Cally and Mary stared at him, stunned into silence. Sykes’s heart ached for them. He attempted to instil some humour into the woeful situation. ‘Sorry, girls, you ran a great race and fell at the last fence.’ The jest failed, miserably. Desperate to bolster their drooping spirits he tried again.
‘Don’t look so downhearted. All is not lost. We’ll soldier on in the New Year. At least we’ve still got a roof over our heads, and one that doesn’t leak, and we’ll not go hungry; we’re not that hard up. We just don’t have the funds to finish the job in time for Christmas.’
Mary wasn’t prepared to give in. ‘Maybe I’ve enough bedding in the linen cupboard. How many guests are arriving?’
For the first time since she had placed the advertisements, Cally was regretting the unexpectedly successful response. ‘Fourteen,’ she intoned miserably. ‘We need sheets, pillowcases, blankets and quilts for six doubles and six singles. And towels.’
‘Twelve beds!’ Mary gasped, her incredulity letting Cally and Sykes know how little she understood about running a commercial enterprise. ‘That’s two dozen each of sheets and blankets, and God knows how many pillowcases. As for the quilts and towels…’ Mary threw up her hands in despair. Sykes buried his head in his hands. Powerless to appease their misery Cally ran from the room, Sykes and Mary so wrapped in defeat they did not notice her departure.
It was Cally’s misery too, for whilst she only worked for them, sharing the venture had fostered a relationship far beyond that of employer and employee. Furthermore, she needed the venture to be successful. It was part of her future. She had to make it work.
In the hall, Cally took her winter coat from the cupboard and left by the front door, her hair flying like a flag in the breeze as she marched down the drive in the chill breeze. She didn’t stop until she came to the stretch of woodland sheltering Copley House from sharp, east winds blowing down from the moor.
Winter sunshine glinted between the bared branches of ancient beech, oak and ash, dead leaves crunching underfoot as Cally strode along, deep in thought. Under the spread of a magnificent horse chestnut a few spiky globes lay rotting in the mulch at her feet. Some had split wide open, exposing green linings soft as swansdown and glossy brown conkers that looked good enough to eat.
She picked one up and eased the nut from its bed, then slipped it back into place. It fitted perfectly. That’s how I’ve felt these past few months, she thought, as though I’m in exactly the right place.
She pressed the two halves of the casing together, its spikes pricking the palm of her hand. She tightened her grip, adding pain to pain, the sensation nothing compared to that which throbbed in her aching head and heart. Suddenly, she knew what she must do. She’d risk everything she had to feel as cosseted and secure as this horse chestnut. It would be a gamble, but one she hoped would pay off in the end.
She went in search of the Balmforths. ‘I’ll buy the bedding and we can pay the staff on a daily basis with money we take from the guests. That way, if the hotel is empty we won’t be handing out wages when there are no guests. We’ve paid the girls that way up until now and they haven’t complained. We might have to negotiate with Peggy Murgatroyd. She might expect to be retained on a firmer footing, cooks usually do, but she seemed to be an understanding sort of person when we interviewed her, and she needs the job. What do you say to that?’
Two pairs of eyes, one sharp and grey, the other baby blue and blurred with tears, stared at her. Sykes was the first to find his voice.
‘You’ll pay for bedding? How? We haven’t paid you a penny in wages since you came here. We owe you money, not the other way round.’
Cally smiled. ‘I know,’ she said quietly. ‘We agreed you would give me my keep and I would give my labour in return, and when the business took off you’d settle up with me. I’ve been more than happy with the agreement because you’ve given me so much more besides: friendship, fun, and an opportunity to prove myself. I think it’s been worth it. Now I want to give something in return.’
‘But bed linen costs pounds,’ protested Mary. ‘You couldn’t afford it, and even if you could it wouldn’t feel right.’
‘We can’t open for Christmas unless I do. We’ll have to cancel the bookings and get a bad reputation before we’ve even started. I don’t want that to happen, so I’ll buy the bedding and pay the wages, if you’ll let me.’
