‘You’ll regret it, Mr. Townsend, you’ll regret it. Those winds from yon north’ll be nay good for the front of yon house, nay good at all.’
‘I’d rather the cold north winds than the view of Harwood,’ Henry Townsend declared firmly. The architect shook his head and the builders had gone ahead with the house, which faced northeast, a slight concession. In winter thought, the freezing winds would sweep into the front hall on the opening of the huge oak door, but to compensate, so Henry insisted firmly, was the grand view: first of all were the scenic gardens; green manicured lawns, hedges and rose gardens, terraces filled with colour, pathways edged with nodding flowers and sturdy shrubs. Further afield (and more importantly to Henry) were the meadows, moors, copses, the sparkling Calder and beyond this, in the distance, Pendle Hill and the Pennines rising serene and majestic, in summer startlingly clear, in winter often enveloped in swirling mists and fog but still breathtakingly beautiful.
**********
On a mild, clear spring day, the sky overhead a pale blue helmet, a horseman rode down the winding gravelled drive of Hyndburn Hall. He was bare headed, his straight black hair flopping over his face as his body rose and fell with the long, loping canter of the horse. He was completely at ease, almost seeming part of the animal, (a centaur in tight fitting jodhpurs and white open necked shirt), as he had been ever since his father had given Midnight to him when he was fifteen.
Stephen Townsend looked around, almost hungrily. The sky still had that pale, gray-blue newly washed look of the early morning. A thrush took wing close to his face and he followed it for a moment as it soared into the trees. Had he ever looked this closely at Hyndburn before? He doubted it. Like everything else he’d taken it all for granted. Now each trill of a bird, each whispering cadence of leaves stirred gently by the breeze, touched a nerve, exposing his emotions like a flower opening to the welcome warmth of the sun. He’d always loved his early morning rides, the feeling that he was quite alone in the universe, at peace with himself.
He’d recently been given a brand new Harley for his twenty-first birthday. He had hardly used it. Roaring around on a bike couldn’t compare with what he was doing at the moment, especially when he came home. Noise was something he sought to avoid now. It was all noise at the Front. Noise and horror! He would try not to think of it! He only had two short weeks of leave.
Stephen Townsend had turned twenty-one at the beginning of the year. He was at the Front at the time. The advent of World War One had seen a surge of volunteers, eager to get into the action because everyone said that it would all be over by Xmas! Stephen, like all these young men, afraid that he’d miss out on the action had volunteered as soon as he turned eighteen, much to his father’s horror and his stepmother’s disapproval. But the tide of patriotic fervour had just swept him along, as it had so many others.
At eighteen he had been a callow youth, born with the proverbial silver spoon planted firmly in his mouth. His mother had died giving birth giving birth to him, and he could only imagine the horror of this and had felt guilty all his life. His father, naturally, never spoke of it. The death of his mother had created a void in his life, and his stepmother failed to fill it. When war began it seemed natural for him to join up. His head had been full of the glories of war. These had not lasted long. Now he was only too aware of his misconceptions and what war really meant: constant fear, pain, uncertainty and misery.
These thoughts of the war were never far from his mind, even now on this wonderful morning and all those hundreds of miles from the action. So he was only dimly aware that suddenly he wasn’t alone on the drive and he reigned in his horse with an oath as a small figure scrambled onto the grass verge.
‘Watch what you’re doing, you silly sod!’ The voice was high-pitched and tinged with fear.
He fought to control Midnight, who pranced and snorted at the sudden appearance of a young girl, who stood trembling on the side of the drive. Bringing his horse around Stephen looked down in amazement at Leah Hammond’s angry face. Leah was trembling. Hadn’t she had enough frights?
‘What did you call me?’ he said.
‘Silly sod; you should just watch where you’re going. You nearly killed me you did!’
Stephen’s mouth twitched. Did she realize how odd she looked? She wore a long black dress buttoned down the front and reaching just above her ankles, black stockings and ungainly black clogs. His gaze travelled upwards to a small face from which flowed this strong dialect. He laughed suddenly, throwing back his head and snorting out loud.
