*
Gilmore Blackstone bought the field for a fair price, thus providing much needed finance, and as winter warmed to an early spring the glorious weather attracted walkers to the moors.
‘You’ve a lovely place here,’ Clement Allsop, a rake thin, leathery chap who organised walking tours in the north of England, told Cally. ‘Good food, comfortable beds and friendly staff: good lookers, too,’ he said, eyeing her up and down appreciatively. ‘I’ll put Copley House on my new itinerary.’
‘That would be wonderful, Clement,’ said Cally, for the success of the venture was reliant on the assurance of regular bookings. Clement was true to his word and from then on the reservation book at Copley House was rarely without an entry.
Busy though she was, Cally met Red two or three times a week to walk on the moors or visit the Cinema. The night they saw Grand Hotel Cally became an ardent Greta Garbo fan, but unlike Garbo’s ‘I want to be alone’, Cally wanted the exact opposite. She wanted to spend the rest of her life with Red and never be alone again.
18
Sykes settled himself at the kitchen table with the newspaper he’d bought earlier that morning on his walk to the village. Mary set a cup of tea beside him. Sykes enjoyed this time of day, the women preparing lunch and he regaling them with titbits of news.
‘What do you make to this?’ he cried, his tone encouraging the women to pay attention. ‘The Huddersfield Chamber of Commerce are to host a Woollen Merchants’ Convention the second week in July.’
‘That’ll bring visitors to the town,’ said Cally, leaving aside the napkins she was folding to look over Sykes’s shoulder.
Sykes carried on reading aloud. ‘Manufacturers will attend a variety of exhibitions in the town, display their wares and visit mills in the valley. Crowthers of Milnesbridge will host a day for the viewing of their new machinery, by far the most modern and efficient in the North, and other establishments…’ He read on.
‘That’s wonderful news.’ cried Cally. ‘If the hotels in Huddersfield run out of accommodation, Copley House could benefit from the overspill.’
‘Perhaps the time’s ripe for me to get a telephone installed,’ Sykes suggested, ‘I’ve been talking about it long enough.’
Peggy stopped rolling pastry and sniffed. ‘Can’t say I like the sound of them things. They say you can hear people talking from miles away. Instrument of the devil if you ask me.’ Everyone howled with laughter.
‘We’ve got to move with the times, Peggy.’ Cally’s tone was sympathetic. Peggy was a brilliant cook but very old-fashioned in her ways. ‘Think of the time you’ll save if you can just lift the telephone to order more of anything you want – just like that.’ She clicked her fingers. Peggy continued rolling pastry, unconvinced.
Two weeks later the telephone was installed, Sykes instructing each member of staff how to use it. Amid giggles and groans they were all eventually capable of making and receiving a telephone call; all of them that was, except Peggy.
‘If you answer a call from someone looking for accommodation and we have a vacancy, write down the details in the Reservations Book, and confirm the booking there and then’ instructed Cally, ‘that way you won’t have to run looking for me every time someone rings up.’ She grinned, ‘It’ll certainly make my job easier; I won’t have to write half as many letters. I’m going to love this telephone.’
As the date for the convention drew nearer, the telephone rang often, and for the first time since it opened Copley House would be filled to capacity for five consecutive days. Cally was delighted.
Bedrooms were readied, menus created, provisions delivered and the conservatory given a new purpose. Out went the wicker furniture to make space for the refectory table to be placed in the middle of the room.
‘That will give us the extra dining space we’ll need,’ Cally explained to Jim, as he helped her lug the table into place. ‘I’ve invited the locals for dinner on the opening day of the convention. We’ll seat some of them in here and some in the dining room; that way they can mix with visitors.’
‘I hope they behave proper. That butcher, Jack Hargreaves, can be a right bugger when he’s had a few pints.’
Cally laughed. ‘Oh, I’m sure they’ll be on their best behaviour.’ They worked on, Cally delighted by the green, airy space she’d created. In the run up to the convention she looked on it as her triumph.
Sykes’ triumph was the bar, newly installed in the library. He’d obtained a liquor licence, reckoning that if they were to compete with other establishments the sale of alcohol was vital.
