‘Are you alright?’ the voice repeated anxiously. ‘You’re not hurt, are you?’ Worry creased his features, sharpening his cheekbones and finely sculpted chin. Keen blue eyes met her own.
A guardian angel, thought Cally, dreamily. Feeling foolishly inept, she managed a pathetic smile. Cold seeped through her lower limbs and, puzzled by the sudden chill, she raised her head to peer in their direction. The sight of her exposed legs, clad in thick woollen stockings, had her cheeks matching the colour of her red skirt. She pushed it down and scrabbled to her feet. The stranger caught her by the elbow, offering his support until she regained her balance. To hide her embarrassment she lowered her head, her hands frantically brushing mud from her skirt. As she did so, the man gently brushed her shoulders. Cally straightened.
‘There,’ he said, stepping back to assess her. ‘Apart from a bit of muck you seem none the worse for your acrobatic display.’ He smiled disarmingly, showing her he intended no slight. In response, Cally’s lips, reddened to deep cherry by the frosty air, curved delightfully. He was entranced.
‘Thanks for your help,’ she said. ‘What is it they say? More haste, less speed.’ She made to move past him to the stile but he stretched out his arm, preventing her passage.
‘Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Red Blackstone. My father has the farm over yonder. And you are…?’
Cally gripped the proffered hand. ‘Cally Manfield, from Copley House.’ What a coincidence, she thought. Here am I planning for Sykes to ask Gilmore Blackstone to buy the field and along comes his son to rescue me.
Red released her hand. ‘So, you’re staying at Copley. Are you on holiday?’
Cally chuckled at the idea. ‘No. I live there. I work for the Balmforths.’
Red digested the information thoughtfully. ‘I can’t imagine why I haven’t seen you before. I would have remembered if I had.’ He smiled again, his eyes full of admiration, letting her know he liked what he saw.
Cally blushed. ‘It’s probably because up until now I’ve been so busy working I haven’t had time to wander the footpaths and turn somersaults over stiles.’ She spoke lightly, her discomfort assuaged.
He appeared loath to let her go, and by now Cally had forgotten her hurry. ‘So, they call you Red. It’s not the colour of your hair gave you the name.’
Red self-consciously pushed back the blonde curls. A small, raised scar in the shape of a sickle marred his brow. ‘No, you’re right about that,’ he said. ‘Actually, it’s short for Edward Redvers. I earned my nickname on the first day at grammar school. I was nervous and when the master asked my name I replied Redward Edvers Blackstone, sir; and it stuck.’ He chuckled at the memory, his hair flopping back over his forehead. Cally found it endearing.
‘It’s a good story. Mine’s a nickname too. I’m really Caroline but when I was little I couldn’t get my tongue round it so I became Cally.’ A flood of memories assaulted her and the light went out of her eyes.
Red observed the change. ‘Suddenly you’re sad. Is it because you’d like to be Caroline or is it because you’re a long way from home? I know you’re not from round here. I know everybody in Copley.’
Impressed by his sensitivity, Cally’s admiration deepened. But time was ticking away, the shadows lengthening. Sykes and Mary would start to worry if she were not back soon. And, although her feet were freezing, Cally wanted to stay to learn all about him and tell him more about herself.
‘I’m from Calthorpe, near Barnsley, and I can’t honestly say I’m homesick, but every now and then a painful memory creeps to the surface to remind me of who I truly am.’ She shrugged carelessly, eager to dispel his concern. She didn’t want him thinking she was a misery.
‘We all have sad memories and, like you say, they creep up on us when we least expect them. The thing is not to let them spoil the present, or the future. They’re past: gone and best forgotten.’ He flicked back his hair, the scar revealed for a second time.
‘How did that happen?’ Cally asked, pointing to his brow.
‘A horse – it kicked me when I was five and I’ve hated them ever since, much to the regret and disgust of my father and brother. No matter how hard I try to overcome the fear it’s always there. I avoid horses at all costs.’
‘That must be difficult, being a farmer.’