‘Go on then, laugh. It must be right funny to nearly kill somebody.’ She had her hands on her hips and her initial fear had turned to anger. Who did he think he was, nearly killing her and then laughing about it? He had a right cheek, he did. Leah stood in annoyed silence as Stephen continued to chuckle. He hadn’t laughed in months. He felt better already. He looked down at Leah, who had dropped a number of brown paper parcels.
‘What’s in those,’ he said, pointing.
‘Me clothes.’
‘Clothes?’
‘Aye, I’ve been put on as maid up at the Hall, but I nearly didn’t make it, did I, thanks to you,’ Leah said defiantly.
Stephen quirked an eyebrow, ‘What, no silly sod this time,’ he said.
Leah’s anger subsided at the words. Had she really called him that? A frown of worry crossed her face. Her Mam would be really mad at her if she knew. But she hadn’t been able to help it. It had just come out in her fright.
‘I might be a silly sod,’ Stephen said, ‘And I apologize if I frightened you, but you should be more careful. You shouldn’t walk right in the middle. What if a car came roaring around the corner?’
Leah continued to stare at Stephen in perplexed silence. What had she done? The last thing her Mam had said was to think before she spoke, especially when speaking to the gentry. By the sound of this man’s voice he was the gentry. Oh, she’d really put her foot in it this time and would probably get the sack before she’d even started.
‘You’d better go on up,’ Stephen said more kindly, seeing Leah’s agitation. She nodded. He gave his horse a slight kick and continued on down the drive, his mouth still twitching.
He rode on to the house. Hyndburn Hall came into view and he rode around the front of the house and down the far side. The Hall was a three-storey structure and this morning the sun glinted off the many mullioned windows. The stone façade was fronted by a large circular drive. An ornate fountain in the middle shot a spray of water though which the sun shone, creating a miniature rainbow. Two sets of wide stone steps in a pincer shape curved, one to the right and one to the left, ending in a wide, stone terrace to the main entrance. On either side of the large oak door there were two stone columns holding up an intricately carved portico.
Stephen rode around to the back of the house where the stables were located, also carriage houses, the garages which housed a new Rolls and Bentley, men’s servants quarters, a dairy, vegetable gardens and, further on, the orchards. Hyndburn Hall was almost wholly self-sufficient, except for such things as tea, sugar and flour, which were delivered fortnightly by the carrier from Harwood.
As he approached the stables a young lad of about fourteen appeared. Seeing Stephen he hurried to hold the reins.
‘Give him a good rub down, Ned, there’s a good lad,’ Stephen said, getting off the horse.
‘I will that, Master Stephen,’ Ned said, rubbing Midnight’s head. ‘He likes a good rub down, don’t you, Midnight me beauty?’ Ned patted the horse affectionately.
Stephen ruffled Ned’s hair. ‘I know he’s in good hands with you, Ned.’
‘Aye, he is, Master Stephen,’ Ned said. He flushed and looked embarrassed but he was pleased at the compliment.
Ned loved horses almost as much as he hero-worshiped Stephen, who had rescued him from a life of poverty and misery in the back streets of Harwood, where beatings from his drunken father had been a daily occurrence.
Stephen had
found him one day, on the road leading out of Harwood, beaten almost within an inch of his life. He’d taken him back to Hyndburn and there he’d stayed. He’d never gone home again and he hadn’t missed it, except for his Mam, who had enough on her plate anyway with the ten other children she had to care for.
***********
Leah continued slowly up the drive, watching as the big black horse (which had almost killed her) and its rider, disappeared from view. Now she could see the Hall, resplendent in the early morning sun and she drew in her breath. She stopped and stared in fascination.
She had never seen it so close before, only glimpses of it between the trees when she and Janey and Darkie, in an unusual adventurous foray a few years ago, instigated by Darkie, had climbed the high wall surrounding the property.