Sykes gazed fondly at the young woman standing before him, her dark eyes glowing with determination, her stance telling him she brooked no opposition. A splinter of doubt pierced his thoughts. Did she think the bedding could be bought for a few paltry pounds, maybe five or ten at most? He hated to burst her bubble and throw the offer back in her face, but he had to ask the question.
‘Exactly how much money do you have, Cally?’ His voice wavered: he feared the answer.
‘Sixty-seven pounds,’ she told him, calmly.
‘Sixty-seven pounds!’ squealed Mary.
Cally savoured the incredulous looks on both faces.
‘Part of it I saved when I worked at The Royal Oak, the rest came in that letter I received from Australia last week, from Henry Brook; a bonus you might call it. It’s in the shape of a cheque and I wasn’t sure what to do with it. I was going to ask Sykes’ advice when we weren’t quite so busy. If you take the cheque and put it in the bank we can go ahead as planned.’
‘I don’t know what to say,’ spluttered Sykes. ‘You could be throwing it away on a lost cause. Copley House might not take off. You could lose everything.’
‘I’ll take my chances,’ Cally retorted. ‘You took a chance on me, and now it’s my turn to take one on you. If all goes well you can pay me back with a bit extra on top.’ She grinned cheekily and urged them to accept.
Mary, heedless of dropped stitches, let go of her knitting to hug Cally. Sykes put his arms around the pair of them and held them close. Cally’s future was back on track.
16
The fir tree in the centre of Copley House’s hallway twinkled and glittered, its sappy fragrance pervading the air. Jim Gibson had cut it down earlier that morning and Cally, wanting to convey the spirit of Christmas from the moment the guests arrived, had spent the last two hours dressing it. The first two visitors were expected at lunchtime, four more towards evening and tomorrow a further eight. All she had to do now was make a final check on each of the bedrooms.
Two of the rooms were to be occupied by the Misses Fothergill and she entered one of these first. When Miss Lydia Fothergill had written to confirm the booking she had expressed her own and her sister’s interest in the moors, so Cally had allocated rooms with windows looking out to the great escarpment of Wessenden Head and West Nab. This should keep them happy, she thought, adjusting the green moiré drapes at the window in one of the rooms and gazing out across the moor, hopeful that the clement weather would not change and prevent them from walking.
Polished wood glowed in the light from the cheery blaze in the fireplace. Throwing a shovel of coal on the flames, she made a mental note to tell Sally, one of the two maids, to make a regular check on the fires. It wouldn’t do for guests to arrive to grates full of ashes.
On a round table in the centre of the room a bowl filled with gold and copper winter chrysanthemums gave off that sweet, earthy smell Cally so loved. She dipped her head, taking a deep, satisfying breath before crossing to the adjoining door and into the next room.
It was almost identical in shape, size and layout, the only difference being the colour scheme. In here the window drapes were creamy white, and on the centre table a white porcelain bowl held a display of greenery and the last of the white roses from the kitchen garden. Sheltered by high walls these waxy winter blooms, nursed by Jim Gibson’s green fingers, had, for all their apparent fragility, withstood the frosty weather.
Satisfied the Misses Fothergill would have no cause for complaint she checked the rooms overlooking the lawns to the front of the house. She’d chosen rose-red drapes and accessories for th
ese rooms, and being the largest bedrooms in the house they were able to accommodate a sofa and soft chairs as well as the usual furnishings. Grandly opulent, she hoped they would impress Mr and Mrs Joseph Campion, travelling from London, and the Reverend and Mrs Mackenzie from Edinburgh.
Checking two more rooms on the first floor and six single rooms on the second that the Janus Club Ramblers would occupy, Cally drew a deep, satisfied breath. For the next two weeks Copley House would be filled with visitors.
Still overwhelmed by the unexpected number of bookings she was curious as to why all these people had chosen to stay in Copley House at this time of year. She determined to find out at the first opportunity.
Inspection completed, a knot of anxiety twisted in her stomach and she clutched a hand to her midriff, the pain worsening as she ran down the back stairs. Panic seized her. At the foot of the stairs she leant against the banister, the aroma of rack of lamb redolent with freshly chopped mint reaching her nose. Common sense kicked in. She wasn’t ill; she was ravenous.