‘Oh, I’m not a farmer,’ Red exclaimed. ‘I’m a fixer of engines or things that work by electricity. I repair them when they break down. I don’t have qualifications because according to my father I’m a disappointment. He can’t believe I don’t want to be a farmer, so he denies me the time and money to go to college. He considers it a passing phase, one I’ll eventually grow out of.’ He grinned. ‘I don’t really mind. I help out wherever I can as long as it doesn’t involve animals. I keep the machinery running, I fix people’s motors and I experiment with electrical gadgets. Mostly I do what I like. I can’t complain.’
‘Then you’re a lucky man,’ Cally chirped. ‘Now I have to go, or the Balmforths will think I’m lost on the moors and send out a search party.’
Red stepped away from the stile and held out a hand. ‘Allow me to assist you, madam,’ he said, his tone courteously exaggerated. He sounded so comical, Cally’s laughter pealed across the fields, echoing in the dusk of early evening.
‘Will I see you again,’ he asked urgently, as she hopped down from the stile.
‘I hope so,’ she replied. ‘The hotel isn’t busy. In fact we have no guests and I’ve plenty of time to spare.’
Relief lit his face. ‘Then I’ll call on you tomorrow afternoon at two thirty. Take care now; no more acrobatics, no riding on a sheep’s back and no cartwheels across the paddock.’
Cally smiled all the way home.
*
‘I’ll sound Gilmore Blackstone out. It’s a jolly good suggestion.’ Sykes asserted that evening, after Cally had told him her idea concerning the fields. ‘He’s never asked to buy them and I’ve never offered to sell, but that doesn’t mean he won’t be interested.’
Mary, more interested in Cally’s meeting with Red Blackstone, playfully interrogated her. She giggled when Cally described how Red had found her in disarray. ‘I bet he was thrilled,’ she chortled, ‘you’ve a lovely pair of legs, even in thick stockings.’ Cally blushed at the memory.
‘Where is he taking you?’ Mary wanted to know.
‘I’m not sure,’ replied Cally, doubts assailing her. She turned a troubled face to Mary, eager for advice. ‘What should I wear? I’ll need to be well wrapped up if we go walking, yet I’ll look pretty foolish in big boots and a woolly hat if we go elsewhere.’
‘You’ll look lovely no matter what you wear,’ Mary reassured her. ‘Why don’t you put your new brown skirt and twinset on under the camel coat I gave you? That way you’ll be warm and smart, and brown really suits you. It brings out the colour of your eyes. And if he’s as sensitive as you say, when he sees you dressed like that he’ll not traipse you up Wessenden Head, he’ll most likely take you into town.’
I might have lost my mother so long ago I can barely recall what she looked like, but in Mary I’ve found a replacement, and now I’ve met Red, thought Cally as she mounted the stairs to her room.
This chance meeting had a profound impact on all of them: Mary because she considered it was high time Cally had a young man, Sykes because the two favourite women in his life were happy, and Cally because she thought she might be in love.
17
Cally and Red slithered along the icy pavement, her hand tucked firmly in the crook of his arm. He was taking her to the Electric Cinema in Marsden to see Daddy Longlegs. As they walked along he gave a brief commentary on the film, taking care not to reveal the plot, merely the fabulous dancing and super stage sets she could expect to see.
Cally was puzzled. ‘But if you’ve already seen it, wouldn’t you rather go to see one you haven’t?’
‘There aren’t any,’ Red replied, drolly, ‘I’ve seen them all. I’m the part-time pro
jectionist at the Cinema. I run the reels three nights a week and get to watch the films over and over again, for free.’
Yet another interesting facet in Mr Red Blackstone’s make-up, thought Cally. Out loud she asked, ‘Don’t you get tired of seeing the same film night after night?’
‘No. I’m crazy about projectors and films. They’re the most marvellous invention. Those images on the silver screen allow any Joe Soap to visit different times, different places and see things he might only dream about. Film brings the world to our doorsteps. What more could we ask for?’
His words reminded her of Isabel Greenwood: she’d once said something similar about books. Delighted by his passion, she felt the now familiar flutter in her heart.
Red gazed at her fondly. ‘You’re smiling a secret smile.’
‘I was thinking about my old teacher. She loved books the way you love films.’ Cally’s mouth drooped. ‘She had great hopes for me but they didn’t work out.’