Leah remembered how nervous she’d been. She hadn’t Darkie’s adventurous spirit, and had been terrified that they would be caught.. Janey was more like Darkie, eyes bright with excitement at doing something she shouldn’t.
So they’d stayed perched on the wall for some time, (where Darkie had hoisted them) until a short, squat man in corduroy trousers and jacket and a peaked cap had shouted at them. He carried a long, knobbly stick and had appeared through the trees before they could jump off the wall.
‘Go on, get away with you,’ he yelled. ‘This is private property. Go on, bugger off!’ They stared at him in fright, jumped down and ran home as fast as they could.
So this was her first real view of the Hall and she stood for a moment or two trying to take in the magnificence. She suddenly realized the encounter with the man on the horse would probably have made her late and she hurried on down the side of the house to the back door.
**********
Maud Walters was the cook at Hyndburn and at the moment she was kneading pastry with her firm, capable hands. She was up to her elbows in flour and loving it, for cooking was one of her greatest pleasures. She’d been up since five thirty and already had made a batch of pies and three trays of bread, which at the moment filled the kitchen with mouth-watering aromas.
Maud was not your ordinary, run of the mill cook. Her culinary talents were exceptional and she had the ability to make any dish tasty, whether it was cordon bleu or simple hotpot.
Maud shook the flour off her hands and bent down to place another tray of pies in the oven, her neat trim figure another misconception that cooks tended to be fat. In fact, even at forty Maud was, as Bob Watkins the gardener had admiringly commented one day, a fine looking female and a really grand woman into the bargain. Any man worth his salt would be a numbskull if he didn’t try to woo her. Bob had tried, but Maud would have none of it.
Maud was a widow and intended to stay that way and even though she hated living on her own, it was preferable to living with a man. Her first marriage had not been made in heaven and she wasn’t going to take the chance that a second one would. But her loneliness had got the better of her and this was one of the reasons she’d taken the job at the Hall.
The war had taken her husband and two strapping sons, for whom she still cried at night in the privacy of her room. So she’d jumped at the chance to do some cooking and to get amongst people and have a bit of company again. She’d never got on with her daughter and anyway, Maggie had married and gone to live in Manchester, so she didn’t see her from one year’s end to the next. So there had been no one left to cook for, except herself and she didn’t have a lot of interest in eating.
Maud went back to the table and began to knead another lot of bread. She thought again of how this job had been a godsend. It had only been temporary, initially. She’d filled in for Mrs. Dobson, who’d broken her ankle in a snowdrift. Her luck must have been in, because they’d offered her the job permanently when the ankle had failed to mend. The nobs knew when they were well off, though, because even if she did say so herself her cooking was a labour of love.
‘ A wonderful dinner, Mrs. Walters,’ they would say time and time again. And so they should, she thought, with another determined thump to the bread. Mrs. Dobson had been a bit of a slacker, if you could believe all the stories going around.
At the moment Maud’s mind wasn’t entirely on her cooking. It kept wandering to the imminent arrival of the new girl, who was expected at any moment.
As if voicing her thoughts Gertie Wicklow, the parlour maid, came into the kitchen to prepare a tray for upstairs.
‘Not here, then?’ she said. ‘It’s nearly seven. She should’ve been here by now, her first day and all.’ She didn’t give Maud time to reply, but went through into the scullery. Her whining voice continued, making Maud cringe.
‘When she does she can get started in here. There’s already plenty to do.’
She traipsed back into the kitchen to get the crockery for the tray.
‘Now, now, hold your horses, Gertie. Let the lass get her feet before you start bossing her around. Anyway, Leah’ll only be filling in till the new maid comes next week. She’ll have her work cut out with all the sewing Miss Fenton wants her to do.’ Maud spoke sharply, thinking once again how much she disliked Gertie. She looked through the window again.
‘Oh, that must be her now.’
Maud peered through the kitchen window. At the far end of the kitchen garden a small figure paused uncertainly, her hand on the garden gate. Dusting the flour from her hands and arms and then wiping them with a cloth, Maud went to the door.
‘I’d better give her a call. She looks like she doesn’t know what she’s doing.’
