100 Tiny Threads

by Judith Barrow

  He nodded. He was actually going to take it. He had to be mad.

  As he looked around for somewhere to put his bag, he caught a glimpse of a small figure hovering just inside a room beyond the hallway, a lad dressed on oversized jumper and trousers, his fringe almost covering his eyes.

  ‘Eh up.’ Bill grinned at him.

  The boy stepped back without a word.

  Bill shrugged and followed the woman who’d obviously decided not to wait for him.

  ‘I’m Mrs Duffy.’ She spoke without turning her head. ‘Rent includes breakfast. If you want an evening meal it’s a shilling a week extra and you have it in your room.’ She stood back, holding herself close to the door to let him pass.

  Bill let his gaze sweep around the room, nodding slightly. He’d been in worse: the dark furniture, a wardrobe and a bedside table, too big for the room, thin curtains, a rag rug on the wooden floor by the bed. The bed was a small iron one with a thin mattress. but it was enough for him. It’d do. And it would mean he would see Winifred sometime, surely? ‘Very nice,’ he said, ‘I’ll take it.’

  Ethel Duffy raised her eyebrows as though there’d been no doubt. ‘Right,’ she said, ‘I’ll get Win… I’ll get the bed made up. You can wait in the kitchen until the room’s ready. I’d appreciate the rent when it is.’

  Bill hadn’t missed her slip of the tongue; she almost said Winifred. So she was still here. But on her own or with a husband? By, he was playing a dangerous game. But there was no going back.

  Chapter 71

  March 1922

  Coughing harshly, Bill jerked awake at the sudden sound, his hair plastered to his scalp with sweat; the nightmare still in his head. Wiping his hand over his face he breathed loudly to still the quivering of his heartbeat, and stared up at the ceiling over his bed.

  He’d been stuck on the snarl of barbed wire again, the explosions and crack of rifles pounded in his head. There was a chill inside him, cold that had nothing to do with his surroundings; the sun beating down on his head had no heat. Looking down he saw the splinters of bones, the blood seeping onto frozen ground where his foot should have been. He joined in with the screams around him, whirling his arms around to break free. No Man’s Land. The land around him was pockmarked with craters and littered with bloody and torn limbs. The stench filled his nostrils, filled his lungs. He clamped his mouth shut but still it seeped through his whole body. A large crow landed next to him. He tried to kick out at it but his leg swung, useless from side to side. Snot mixed with tears of pain as the bird strutted around him, pecking at his flesh. When he struggled, the wire bit deep through his tattered uniform into his chest; stabbed pain.

  He saw his image wither; grow old as he hung on the wire. Nobody could do anything for him.

  But then he was scrambling around in the wire entanglements, up to his knees in mud, the strands of barbed wire clinging to his legs and his hands torn and bleeding through the struggle to drag them off. A shell screamed overhead and landed some yards away from him. He saw Reilly’s decaying body. Then others, flying through the air, disintegrating, and landing all around him. He started to scream. And couldn’t stop. Pushing his fingers in his ears, he strove to stop hearing his own agony but it was no good; the cry drilled through his head.

  Bill’s eyes became used to the darkness. He moved his head on the pillow, wet with his sweat, pushed himself into a sitting position to ease the sudden urge to cough, to clear the phlegm, and stared at the square of the window. A second later he flinched as it lit with flash of blazing light. He waited, aware of every twitch of muscle, every lift of his chest with each stuttering breath before the low growl of thunder finally hit a crescendo and subsided.

  In the strange waiting silence that followed he heard someone rattling a poker in the fire grate downstairs.

  He hadn’t meant to go to sleep but over the last few weeks he’d found out there was little else to do on a Sunday afternoon after a session in the pub, after a pie and a pint.

  The day was almost over and he was on early shift in the morning. He swung himself off the bed, shaking his head to rid himself of the memories the nightmare brought him time and time again. His vest was soaked with sweat, so he yanked it off and crumpling it into a ball wiped it over his face and armpits. The bedroom was freezing and the shaking was deep inside his body. Feeling the sheet on the bed he touched chilly dampness. There was no way he was getting back on that yet.

