehead, turned on them fiercely. ‘There’ll probably be a night watchman and we will have to break in, but for God’s sake be as quiet as you can about it. We don’t want to wake the population before we’ve done what we’ve come to do.’
‘What ’e’s come ter do, more like,’ one whispered to another. ‘As long as I gets me brass I don’t care what ’e’s up to.’
They all stared, impressed for a moment, at the bulky outline of the building that filled their vision from horizon to horizon. There was a moon and the mill seemed to be lit by some unearthly light that reflected in the hundreds of windows across its front but there was no sign of life. It was just past midnight and there was a sense of waiting surrounding the mill, a waiting for it to spring into life, for the machines to start their new lives, which would make an enormous difference to those who were lucky enough to work there. For the moment they must remain in their hovels in St Margaret’s Passage and its environs but within months, so it was promised, the workers would all be moved to the newly built houses and enjoy the open spaces in which they stood.
The glass made an almost silent sound as it broke under the stone held in Roly Sinclair’s hand and tinkled to the cobbles beneath. The watchman in his little hut to the side of the gate had been dozing in front of a good fire, the frying pan with his bacon and sausages in it waiting to be placed on the flames. He thought he heard a faint noise then the cat which haunted the grounds crept round the opening to his hut and he relaxed and dozed again.
Roly wriggled through the window, feeling his way round to the enormous door set in a doorway big enough to accommodate the horses and wagons that deposited the raw fleeces in the yard and took away the worsted cloth his brother’s operatives would weave. He smiled as the thought entered his head, for there would be none of that here if he had his way, and this time he would.
The men crowded in one upon the other. The moon shone on the silent machinery and on Roly Sinclair’s white teeth as he grinned in the darkness. Not until they were inside did they light their torches and with shouts and yells that woke the watchman from his doze they ran loose over the first floor until a warning shout from Roly halted them.
‘Take the top floor first, you fools, or you’ll get burned to death. All of you now, the top floor.’
Although this was the most modern, up-to-date mill in the county with spinning frames and weaving looms made from metal there was a lot of wood about. Beams and supporting posts and even the floors which, though not yet soaked with oil and scattered with waste, were ready to feed the fires. The men with Roly Sinclair had also been armed with heavy sledgehammers which they aimed at the machines with a savagery that sprang from their unthinking minds. They smashed them apart and then at a shout from Roly moved down to the next floor and the next, on each one smashing and burning while Roly stayed behind to make sure the wood on each floor was well alight.
The men were panting with excitement as they erupted from the building and watched the fire begin to dance alight, sweeping from one end to the other. Windows burst open and pennants of flames blew out and the watchman who had dozed in his hut was seen to be running like a hare down the lane that led from the mill. One or two of the men were all for running after him, for their blood was on fire like the building, but they were halted in their stride by a scream, high and desperate, lifting the hairs at the backs of their necks. The scream came from their backs, from inside the mill and they turned in horror, for thugs though they were they were capable of horror.
‘Bloody Mary,’ one whispered, backing away from the building which by now was well alight. ‘’Oo the ’ell . . . ?’
They looked about them and for the first time noticed that the man who had employed them on this night’s work, and who had promised them a considerable sum of money to do it, was not among them.
‘It must be ’im. Bugger it, I’m off before the bobbies arrive,’ a man with the face of a prize-fighter told the others.
‘’Ere, wha’ about our brass?’ another clamoured.
‘If yer wanna ’ang about yer can bu’ I’m off.’
The flames from the burning mill shot into the black velvet of the sky and there was a fearful roar as the machines from every floor began to crash down into the basement. The screams from within had stopped and with obscenities pouring from every mouth the men scattered into the darkness, leaving the magnificence that had always been called simply Penfold in an inferno of destroyed dreams.
They wept, all of them who came to look at the wreckage that lay smouldering in the yard at Penfold Meadow, even the man who had built it. He had been summoned by frantic knocking on the door of the bedroom he shared with Lally and when, still half asleep, he had failed to respond, Biddy had taken it upon herself to stumble into the room lit by the flickering flames of the fire in the grate, and shaken him violently into wakefulness. Harry had made love to his wife, leaving them both languorous and satiated, sleepy in each other’s arms. They were both naked, their limbs draped about each other, the sheets flung back, but Biddy was beyond caring about their modesty as she screeched in her master’s ear that his magnificent new mill was ablaze from end to end.