‘You’re like a child with a new toy,’ Cally joked, as Sykes arranged, then rearranged, his wares, the row of shiny optics and shelves full of glasses reviving her memories of The Royal Oak. ‘I think you’ve been waiting for this opportunity all your life.’
Sykes’s eyes glinted with the pride. ‘Having a bar makes it a proper hotel.’
Cally smiled at his boyish enthusiasm; rather than aging him, all the extra work undertaken in the past year had given him a new lease of life. His keen grey eyes sparkled and he’d lost the flab of middle age, his lean, lithe body that of a man ten years younger. He looked every inch the successful hotelier.
‘That’s a grand idea of yours, Cally, inviting the local businessmen and their wives on the first night,’ Sykes remarked, as he polished glasses. ‘They’ll talk to the visitors about the district, and it’ll be an opportunity to show Copley House off to the locals as well.’ He grinned wryly at the latter comment; many of them had considered the venture doomed from the start.
Cally grinned too. She had an ulterior motive for inviting the locals; Red’s parents, Gilmore and Elizabeth Blackstone would be amongst them. If she met them on her own territory it might ease the way for future meetings.
The house as ready as it could be, and Cally feeling the need for a break, she paid a flying visit to Calthorpe. As she and George took a leisurely walk in the countryside, Cally told him about The Wool Convention and all the preparations she had made.
Then she told him about Red. ‘You’d like him,’ she said, ‘he’s the most interesting, exciting man I have ever met.’ She continued singing Red’s praises, George laughing and then saying, ‘It sounds to me as though you’re in love.’
‘I think you could be right,’ Cally replied thoughtfully before exclaiming, ‘in fact, I know I am.’
‘In that case, if he’s as grand as you say he is, hang onto him. Don’t be doin’ owt stupid to spoil it like I did. Love’s very precious; I know that now.’
When they arrived back at the house, George said, ‘Our Cally’s got herself a chap an’ he sounds like a smasher.’
Daisy squealed excitedly and wanted to know all about him, but Annie just sniffed and then said, ‘Aye, she always did get what she wanted.’
‘You know that’s not true, Annie,’ Cally said softly, ‘I never got to go to the Grammar.’
*
On the opening day of the Convention Cally was up and working at first light: today everything had to go right. By late afternoon, satisfied that everything was in order, she walked out onto the terrace and raised her face and arms to the sun. Below the terrace swathes of tall lavender drifted in the gentle breeze, the heady scent reaching Cally’s nose.
She lowered her arms and leaned over the wall, listening to the soft buzz of bees harvesting the sweetness of the purple flowers. ‘I’ve been busy too,’ she whispered, the perfumed air reviving memories. She raised her eyes to the clear blue sky and murmured, ‘I’m doing all right, Mam; be happy for me.’
She gazed at the gardens in front of her. Jim Gibson had created wonders. Fiery red rock-roses tumbled over stone circles in the centre of each lawn and bright borders of purple lupin and foxtail lilies towered over geraniums of every hue. Outside the conservatory white clouds of baby’s breath and delphiniums of the deepest blue vied with pale pink clematis, its tendrils trailing over wrought iron and glass.
‘You’re dr
essed for the occasion,’ she silently told Copley House, the thought spurring her to action. The ten-minute break she’d promised herself had become twenty. She too, must get dressed to meet the guests, but first she’d pop along to the kitchen for a cup of tea.
Peggy Murgatroyd, up to the elbows in flour, greeted her with a cheeky grin. ‘I suppose you’ll be lookin’ for a cup of tea after all that exercise. Sally says you’ve been lolling on the terrace like a lady while we’re sweatin’ away in here. This kitchen’s hotter than the hobs of hell.’
Cally chuckled at the friendly sarcasm. There was no hierarchy in Copley House.
Everybody worked as a team, each carrying out their tasks in a cheerful manner. They all wanted it to be successful.
‘I’ll have you know I was up at the crack of dawn, dragging extra tables and chairs into the dining room while you were still in your beds,’ she quipped back, ‘and I must say, Sally – and you Susan – the table settings look smashing. Those lilies in the stem vases make perfect centrepieces. You’ve done a brilliant job.’ Sally and Susan glowed under the praise.