In the kitchen Peggy Murgatroyd basted the lamb, its juices sizzling in a huge roasting tray. Mary was piping cream into tall stem glasses filled with compote of red berries; summer preserves.
A sense of achievement made Cally’s eyes sparkle. This was one of Mrs Fogarty’s recipes, jotted down late at night in the notebook she’d kept whilst employed by the awful Cratchleys; the notebook that had been stolen during the night she slept on the railway station after William tried to rape her. It all now seemed so long ago, and although Cally had remembered the recipe she could barely remember what the old woman looked like. And even if she could it wouldn’t have been a happy memory, but credit where credit was due, Mrs Fogarty had been a prodigious cook.
Her spirits revived by a hearty lunch, Cally welcomed Copley House’s first paying guests. The two tall, bony women clapped their hands with glee at the sight of the splendid Christmas tree; Cally liked them immediately. Gaunt and angular, the Fothergill sisters reminded her of a pair of thoroughbred racehorses. They even managed to sound like them. Lydia Fothergill neighed and Phoebe Fothergill whinnied, and although they were wont to talk at one and the same time, each voice was clearly distinguishable, so far apart on the scale were they, Lydia’s deep, masculine tones being a full octave below Phoebe’s high-pitched trill.
Sykes had collected them from Marsden Station in the Morris, and now Jim Gibson carried two bulging leather bags and two sturdy haversacks into the hallway. After checking his boots were clean, Cally asked him to take the baggage upstairs and leave it on the landing. The sisters praised the cosy comfort of the drawing rooms and the view over the lawns. The bedrooms met with the same response. Like a pair of excited fillies they cantered between the two rooms, marvelling at the spectacular views.
‘We’re walkers. We like nothing better than trekking over the moors,’ Lydia neighed, removing a stout pair of hiking boots from one of the rucksacks, at the same time as Phoebe whinnied, ‘You won’t see much of us during the day. We’ll be out walking those hills.’
‘Do make a point of going up the Wessenden Head Road whilst you’re here,’ Cally advised. ‘There’s a huge stone in the shape of a cockerel and someone with a lively wit has recently painted it to make it look even more like a bird. It made me smile when I first saw it.’ The sisters promised to include it in their itinerary.
‘We know the stone to which you refer,’ Lydia replied, ‘we used to live in this area. Our father was a Methodist minister in his younger days. When he was transferred from his parish in the heart of Birmingham to one in Linthwaite we and our mother accompanied him.’
‘So we did,’ piped Phoebe. ‘After the noise and grime of the city a country posting was like heaven and we girls learned to love the Pennines. Isn’t that so, Lydia?’
‘Indeed. We make a point of returning as often as time and money allow. When we saw your advertisement in The Countryman we couldn’t wait to try you out.’
Cally left the sisters to unpack, her curiosity satisfied without having had to ask a single question. She skipped back down to the kitchen, convinced that the Misses Fothergill were going to be fun. Nobody would describe them as glamorous, dressed as they were in rough tweed skirts and jackets, sensible heavy soled shoes and head hugging woollen hats, yet they exuded an old-world charm and a delicious enthusiasm for life.
‘Our very first guests; and they couldn’t be nicer if we’d chosen them ourselves,’ Cally reported to Mary. ‘They’ll be down for something to eat in twenty minutes, you’ll meet them then, and I know you’ll like them.’
Mary did, and after the sisters had eaten a lunch of home cooked ham garnished with a thick mustard sauce, she described walks she had taken with Sykes, and they recalled walks they had taken with their father.
‘It’s Pule Hill for us this afternoon,’ Lydia boomed, ‘walk off this splendid lunch.’
When they had departed, Mary beamed at Cally. ‘I think this hotel lark’s going to be fun after all. More like having friends to stay. I was apprehensive about sharing my home with strangers, but no one stays a stranger for long I venture. I’m going to enjoy this Christmas.’
She did: and so did everyone else.
The Campions were a chatty, easy going couple, come to stay in the valley to be near her parents at this festive time of year. A successful purveyor of meat in a busy London borough, Joseph Campion was bluff and hearty. ‘Lucy’s family home is a bit on the small side for my liking,’ he told Cally, as she served them a welcome cup of tea. ‘I prefer a bit of luxury, an’ it’s not as though I can’t afford it.’