‘What . . . what . . . ?’ he mumbled stupidly and it was not until she had the temerity to slap his silly face that he came fully awake.
‘What the hell . . . ?’ His voice was aggrieved. Behind him Lally rose up in the bed, her breasts falling forward in rosy beauty.
‘The bloody mill’s on fire!’ Biddy shrieked in his ear so that he winced away from her, then, still stark naked, he leaped from the bed.
‘Look out the winder,’ Biddy shrilled and indeed when he stumbled across the room he could see the glow in the sky north towards Halifax.
‘Dear sweet Jesus . . .’
‘Aye, well never mind ’Im. There’s a chap at door . . . a bobby ses yer ter go at once. Fire engine’s there and . . . Oh, dear God, what next . . . what next?’ And Biddy, staunch, calm, always steady, began to weep broken-heartedly, for surely to God hadn’t these two suffered enough?
It was all over by the time Harry and Lally got there, Harry on Piper, Lally on Merry, both wearing an assortment of clothing they had just flung on any old how. Lally had picked up the first garment that came to hand, the silk gown she had worn to dinner the evening before, riding astride with her nightgown, the one Harry had taken from her in a leisurely fashion only an hour or two ago, flung on beneath it and beneath the gown the kid breeches and boots she wore for riding. Adam was there, leaning bonelessly against one of the big square pillars that supported the gates, his arm round Susan. For that moment they were both mindless, blindly seeking comfort from one another, waiting to be told what to do next, where to go next, how to cope with this latest disaster. What was left of the mill was still burning fiercely but the fire brigade, with several engines, realising they could do nothing, were standing silently away from the building. A great company of police, as they had done when High Clough was destroyed, stood helplessly by, hanging their heads as though in shame that they could do nothing, failing to look directly at Mr Sinclair who had only just recovered from the last disaster and was doing his best to help so many in this township. It was not to be borne and how was he to bear it, they asked one another. His fine new mill which was to open on Monday gutted so ferociously and how the hell had it happened?
There were crying women and even men, crowds of them, who had thanked the Lord for a man like Harry Sinclair who was to make their hard lives bearable and now how was he to mend it all, if he was?
A police inspector approached Harry and cleared his throat apologetically. Neither Harry nor Adam, still dazed by the catastrophe, had thought to ask about casualties. There was no one in the mill and it would not have been until Saturday – which it now was – when the great party was to be held for the
men and women who were to be employed in this huge mill, now lying wounded and dying before their eyes, that it would be filled with people. But the inspector, having caught Harry’s unfocused eye, put a hand on his arm as gently as a mother will to a desolate child.
Harry, still clinging to Lally as though she were the one firm piece of ground in this quagmire in which he found himself, turned his head and stared at the inspector.
‘Mr Sinclair, I’m sorry . . .’
‘Thank you,’ he answered politely.
‘No, sir, it’s not just the mill . . .’
‘I beg your pardon?’ he quavered.
Lally tightened her grip on him, for this beloved man was not to fall if she had anything to say about it and anybody else who upset him would have her to answer to.
‘I’m sorry, sir, but there’s a body.’
‘A body . . . ?’ Harry could feel his sluggish mind beginning to function. ‘The watchman?’
‘No, sir, he’s safe.’
‘Then . . . ?’
‘He was trapped under one of the machines. Not . . . er . . . burned; the machine sheltered him but it fell into the basement and he . . . went with it.’
‘He . . . ?’
‘Will have to be identified by a member of his family. I’m sorry, sir.’
‘But what has that to do with my husband?’ Lally asked fiercely, edging herself in front of Harry like a kitten spitting into the face of a bulldog.
‘He . . . we think . . . it might be your brother.’
For several days they all despaired, particularly Lally, that Mr Sinclair would never recover from this blow that had struck him. Not only had he lost the magnificent building of which he had been so proud, but it was his own brother who had done this to him. He mourned the Roly they had known for only Harry, and perhaps Lally herself, could remember when Roly had been a slip of a boy getting into scrapes with Chris Fraser, a young lad, handsome and wild but basically good-hearted. What had twisted him? What demon had turned him into the man neither of them recognised?