Gertie heard Maud’s comment from the scullery.
‘Well, I hope she knows what she’s going to do in here,’ she said sourly.
Maud made an irritated noise in the back of her throat. She opened the door and called out.
‘Oo, oo. Come on, this way.’
Leah looked up startled. All she could see was a white cap and a face peering round the door. She’d been told to take the side path, although she’d wanted to go right round and have a look at the front of the house. But after what had happened with the man on the horse she felt subdued. She might already be in trouble and she didn’t want to add to it.
The truth was she was getting cold feet. What was she letting herself in for? She’d no idea what went on in a big house like the Hall and the thought of working in a kitchen had almost made her change her mind and go back to the mill, because she wasn’t too keen on cooking or cleaning. She was relieved when she was told that her main job would be to help with the sewing. She liked sewing, but just couldn’t see herself scrubbing pots and pans from morning till night.
When she really thought about returning to the mill, however, she went cold. She’d gone back once with her mother to give her notice. Even that short time had been enough. Why had she never noticed the noise before, or the dankness of it, or how depressing it was? She felt faint even now when she remembered what had happened.
So here she was and there was that head, looking like a dismembered thing and calling to her to come in. As there was nothing else she could do, in spite of her misgivings, Leah pushed open the gate and walked cautiously along the flagged path. On either side of the path were neat rows of vegetables. She stared at them curiously. They’d never had a garden. Fancy, growing your own food, she thought in wonder!
As she drew nearer the door Leah smoothed down her dress and pushed the stray wisps of hair back off her face. Did she look neat enough? She felt all hot and bothered after the episode on the drive. The door was now open wide and the woman in the mob cab stood smiling at her. She wore a long black dress, over which was an immaculately starched white apron.
‘Come in, lass, come in,’ she said. ‘Now, now,’ she continued, seeing the look on Leah’s face. ‘We’re not going to eat you. I’m Mrs. Walters, the cook and you must be Leah Hammond.’
Leah nodded shyly and made her way into the kitchen. She relaxed a little at the warm welcome and, feeling more reassured she stood awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen.
She looked around her. She’d never seen so many pots and pans in her life! There seemed to be hundreds, hanging from the ceiling, stacked on open shelves, on cupboards. They were everywhere. It smelt wonderful, too, in this gigantic kitchen and her mouth watered when she saw what was on the table. She hadn’t eaten much breakfast. She’d been too worried. Now she was starving! Maud saw the hungry look.
‘What about one of my teacakes, love with some butter on,’ she said. She could see Leah was uneasy and Miss Fenton didn’t want to see her for another half an hour.
‘You’ve time for a cup of tea as well,’ she added with a smile. Leah nodded.
‘Oh yes, please, Mrs. Walters.’
‘Sit yourself down then,’ Maud said and pointed to one of the chairs.
What a lovely looking lass Maud thought, eyeing Leah surreptitiously. Just look at them eyes! She bustled about pouring Leah a mug of tea and placed it, and a teacake covered in butter (not margarine, Leah noted like they always had), in front of her on the table.
Leah sat perched nervously on the edge of the chair, her eyes flicking from Maud’s busy figure and then around the kitchen. She was just wondering what the noise was in the scullery, when Gertie Wicklow stomped through into the kitchen. There was a frown of annoyance on her face. Seeing Leah she stopped short, the annoyance changing to surprise.
Gertie, her expression as grim as a gate, quickly took in the small figure sitting on the chair: the auburn hair neatly braided; the wispy tendrils, the milky skin and right down to the cumbersome clogs.
Gertie’s gaze raked her like a razor. Leah felt paralyzed by it.
‘Oh,’ Gertie said, as she looked Leah up and down and then at Mrs. Walters, ‘Oh, a cup of tea already? Well, she’d better drink it quick because I’ve just seen Miss Fenton and she’s been asking about her.’ She jerked her head at Leah, who had just taken her first bite of the teacake. It now stuck in her throat like a piece of cardboard.
The Loom Page 6