‘Now you look sad,’ remarked Red. ‘Is it because you didn’t live up to her expectations?’
Without thinking twice, Cally told of her mother’s tragic death when she, Cally, was almost seven, the shock when her dad married Annie and the cruelty that followed.
She deliberately bypassed the awful interlude with William Cratchley, and the later one with Alf. She didn’t want him thinking she was a loose woman. She spoke warmly of the Brooks and the Balmforths, then her hopes for Copley House and for herself. He listened without interruption and when she fell silent he stopped walking, causing her to stop too.
He turned to face her and for a moment he held her close, brushing her brow with his lips. Cally had never felt more comforted.
‘You’re going to enjoy Daddy Longlegs,’ he said, ‘particularly the storyline.’ She asked why, but he wouldn’t elaborate on the remark. Instead he made her laugh as in words and actions he attempted to explain the ‘bodyline’ technique. It appeared cricket was another of his passions. He was following the Third Test Match.
‘The Australians don’t like it,’ he said, pretending to bowl over-arm to an invisible batsman. ‘They say it’s unsportsmanlike, but we call it leg theory.’ He bowled again, almost losing his balance on the icy pavement. Terms such as ‘leg stump’ and ‘close fielder’ were lost on Cally but she enjoyed listening to his enthusiasm and watching his crazy antics.
By now they were on the outskirts of Marsden, the scattered houses, open spaces and clear air of Copley village replaced by rows of drab houses and plumes of grey smoke belching from towering chimneys.
It was Friday and the main thoroughfare, sensibly named Manchester Road for it eventually led to that city, thronged with mill workers finished for the day. In common with other industries throughout England, business was in decline and the mills were on short-time.
Men in greasy jackets and flat caps dawdled on street corners or outside public houses, no doubt debating whether they could afford to enter: short-time meant short wages, and pay was poor at the best of times. They reminded Cally of the striking miners in Calthorpe, too much time on their hands and no money to enjoy it.
Women wearing brightly patterned cross-over aprons lounged on their doorsteps, the tell-tale turbans that hid their crowning glories letting Cally know they were spinners or weavers. She shuddered, recalling Peggy’s gory description of how the thrashing machinery scalped her niece when she leaned in too far to catch a broken thread.
Grimy children played in the gutters, the women on the doorsteps ready to give a warning shout should a car or wagon rumble by on its way to Huddersfield or Manchester. The entire scene was grey and depressing: a typical small mill town, worn down by drudgery and penury. Only the mill owners thrive in towns like this, thought Cally, just as the colliery owners do in Calthorpe. She decided she would visit her dad once the snow had gone.
Red guided her to a hostelry down a side street, timber boards and tiny mullioned windows indicating the age of the building. The Weaver’s Arms, Red explained, was one of the oldest establishments in town and it served a good hot dinner.
‘Nothing fancy,’ he said, his eyes twinkling. ‘It can’t compete with Copley House, I’m sure, but it’ll warm us up and prevent us starving to death in the back row of the pictures.’
‘You’ll have to come for dinner one evening,’ Cally invited. ‘Peggy Murgatroyd and Mary Balmforth know how to put on a spread. If it’s true what they say, that a man’s stomach is the way to his heart, those two deserve a proposal after every meal.’
‘Maybe a dinner at Copley House would find its way to my heart.’
Cally flushed with embarrassment; she had repeated the old adage without intending any double meaning. He must think I’m very forward, she agonised.
Inside the Electric Cinema they sat in a double seat at the back of the auditorium and as the lights went down Red felt for Cally’s hand. The crazy antics of a cartoon raced across the screen, music blaring. They giggled like children. A newsreel came next, the commentator’s voice rich and compelling. Then the lights went up, Red rising to his feet and pulling Cally with him. Her heart sank. He’d tired of her already. She wondered what she’d done wrong.
‘Come on,’ he said, chivvying her up the aisle. ‘We just have time to nip up to the projection room before the big picture starts.’ Relief flowed through her veins. They weren’t leaving; he was going to share one of his passions with her.