Cally helped herself to a cup of tea from the pot permanently on the go, at the same time acknowledging Sally’s mother, Lizzie, and Susan’s sister, Sandra, brought in to cope with the extra work. She thanked them for their support. ‘We’re glad of the work,’ they chorused.
Cally drained her cup. ‘I’m off to get changed now, and you girls,’ she addressed her remarks to all but Peggy, ‘put your new black dresses on no later than half past six. Keep your aprons, cuffs and caps spotless. I starched and ironed them within an inch of their lives. They’re that stiff they’ll cut you off at the knees, wrists and foreheads if you make one wrong move.’ The women giggled at the notion.
Mary looked up from the trays of tantalising canapés she was arranging and said, ‘I think you should wear the cream dress with the black sash that you bought from Rushworth’s, Cally.’
Cally looked surprised. ‘Not the black one with the white collar that I usually wear?’
Mary shook her head. ‘No, the girls are wearing black; I think you should look different. You’re ‘front of house’ as they say in the theatre, and the cream silk looks lovely against your dark skin. Put it on to please me.’
Mary had never had children of her own but with each passing day she grew more like a mother to Cally. ‘In that case I will,’ Cally replied, a lump in her throat and her heart full of love. She took a deep breath. If she didn’t lighten the mood she’d cry. ‘I’ll be the woman in white,’ she chirped, ‘an’ if I spill gravy, red wine an’ custard on it I’ll end up looking like one of Peggy’s trifles.’
They all laughed at that.
*
By quarter to seven all but one of the expected guests had arrived. In the bar Sykes dispensed light-hearted banter and drinks while Cally paced from dining rooms to kitchen, checking and rechecking. She looked beautiful. She had piled up her hair to make herself appear taller and her skin gleamed like honey against the creamy silk of the dress, its broad, black sash accentuating her narrow waist and its calf length skirt showing off her slender legs.
When Red arrived, Cally glowed under his admiring gaze, returning his compliments warmly. Used to seeing him in rough tweed jackets and checked shirts, she was bowled over by the sleek figure in a charcoal-grey suit, white shirt and maroon tie. Tonight he looked particularly handsome.
Sneaking a swift kiss in the, as yet, empty dining room they agreed Red would introduce her to his parents after the meal, when the pressure was off. Reluctantly, he left her to attend to her duties. As the time for the guests to go into the dining rooms drew near, the last guest had still not arrived.
Cally hurried to the kitchen, reservation book in hand. ‘Who took the booking for Mr Ashley?’ she asked.
‘Me,’ said Sally.
‘Are you sure he requested dinner? I don’t want to start serving without him but it’s getting late. It’s after seven.’
Sally frowned. ‘I think he did. It was a really bad line, all crackly and fuzzy.’ She moved closer to look in the book. ‘That’s my writing,’ she said, ‘and I wouldn’t have written it if somebody hadn’t rung up and asked me to.’
Cally grimaced at the garbled reasoning. ‘Never mind. We’ll give him another five minutes then we’ll start, with or without him.’
She walked briskly into the hallway – then stopped dead. A lump caught in her throat and her blood ran cold. William Cratchley stared straight at her, his face registering surprise. The startled expression became a smirk as he ran his cold, hard eyes over her.
‘Well, well; look who we have here, if it isn’t little Cally.’
A mist clouded Cally’s vision and her heart thudded painfully against her ribs.
She strove to regain control of her emotions, silently cursing Sally and the crackling telephone. This must be Mr Ashley. Forcing a smile she stepped forward, legs trembling, hand outstretched. ‘Good evening, Mr Cratchley, welcome to Copley House.’ To her amazement she sounded perfectly calm.
Cratchley ignored her outstretched hand. Acid bile filled Cally’s throat. She swallowed forcibly, feeling the urge to run, but to where or what she had no idea. For Sykes and Mary’s sake and the good name of Copley House, she had to deal with this terrible situation. She couldn’t allow it to get the better of her. She’d seen this man off before; she’d do it again, if necessary. Drawing herself up to her full height and taking a deep breath she looked at Cratchley, her eyes meeting his unflinchingly.