Shortly after this rather boastful disclosure, Cally found herself listening to the Reverend and Mrs Mackenzie’s reasons for choosing to stay in Copley House. ‘It was the wording in your advertisement that lured us into making our first visit to Yorkshire,’ said Reverend Mackenzie and Cally was charmed by his soft Scottish burr.
‘It’s not that we don’t like Edinburgh,’ Mrs Mackenzie explained, ‘but since John retired he so misses leading his congregation in what is one of the most important festivals in the religious calendar, we prefer to spend Christmas in some other location, and this one seems perfect.’ Cally was delighted.
Later that evening Cally, Susan and Sally served dinner to Copley House’s first paying guests. Fresh trout, followed by rack of lamb and the compote went down a treat, compliments flying thick and fast.
Next day the Janus Club Ramblers arrived. Eight professional gentlemen, all bachelors and keen walkers, they chose different locations to explore as they saw out the old year and welcomed in the new.
After the delicious evening meal was consumed Peggy hurried home to her young family but Sally and Susan stayed on, invited by Mary to join in the fun; after all it was Christmas Eve.
In the drawing room the guests and staff played charades and sang carols, Phoebe Fothergill proving to be a most efficient accompanist on the piano. Joseph Campion delivered two comical monologues to rapturous applause and the Reverend Mackenzie, in more sombre vein, a poem by Robbie Burns. Cally sang popular songs of the day, tunefully assisted by Sally, Susan and the ramblers, everyone declaring it a night to remember.
Musical interludes became a regular feature over the festive season and, the old year out and the New Year in, the guests departed with promises to return.
*
The house seemed strangely quiet after the guests had departed and, bed linen changed and rooms cleaned, there was little to do. Heavy snowfall made the roads impassable; Copley House and the village were marooned in a winter wonderland and the reservations book was blank.
Peggy Murgatroyd, Sally and Susan were sent home to await further calls to duty, and Cally and the Balmforths waited for business, and the weather, to improve. Time hung heavily and Cally, hating to waste it, wrapped up warmly and, weather permitting, explored the countryside, icy winds nipping her nose and reddening her cheeks to a healthy glow. Her walks, however, were not entirely carefree.
Today, the snows having melted to slush, Cally walked the moor worrying over the absence of any further business; had the Christmas bookings been a flash in the pan? Money was tight, and with several outstanding bills still to be settled, they desperately needed a lump sum to tide them over the lull; hopefully Spring would bring better weather and with it an influx of guests. Her worries increasing with every step, Cally trudged back the way she had come.
Eventually she arrived at the footpath dividing Copley House from Blackstone Farm. She walked alongside the field that backed onto Copley House’s paddock, pitying the bedraggled sheep huddled against the walls. They looked thoroughly miserable, their winter fleeces thick, grey and tattered. Cally, glad to be human, thought of a roaring fire and the comforts of Copley House. Maybe I should round the sheep up and take them with me, charge their owner bed and board. Smiling wryly at the nonsensical notion she suddenly had a sensible idea.
The sheep belonged to Gilmore Blackstone. But the field belonged to Sykes. In return for a small annual rent it had been leased to the Blackstones long before Sykes had inherited Copley House. Why not ask Gilmore Blackstone to buy it, and the field running along the north side of the house? The two fields served little purpose as far as guests were concerned for Copley’s gardens were more than ample. Buoyed by the idea and eager to discuss it with Sykes and Mary, Cally quickened her pace.
Further along the lane a stile led into the paddock, which provided a shorter route back to the house. When Cally reached it she hastily placed one foot and then the other on the narrow, wet wooden bars and was just about to throw one leg over when the soles of her boots slipped through the bars, catapulting her backwards. She landed on the footpath flat on her back, her red woollen skirt up round her middle.
Winded and shocked by her sudden downfall, Cally kept her eyes shut tight and assessed her position, the thud of heavy boots and a pleasant voice bringing her abruptly back to full awareness. Eyes wide, she stared up into a handsome face topped by a shock of wavy, blonde hair.
The Child from the Ash Pits Page 15