  The sudden rattle of heavy rain on his window made him jump, brought back the images. He needed to get out of this room, but there was no way he was going back to the pub in that weather. With no idea of the time he wondered who was in the kitchen. Then he remembered that every Sunday evening since he’d rented the room the old woman went to visit a neighbour. Putting on his thickest jumper and carefully combing his hair in the small mirror over the dressing table, he convinced himself that it wasn’t as late as he thought and stealthily opened the door. Across the landing her door was slightly open and he could see the boy in his bed. Oblivious to the storm outside.

  He waited at the top of the stairs, listening for any talking. Nothing.

  The nervousness inside him wasn’t the same he’d had just before they went over the top in the war. Nor was it anything like the tension he’d felt in Ireland. Right at this moment he knew that this was his chance to impress Winifred; to get her to like him enough to let him keep her company tonight.

  He took the stairs one at a time, sliding his hand palm downwards on the wall.

  Winifred was just as he remembered her all those years ago, well perhaps not quite; thinner, a few lines around her mouth – a mouth that looked as if it hadn’t been stretched into a smile for a long time. But still a good-looking woman; still the woman he’d tried so hard to get to notice him in the past. Except just before he left Lydcroft. Just after he’d killed… He stopped that thought.

  Even with a kid she was still a good catch. Yeah, even with the boy. His stomach tightened; it had been a shock to find out he was hers, and he’d soon worked out that he was probably the by-blow of the Irish sod he’d seen her with. But he could put up with that; the lad couldn’t help who his father was any more than he’d been responsible for his own drunken bully of a father. He actually seemed a nice kid. Quiet. ’Appen too quiet. Bill had seen the way the old woman looked at the lad sometimes, heard the sharpness of her words to him.

  Chapter 72

  Despite the thunderstorm Ethel had gone next door as she always did on Sunday evening. No doubt to have a moan about her and Tom, Winifred thought.

  Her mother’s parting shot had been to grumble about the lodger. ‘Well at least this weather will wash down the yard. I’m sick of him upstairs; every time he comes back from the mine he leaves mucky footprints all over the place. He needs telling to take off his boots–clogs, whatever he wears, at the gate. I’m not breaking my back to clean up his mess.’ She’d glared at Winifred. ‘If business was better, if we hadn’t lost so much custom down the years, we wouldn’t ever have needed to rent out that room.’ She’d slammed the door on her last words.

  Winifred knew the last was a direct dig at her having had Tom out of wedlock, bringing shame on Ethel. Even after all the years her mother couldn’t resist. She sometimes wondered what Ethel would grumble about if she and Tom weren’t there. But there was no chance of that; they were tied to the place, bound into this life of bitterness, of scorn from the women who came into the shop; who still sometimes refused to be served by her.

  The calm that filled Winifred the moment Ethel closed the back gate gave way to the old anger. But it was an anger she was unable to truly aim at her mother. In all honesty, she reflected, it was as much at herself for falling in love, for trusting Conal.

  Leaning her head forward, she put her hands on the mantelpiece, breathing deeply to regain the calm she forced into herself every day, pushing the wayward thoughts back behind the door in her mind and closing it firmly.

  The slight movement of th
e last tread on the stairs made her turn towards the door. The flames of the fire momentarily flickered yellow in the draught caused by the swish of her skirt.

  Neither of them spoke at first, neither made eye contact. Winifred waited to see what he wanted. He’d been around for about a month but, if he wasn’t working at the mine, the lodger was usually out. She supposed he went drinking in the Wagon and Horses but there was never the smell of alcohol in his room when she went to change the sheets and clean.

  When he didn’t speak she said, ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Mind if I come in?’ he said. ‘It’s a bit parky up in my room. This weather doesn’t help.’

  His request was a surprise; neither of the other lodgers had ever asked to come down into the kitchen once they’d made their way to their own room.