Though he had ruined their hopes, perhaps for ever, the men and women who had hoped to work at the new and splendid Sinclair mill turned out for his funeral, crowding the churchyard so completely his family had to struggle through the masses to get into the church. His young widow, clothed from head to foot in black with a veil so dense her face could not be seen, moved slowly between her mother and father, followed by her brother and sister-in-law though it was noticed they did not speak. Poor soul, they said, to be widowed so young, knowing nothing of the ways in which the dead man had done his best to destroy not only his own brother but had given her the black eye that was fading beneath the veil.
Carriages stretched up the length of the lane that led to the church gate, bringing the wealthy manufacturing classes to see one of their own put tidily away, though many of them were fully aware of the scandalous ways young Roly Sinclair had adopted. None knew, of course, that it was he who had burned down his brother’s mill else they would not have come to pay their respects at his funeral. The general belief was that he had died in perhaps some heroic manner trying to save the mill and Harry had done nothing to enlighten them. Black coats, trousers and mourning bands, black swathes of veils, and afterwards there were refreshments at the Priory, reminding Lally of the day of Chris’s funeral when there had been Harry to console her.
Lally stayed close to Harry lest he slip back into that strange and sombre mood that had separated him from her just after the mill fire and Roly’s death but she need not have worried, for Adam Elliott was eager to embark on the rebuilding not only of Harry’s mill but his own life and would not allow Harry time to consider the enormity of it. Adam was not about to brood over the demise of a man who had done his best to destroy them all but was over the day after the funeral, bringing with him the plans that had been drawn for Penfold Meadow and also what he now considered to be his family.
They were all in black still, though Lally meant to alter that as soon as she was able.
‘Let’s all walk over to Tangle Wood,’ Adam insisted. ‘It’s a grand day to be out,’ staring up into the mild blue sky. The air was soft and warm and at the back of the house where the farms lay men and women were bringing the harvest in, their cheery calls to one another echoing over the rooftops. ‘We could pick blackberries. Mrs Stevens has promised a blackberry and apple tart with cream for tea; oh yes, we have all been invited, and then Harry, after tea you and I, and the ladies, of course, since they have had a hand in the whole thing, can go over the plans for a new mill. Now don’t tell me you want more time because, with a family to provide for, like me, you need to look to the future.’
Harry began to laugh, the first time he had done so since the fire. ‘Bloody hell, man, you don’t mince words, do you, nor waste time. And remind me to watch my language when my children are about.’ He turned to look at the lawn where Jamie was showing Jack how to do what he considered to be a cartwheel. Harry’s face was relaxed and Lally exchanged a heartfelt glance with Susan and was confounded when her friend winked at her, lifted her skirts, shocking Barty and Froglet who were watching, and performed a perfect cartwheel, to the wide-eyed admiration of the children.
‘Dear God, my wife never fails to amaze and delight me,’ Adam spluttered, running down the slope to catch her before she did another. Harry took Lally’s hand, following slowly, and as she watched him as she had done for the past week, she knew he was going to be all right. He would recover from this blow as he had done others. He would build another mill with Adam’s help. He would fulfil the dream that she had shared with him and the housing community, the school, the park, the library would all come to fruition. They would better the lives of those who worked for them and perhaps others would follow.
The blackberries were thick as the stars on a clear night, the children eating as many as they gathered. They had to laugh, which they found came more easily as the afternoon wore on, for they had brought nothing in which to put their harvest. The perambulator containing the amazed baby who had been propped up by Dora and who didn’t know where to look to keep all these clever people in his fascinated view, was found to be the most sensible place and without further ado Martin was lifted out, hefted on to his father’s hip and the blackberries were piled on to the waterproof mat which was placed in the bottom.
‘I bet I’ve picked the most,’ boasted Jamie, who fancied himself the leader of the gang of children, six in all, though he was not the eldest.
‘Well, we’ll never know,’ his mother said placidly, her own mouth stained with blackberry juice. She smiled as her husband kissed her lips, licking his own to show he relished the taste.
‘I think Boy’s done very well,’ Susan remarked, always wanting to give the lad a bit of praise to boost his confidence.
‘No, he hasn’t,’ Jamie shouted but they were all silenced by the boy himself.
‘My name’s not Boy,’ he said patiently, as though to reprove them all. ‘It’s Sam.’
About the Author
Audrey Howard was born in Liverpool in 1929. Before she began to write she had a variety of jobs, among them hairdresser, model, shop assistant, cleaner and civil servant. In 1981, while living in Australia, she wrote the first of her bestselling novels. She lives in St Anne’s on Sea, her childhood home.
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