‘Sir, you’ve arrived later than expected. We’re about to go through to dinner. I’ll have your bag taken up immediately. If you’d like to freshen up before you eat I’ll show you to your room, otherwise you can go straight into the dining room.’
Nonplussed by Cally’s cool tone and calm demeanour, Cratchley looked rather abashed. The hallway filled with people as Sykes shepherded them to the dining rooms. He gave Cally a questioning look.
‘This gentleman has just arrived,’ she said. ‘Allow me to introduce you to Mr William Cratchley.’
Handshakes exchanged, Cratchley glanced at Cally. ‘I think I’ll go and freshen up,’ he muttered.
Back ramrod straight, Cally marched to the kitchen where Jim Gibson sat over a cup of tea, waiting for duty. ‘Bag, Jim, upstairs.’
Jim jumped, puzzled by her curtness. He followed her into the hallway, picked up the bag and headed up the staircase, Cally at his heels and Cratchley at the rear. On the landing Cally opened a room door and briskly indicated for Cratchley to enter.
Cratchley glared into Cally’s face, barely suppressed anger twisting his florid features. ‘I’ll deal with you later. I haven’t forgotten what you did to me,’ he threatened, his jabbing finger almost touching Cally’s nose. He slammed into the room. Jim Gibson gasped.
‘What was all that about?’ Jim asked Cally, as they walked back to the staircase. ‘Do you know him? He sounds a right nasty piece o’ work.’
Cally sighed. ‘I used to work for him. We parted on bad terms; he… It’s a long story, Jim. Maybe one day I’ll tell you.’ She drew a ragged breath. ‘I didn’t dare risk creating a scene in front of the other guests but now I wish I’d thrown him out as soon as he arrived.’
At the foot of the stairs Cally clutched Jim’s arm. ‘I’ve an awful feeling trouble’s brewing. Stay close by, Jim, I might need you before this evening’s over.’
Jim braced his shoulders. ‘You can rely on me, Cally. I’ll give ’im what for if there’s any monkey business.’
Cally gave Jim a brief hug then hurried into the dining room, circling the tables and smiling bravely as she greeted the guests. The four waitresses stood to attention by the kitchen door. A nod from Cally and they started serving.
The dining room looked beautiful with its snow-white tablecloths. Glass and silverware winked and gleamed in the light from carefully positioned lamps, the elegantly dressed clientele adding to the splendour. But all this was lost on Cally. Her thou
ghts were focused on the man who had yet to make an appearance.
Cally forced herself to make small talk at each table, determined to fulfil her role on this important occasion. At the table where Red and his parents were seated she exchanged pleasantries at the same time stealing glances at the devastatingly handsome man she had grown to love. Please God don’t let Red come into contact with that vulture, Cratchley.
The silent prayer had no time to make its way to heaven before Cratchley appeared. Cally escorted him to his table, seating him perfunctorily, unable to pretend the least courtesy. Then she went and stood midway between the conservatory and the dining room, on hand should she be needed. Unpleasant memories reared their ugly heads as she attempted to quell the nauseous feeling in the pit of her stomach.
What if, now that Cratchley knew her whereabouts, he decided to press charges against her for attacking him? What if he chanced to make conversation with Red and spin lies about her? These questions and a dozen others churning in her brain, Cally willed the night to end, quickly.
After dinner the guests divided themselves between the drawing room and the bar, Sykes dispensing drinks and bonhomie, Cally and Mary socialising. As Mary moved from group to group, charmingly accepting praise for the splendid dinner or chatting convivially with the locals, she had no inkling of Cally’s inner turmoil.
Cratchley propped up the bar, conversing with other manufacturers. Anxious to keep her distance, Cally stayed at the opposite end of the room struggling to concentrate as first one guest and then another engaged her in conversation. Try as she might she couldn’t prevent her thoughts from straying to the vile creature she thought Cratchley was. Maybe if I ignore him he’ll forget about me. After all, if the truth were told, he has nothing to be proud of; I was the innocent victim.
Who are you trying to kid, she told herself angrily, who’d take your word over his? Cally glanced towards the bar. Cratchley, his face flushed with drink was gesticulating wildly, his braying tones audible above the chatter. When Red approached Cally, she closed her ears to them.
The Child from the Ash Pits Page 17