  She stared at Bill, not sure what to say. With her mother out and Tom in bed it would be the first time she’d been on her own in a room with a man since Conal. She struggled to block the name, his image, out. But when the lodger spoke again she immediately compared the harsh Lancashire accent with the soft burr of Conal’s Irish tones.

  ‘Miss? Mind if I grab a bit of warmth?’ He stepped into the kitchen. He wasn’t much taller than her, she hadn’t realised that, the few glimpses she’d had of him over the last weeks.

  What should she do? He was right; his room must be icy cold. Her mother didn’t allow him to have a fire up there. And what harm could it do? ‘Not at all,’ she said, speaking more decisively than she felt. ‘This weather is dreadful, isn’t it?’ She waved her hand towards the chair at the far side of the fireplace but he chose to sit on Tom’s buffet near her. Too near, she thought, trying to move away without him noticing.

  But, ‘It’s okay that I sit here?’ he said, taking a quick breath, as if realising his mistake.

  When she looked at him she saw he seemed as uneasy as her. It made her feel a little more confident.

  ‘I was just going to make a drink,’ she said, not answering him. What could she say? I don’t want you so close to me? How could she say that? She smiled at him. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘A brew would be very welcome. Thanks.’

  She was quite self-conscious waiting for the kettle to boil and arranging the cups and saucers and milk jug and sugar bowl on a tray. But when she turned to carry it to the table he wasn’t watching her; he was staring into the fire, his eyes half closed, legs spread, his hands on his stocky thighs.

  He jumped up when he saw what she was doing. ‘Let me…’

  ‘No, I’m fine, thanks.’ She put the tray down. ‘I’ll let it brew a while.’ She stood, uncertain whether to stay by the table or go back to her chair. ‘Do sit down, you look quite tired.’ Was that too personal a thing to say?

  He didn’t seem to notice. And when he sat down again he went to the chair she’d indicated when he first came downstairs. Perhaps he’d noticed her dismay before.

  ‘I’d just like to sit by the fire for a bit, if that’s okay?’

  ‘That’s fine.’ Winifred studied him. His thick dark hair was carefully arranged into two waves at the front above his broad forehead. His face was ruddy; a scatter of tiny blue scars marked him out as a miner. And although his lips were full they were stretched back into folds of skin at the edges as though he was a man used to holding in words. Or temper, she added to herself. She’d thought she’d remembered him from somewhere the first day she’d seen him. ‘Are you from these parts,’ she asked eventually, pouring the tea. ‘Have you worked at Stalyholme before?

  ‘No, I’m from away.’ He took the cup from her and settled back in the chair. ‘Thanks for this.’

  ‘You’re welcome. I think there’s some cake.’ Winifred looked back to the cupboard. ‘Would you—’

  ‘No, honest, this is enough.’ He rubbed his hands over the tops of his thighs. The material of his trousers made a low rasping sound under his short, stubby fingers. His nails were ragged with a thin line of black under them, she noticed. ‘This is grand.’

  Outside the rain continued. Winifred allowed herself to relax, pleased when he seemed to be as content as she was to sit in easy silence watching the flames of the fire rise and fall with the small gusts of wind that blew down the chimney.

  Bill couldn’t believe his luck. After all these years, after everything that had happened, he was sitting here like this. Every now and then he sneaked a look at her. The rest of the time he gazed into the fire, content just to be near her.

  Chapter 73

  Winifred looked forward to Sunday evenings. Too often in the past, once her mother had left, she’d let her thoughts drift back to Conal.

  Being aware that Bill was waiting on the stairs, ready to make an appearance as soon as the gate closed, gave her no time to brood. And she was thankful for that.

  But she knew the time would come when he would ask the one question she dreaded. It was inevitable. She’d thought long and hard about the answer she would give. There was no point in lying. And although an easy companionship was developing between them there was no indication that he was in any way attracted to her as a woman. It suited her, she often told herself, her throat constricting when Conal’s face came into her mind; she had no interest in any man anymore. So it didn’t matter one way or another. It surprised her how she’d grown such a thick skin since Tom was born, since Granny had gone; other people’s opinion mattered little to her.

