100 Tiny Threads

by Judith Barrow

  ‘And what’s the sneer for, might I ask?’

  ‘I’m not sneering.’ Winifred crossed the shop floor and turned the sign to ‘OPEN’ before pulling at the door. She glanced back at her mother, lowering her voice; she didn’t want her grandmother to hear her next words. ‘But do you honestly believe that people think you’re mourning for Dad? If you want to see what real grief is, Mother, I suggest you look at Granny.’

  Chapter 41

  The wind flapped open the fluted hem of Winifred’s coat, and grit whipped up from the unflagged paths stung her ankles every time she turned the corner of a narrow neglected street or an alleyway. She was grateful that the rain, threatened by the unremitting grey solidness of the sky, had held off. The deciduous trees on Errox hill held branches only recently bare of leaves but there were no trees in the roads she now hurried through, no gardens to show the time of year. She was glad of the cold dampness; it meant there were fewer people around. The noise coming from behind the doors of some of the terraced houses was bad enough: the shouts of men, screams of women, quarrels, crying children, all made her shudder and quicken her steps.

  Yet the nearer she got to Gilpin Street the more apprehensive she became. What if the attraction between her and Conal was all in her mind? Or, worse, what if he’d become tired of waiting for her and found someone else? After all, it was over two months since she’d last seen him. Honora had called round quite a few times since her father died, but there had been little chance to talk with her mother hovering in the background. She’d managed to secrete the Suffragette newsletters, given to her by her friend, into her overall pocket and sometimes, in the early days, even a short note from Conal saying how much he was missing her.

  Winifred groped for memories of the way Conal had looked at her, the things he’d said, grasping for any reassurance that what she’d held on to since they were last together was true. She touched her cheek where his fingers had briefly rested the day of the funeral. She remembered his words I’ll wait for you. But had he? The doubt roiled around in her stomach, made her feel queasy.

  She needed to know. But she had her pride.

  So, when Conal clattered down the stairs in answer to her tentative call, she pushed the front door open with a bright smile.

  ‘Hello.’

  She needn’t have worried.

  ‘At last!’ He grabbed her hands, held them to his chest. ‘To be sure, I thought ya would never come.’ Still holding on to her fingers he led the way up the stairs.

  ‘It’s been difficult.’ She didn’t explain. ‘How are you both?’

  ‘Fine, fine.’ His grin as he turned and walked backwards up the last couple of stairs was infectious. She smiled, following him into the first room that was usually teeming with people. For once it was tidy; there were no pots in the sink, none of Honora’s painting equipment scattered around. A pile of canvases were neatly propped up against the wall.

  ‘Honora?’

  He came to stand by her. ‘She’s off to Huddersfield. Some important Jackeen wants his portrait painting for on the wall of his big office in some factory there. Been there a week or two. I thought she’d been to tell ya?’

  ‘No – no, she didn’t. I – we shouldn’t be here on our own.’ Anxiety rose in Winifred.

  ‘We could go out. A walk?’ Conal offered.

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps that’s a good idea.’ Struggling with her feelings, Winifred tried to keep her tone casual, but she heard the tremor in her voice. ‘It’s bitter cold though. Perhaps I should just leave. You know as well as I do that I shouldn’t be here on my own with you. It’s not respectable—’

  ‘I’d do nothing to hurt you, a mhuirnín.’

  ‘I know,’ she faltered. ‘I think I know that, but…’

  ‘We could just sit and talk?’ He moved towards a shabby armchair. ‘I’ll sit here. You sit there.’ He pointed to another chair nearby, making a great point of scrunching his legs up so they were under his chin, as though to make himself look even more distant from her.

  She laughed. ‘Now you’re making me feel ridiculous. Like some silly schoolgirl.’

  ‘Am I not doing my best to look harmless to ya?’ He put a mock scowl on his face. ‘Is it pulling a man down that ya’re after?’

  Winifred laughed again, feeling easier. ‘I’m sorry; it’s just how I’ve been brought up to think.’ She waggled her head and copied her mother, “A girl is never alone with a man. Not if she wants to keep her reputation.” My mother, you know,’ she said.