Up in the cramped, gloomy room above the auditorium Red showed her how the reels fitted into the projector and flashed images on the screen. Large round canisters, each containing yards of narrow filmstrip, sat to the rear of the projector and Red explained the urgency of changing one reel for another in order to keep a continuous performance.
‘Aye, that’s right,’ grumbled Joe Haigh, the elderly projectionist in charge of the machine. ‘If they’ve to wait too long they start booing and chucking sweets, an’ if it breaks down there’s all hell let loose.’
Cally scrutinised a length of film Red had handed her. Hundreds of tiny images, one after the other, ran the entire length of the strip. ‘What do you do if it breaks?’ she asked, fascinated.
‘We mend it,’ Red exclaimed. ‘We stick it back together with this.’ He wafted an open bottle of fluid under her nose, the sweet, sharp smell of acetone making her eyes water.
‘Amazing,’ marvelled Cally. ‘I never really thought how the pictures got on the screen before now. I just sat and watched them. You are clever, Red.’ He puffed with pride, pleased by the compliment.
‘You’ll not be so clever if you don’t get out o’ me road an’ let me get t’big picture started,’ Joe grumbled. ‘They’ll not wait all night, you know.’
Red and Cally hurried back to their seats and, just as he had predicted, she adored Daddy Longlegs.
‘Wasn’t Fred Astaire’s dancing fantastic?’ she enthused, as they walked back up the road to Copley, ‘and Leslie Caron’s beautiful. I understood how she must have felt. I’m not an orphan but there were times when I felt like one. The only difference is I never fell for my benefactors the way Julie did.’
Confused, Red broke his step and turned to face her. ‘Benefactors: who might they be?’
‘I suppose my first were the Brooks; they rescued me just when I needed it, and now the Balmforths. They’ve been immeasurably kind, and it’s been to my benefit.’
‘But you work for them,’ Red exclaimed. ‘It’s not as though they keep you in luxury. From what you’ve told me, you give more than enough in return.’
‘Maybe,’ Cally agreed, ‘but in each case I met them when life was pretty grim so I consider myself fortunate, and I love them for it.’
Red placed his arm about her shoulders. ‘Maybe I could be your next benefactor,’ he murmured.
‘I think I’d like that,’ Cally whispered, her heart dancing like Fred Astaire.
*
A few days later, there still being no guests to attend to, Cally went to visit George. Although s
he wrote to him fairly often she hadn’t seen him since making the move to Copley House so, spurred by a niggle of guilt, she set out even though the roads were thick with snow.
‘Nay, lass, you shouldn’t have come all this way in this weather,’ George said, when she arrived cold and hungry after the long journey, but Cally could tell he was delighted to see her. ‘Make her a cup of tea and summat to eat, Annie; the poor lass is perished.’
‘She must want her head seeing to,’ Annie retorted, as unfriendly as ever.
Ignoring the slight, Cally said, ‘The train journey wasn’t too bad, but I thought the bus wasn’t going to make it. Still, I’m here now, and if it’s all right with you, Annie, I’ll stay overnight.’
‘You can sleep with me again,’ Daisy offered, ‘and you can tell me about all the fancy people who come to Copley House.’ Cally answered her with a grin. She knew all too well how narrow and miserable Daisy’s life was under Annie’s watchful eye. As Cally doled out the gifts she had brought, three packets of Woodbine for George, a pretty scarf and mittens for Daisy and bags of toffee for Bernard and Arthur, it earned her a glare of disapproval and a not quite audible unpleasant sounding remark from Annie, but Cally didn’t care. When she handed her a bottle of 4711 eau-de-cologne, Annie had the grace to blush.
The weather worsening, Cally ended up staying for two nights and during that time she kept George and her siblings highly entertained. They laughed uproariously as she mimicked the Fothergill sisters, and listened with wide eyes as she described the rooms in Copley House. One afternoon they went for a walk in the woods, the young ones engaging in a snowball fight and George and Cally joining in. To Cally it was like making up for lost time and she felt closer to her dad with each passing day. When the time came for her to leave she almost wished she could stay longer, and so did George and the young ones, but Cally knew that Annie was glad to see the back of her.
The Child from the Ash Pits Page 16