  Even so the question took her by surprise when he asked it a few weeks later.

  Leaning forward on the chair Bill held his hands out towards the fire, his profile revealing nothing when he said, ‘Tom’s father… He’s not around any more?’

  Turning her head Winifred saw the edges of his looming shadow on the far wall wavering, yet he sat so still, waiting for her to answer.

  He’d lodged with them since January and there were enough who came into the shop with their spite and gossip. He’s bound to have heard something. Why pretend he hasn’t?

  ‘Why do you ask?’ she said.

  It was his turn to look discomfited. ‘Just making talk, like.’

  Winifred looked down at the cup she was holding and then up at Bill. ‘We’re on our own, my son and me.’ She fixed him with an even stare and drew in a long breath, steadying herself for what she was going to say. ‘His father was the brother of a friend of mine. Irish. He was Irish.’ She drained the cup she’d been holding, still looking at him over the rim. The tea was cold. ‘We weren’t married.’ There, she’d said it. She put the cup down onto the hearth and straightened the folds of her brown skirt. ‘I don’t know where he is.’

  He didn’t speak. Winifred searched for a reaction in his face but there was nothing; only a tiny twitch at the side of his mouth. She cleared her throat. ‘He didn’t even know I was… I was having Tom, when he went away.’

  She hadn’t needed to tell him any of that. The only person she’d confided in was her grandmother. But increasingly over the years Winifred had become isolated, distanced from everyone. She’d had no friends since Honora left, and it was a relief to have someone to confide in. Even this man. Over time she’d learned that he kept himself to himself. She was sure he wouldn’t resurrect any gossip about her.

  The silence lengthened against the spit and crackles of the flames as he leant forward and dropped pieces of coal on top of the fire. When he sat back he rubbed his chin with his forefinger and thumb and looked at her. His eyes were kind, she thought.

  ‘I was…we were, on a march. I’d joined the Suffragettes…’ He said nothing and she made a deprecating sweep of her hand, seeing herself as he must see her. A drab, quiet woman; nothing of her past self to show. ‘I know what you’re thinking…’

  ‘No.’ Bill held out his hands, fingers spread. ‘It’s not my place to judge.’

  ‘I’d started to believe we could get the vote. And some did didn’t they – later?’ She still couldn’t tell what he was thinking. But, for the first time in years, she felt the excitemen
t, the strength of belief in the injustice. ‘But it shouldn’t be about how old a woman is or what property she owns. All women should have the vote…’ The words trailed off, her voice quavered. She gave a breathy laugh. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘No.’ He leaned so far forward his knees were almost touching her. ‘No, you’re right.’

  The astonishment must have shown on her face but she couldn’t help it. She’d misjudged this man; taken for granted that his rough exterior meant he believed that women had one place in life – or perhaps two. She shocked herself by the last thought.

  ‘An’ all men should be equal, an’ all.’ He nodded earnestly.

  ‘You think so? You vote?’

  His ruddy cheeks grew redder. He moved back, pressed both palms together, rubbed them. The movement made a scratching sound. He shrugged. ‘Well, no. Until now I hadn’t settled anywhere. Had nowhere to live, not proper like. Not since the war.’

  ‘I suppose it’s been like that for a lot of men.’ To cover the self-conscious discomfort that was suddenly between them Winifred took both cups over to the sink and rinsed them.

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Anyway, the day I lost Tom’s father there was a violent end to the protest. The police attacked us. We were separated. I never saw him again.’

  She’d barely finished speaking when she heard the back gate open. Moving swiftly she said, ‘I need to go up, see if Tom’s all right.’

  ‘Aye. Me an’ all.’

  When the back door opened neither of them were in the kitchen.

  In her bedroom the old pain rose from Winifred’s stomach to her throat. She tried to muffle the sobs by burying her face in the hard pillow.

  In his own room, Bill owned up to himself that he loved the woman he could hear crying in the next room. ‘Hook, line and sinker,’ he muttered. And with no competition from the Irish bastard he’d try to make her love him. She was the one woman who’d keep him on the straight and narrow, he was sure of that.