  ‘And your mother is right,’ Conal replied, seriously. ‘We could go out?’ He repeated.

  Winifred glanced through the window at the steel-grey sky, already darkened with threatened rain. ‘No, it’s just…’ She looked down at her hands, twisting her fingers together. Knowing what she was about to say would change her life, change her forever. ‘I want to…’ She faltered. ‘I want to ask you something, Conal. Do you love me?’ There, it was said.

  He was at her side in a second, kneeling by her. ‘I have loved ya from that first moment I saw you on the tram, Win. Did ya not know that?’

  ‘No. Yes… I think so. Oh,’ she closed her eyes. ‘I don’t know. Because I don’t really know how I’m supposed to know.’

  ‘What do ya feel for me, acushla?’

  ‘I like you. I think, maybe, I love you too.’ She looked into his eyes, remembering the first time she’d seen them, remembering how she’d thought them so dark, so intense it was as though they looked right into her soul, read her mind. Looking at his hands she remembered the feeling when he’d held hers; so comforted, so safe. She caught her lip between her teeth. He was watching her with a serious expression.

  ‘Are ya okay there?’ His voice soft, patient. ‘I’ll walk ya home.’

  ‘No.’ She wouldn’t go home. She wanted this man in a way she didn’t understand, wasn’t sure what it meant; what it was. But there was a need inside her she had to answer. She stood, unbuttoned her coat and slid it down her arms, throwing it over the back of one of the chairs. Her smile, returning his, was shaky.

  ‘I don’t know what to do. I haven’t…’

  ‘I know.’ He silenced her with a gentle kiss on the lips. ‘But ya’re sure?’

  ‘Yes.’ He’d said he loved her. And she’d never felt like this about anyone. If she let it happen – whatever it was, then they’d be bound to one another forever. There was nothing her mother could do about it. Conal would make sure of that; he’d look after her, protect her. They’d marry and – a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth – they’d have a family together.

  He took off her hat, his hands lingering on the hairpin at the back of her head. Answering his silent question, she nodded, standing very still when he removed it, letting her hair fall through his fingers to her shoulders.

  I should stop him right now, she thought. She didn’t.

  The ivory tulle lace inner bodice of her black dress was fastened by hook closures. One by one, Conal undid them, his eyes fixed on hers. Winifred was trembling, her breath shallow. He eased the sleeves from her arms and let the dress drop over her hips and to the floor, kissing her forehead, her cheek, her chin, her throat. She closed her eyes, responding to the urge inside her. When his tongue fluttered against hers, she took in a shocked breath before relaxing with the warm sensation that filled her whole body.

  She stepped out of the dress, pushing it away from her with her feet. She was lost. There was no going back. She loved this man.

  She became aware that he’d stopped kissing her and she made a small murmur of protest. When he said nothing, she opened her eyes. Hands on her upper arms he leant back, looking from her neck to her feet, amazement in his face.

  ‘My god, Win, how many layers do you have on?

  She blushed under his scrutiny. ‘You live with your sister, Conal, you must know about women’s clothes? Adding quickly. ‘The washing? Honora’s… things?’

  ‘As far as I know…’ it was his turn to look
embarrassed. ‘My sister owns only drawers and petticoats.’

  His discomfort gave her confidence. She leant towards him, pressed her lips to his and stretched up her arms.

  He eased the fine-wool petticoat over her head and let it drop to the floor on top of her dress, his fingers following the scooped-neck of her corset cover. She watched his face as he pulled on the drawstrings, first there, and then at her waist. When the garment fell past her knees to her feet to show the ugly corset she was wearing, she was sorry she hadn’t just worn her lovely new lace bust bodice with the petticoat over the top.

  But she hadn’t. Because she didn’t know that Honora wouldn’t be home. And she didn’t know this moment would happen. Not today. Not here.

  His fingers fumbled with the laces, pulling at them one by one. She placed her hand over his, stilling it for a moment. ‘Kiss me,’ she whispered.

  He held her closely, his kiss light at first before he took in a deep breath and lowered his mouth again to hers, the kiss more urgent.

  She felt him quiver, his hands moving quickly, until the corset dropped away from her and she was standing in front of him covered only in her white combination chemise and drawers.

  ‘Tis beautiful you are,’ he breathed, running his hands over the closely fitted cotton material. She could feel the warmth of his hands when he held her waist before moving them slowly down over her buttocks.

  ‘I’m frightened.’ Would he stop now?

  He did.

  She searched his face. There was only anxiousness in his eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  He shook his head, let his hands drop to his sides. ‘To be sure, I’m sorry too, Win. But I don’t want ya thinking I was after taking advantage of ya.’ His voice low he cupped her face between his palms, carefully holding himself away from her.

  She knew the next move had to be her decision. The sound of their breathing filled the room.

  She undid the buttons at her waist, held onto the flared mid-calf drawers for a second then let them drop. She looked down; the fine lace flounces covered her feet. She didn’t move when Conal unbuttoned the chemise, slid it down her arms.

  At first neither of them moved. Winifred let out the breath she’d held and then drew in another when Conal, his eyes fixed on hers, prised off his boots, slowly removed his clothes. The low flames of the fire cast shadows on his face. She lifted one hand, traced the line of his beautiful high cheekbones, his mouth.

  ‘Ya sure?’

  ‘I am.’

  He lifted her into his arms, the contact of his skin on hers made her stomach clench. When he lowered her onto his bed he followed, lying closely at her side, one leg over her thighs, one hand on her breast.

  And then he was kissing her again, stroking her throat, her shoulders, her breasts, her waist. She tilted her hips against his. She was ready for him

  He slipped inside her. She gasped against the sharp brief pain, closed her eyes tight. After the first thrust he held still.

  ‘Are ya all right?’ His voice quiet.

  She opened her eyes, nodded, one hand on his shoulder, the other slowly stroking his back, from the nape of his neck to the base of his spine. Then she pressed him hard against her.

  They lay, spent, Conal’s head between her small breasts. He shifted slightly, licked at her nipple before taking it into his mouth and sucking on her. Her back arched, her body betraying her, defying the kernel of shame buried within her mind.

  He caressed her stomach, lifted his head to gaze up at her, his eyes moist. ‘My god, Win, you’re glorious, so ya are,’ he murmured. ‘Thank ya, my darlin’. I love you, always will. I’ll be the best man I can for ya. I’ll never let you down.’

  The rush of relief was instant in Winifred; he didn’t despise her for giving in to him, he knew how much she had to lose. Had lost. And he still respected her.

  Conal slid out of the covers and stood looking down at her. He held out his hand and she took it. Feeling shy she let her eyes travel from his face to his chest, his waist, his hips. And, for the first time, she saw what a man was. Her heart quickened, realising that only minutes ago he had been inside her and the thought brought heat to her face. She moved her gaze back to his face, saw he was smiling.

  And then he said, ‘I love ya, Miss Duffy.’

  And everything seemed right. She’d given the most precious thing she’d had to the man who loved her.

  He squeezed her hand and turned to pick up his trousers; his thighs and buttocks were muscular, taut. Winifred studied him, felt almost possessive about him. He was hers as much as she now belonged to him.

  Winifred knew that she was a fallen woman. There was no going back. For a moment she acknowledged the shame, the fear, the fact that she would be seen as spoiled goods if it was ever discovered what they’d just done. But she didn’t care. She loved him and was loved in return.

  Chapter 42

  November 1911

  Bill wrapped his arms around his knees and hunched up in the doorway of the barn watching the rain slant across the fields for as far as he could see. Which wasn’t far; the Pennines in the distance were shrouded in misty cloud. Sheep, brought down from those hills for the winter, now huddled in the shelter of the meandering stone walls that divided the land closer to the farm. They made no sound. Probably as bloody miserable as he was. God, he was sick to death of being wet through.

  He rested his head on his knees, wishing he could just go to sleep, knowing there was no chance; his whole body was shuddering with the cold. Besides, when he did sleep the nightmare returned. He was running, always running, and behind him were hordes of people baying and shouting for his blood. And standing watching, always, the figure of Winifred Duffy, dressed from head to toe in black.

  Looking up, he pushed the image of John Duffy’s coffin out of his mind, and tried to work out what he was going to do. It was too late in the afternoon to move on. He wasn’t even clear where he was moving on to. For the past three months he’d zigzagged aimlessly across the country, dossing down where and when he could, sometimes in a penny flea-pit, mostly sleeping rough. He tried to avoid towns, sticking to remote villages and hamlets; picking up the odd job here and there, stealing food when he had no money to pay for it. The money he’d taken from Duffy’s place had long gone; sometimes he had nightmares about what he’d done for just a few quid.

  Suddenly remembering the potatoes filched from outside the grocer’s shop in the last village, he fumbled, frozen-fingered, in his jacket pocket for the last one. God knows when he’d next eat but before that he hadn’t eaten for three days and his belly still thought his throat was cut.

  He took a large bite. The sourness made his eyes water. He turned his head and spit out the half-chewed lump. It was rotten, black.

  ‘Shit.’ Flinging the potato as far as he could, he shouted again. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’ A faint echo of his voice floated above him. At the back of the large building straw rustled, there was a murmuring of soft clucking and three hens strutted into sight, feet held high, heads bobbing.

  Eyes narrowed, Bill watched them. He held his breath, waited for them to get closer, trying to judge which one to go for. The nearest stopped, it’s beady, dark yellow eyes fixed on him.

  ‘Come on, come on,’ Bill whispered. He’d eat the bugger raw if he had to.

  It moved closer, slowly.

  Bill dived, missed. The bird rose high in the air squawking in panic. The others joined in, and then the straw was scattered as dozens of other hens flung themselves from underneath with harsh cackles.

  ‘Bastard!’ Bill yelled and rolled onto his back, holding his elbow which had twisted under him.

  ‘Stay…where you are.’

  The outline of the man almost filled the barn door, his figure black against the light of the day outside.

  Bill heard the quiet click of a safety catch, saw the jerk of the shotgun.

  ‘Sit…up. Do it slowly…slowly.’ There was a slight hesitancy in his voice.

&nb
sp; Bill did as he was told; there was nothing else he could do. He wouldn’t argue with a bloke who was pointing a shotgun.

  ‘I haven’t eaten in—’

  ‘Shut…it. On your…knees.’

  Struggling, Bill attempted to do as he was told but the stiffness of his bad knee was worse in wet weather and he groaned with the pain. ‘I can’t…’

  ‘This is…my farm.’ The man reached sideway and pushed the door wider. ‘Who… who are you?’

  ‘Just a chap down on his luck.’ Bill tried a smile but, not being able to see the man, wasn’t sure if he’d pacified him.

  ‘Sid, what was it.’ A woman appeared, her silhouette small and round. She didn’t sound young. At her side were two black and white sheepdogs. Growls rumbled in their throats.

  ‘Thief,’ was the short reply.

  ‘I only wanted—’

  ‘To…to kill one of my fowl.’ The farmer stuttered. He jerked the gun again. ‘Stand…stand up.’

  It took Bill a few minutes to stagger to his feet. ‘Injured working in the mines,’ he explained in the direction the woman, hoping she’d be more sympathetic.

  She didn’t answer. The rain increased, pounding loud onto the concrete yard then splashing up into the air. Water gurgled in a drain.

  ‘Can I…?’ Bill pointed to his cap on the ground nearby.

  The farmer grunted assent.

  Stiff-legged, Bill bent down and gathered up the sodden cap. Straightening, he wrung it out and slapped it against his thigh, flattening it out. He couldn’t stop shivering; he’d walked miles in the constant rain over the last week and his clothes were wet through. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been dry. It had been a bloody awful winter.

  ‘And he can come into the house and get warmed up.’

  It was the woman. The leap of gratitude inside him made him swallow; he’d seen little kindness since he’d left Morrisfield, especially over the last few weeks. He didn’t suppose his accent had helped since he’d got into Lancashire.

  ‘What?’ The farmer glanced down at the woman. ‘Ma—’