The Child from the Ash Pits

by Chrissie Walsh

  ‘Come and meet my parents,’ Red said, his eyes full of admiration, ‘you’ve done your duty, so now is as good a time as any.’

  Cally hesitated and Red looked concerned. ‘Are you feeling unwell? You’ve lost your sparkle. Has it all been too much for you?’ He grasped her hands in his, fondling them comfortingly.

  She shook her head, tears threatening. ‘I’m fine. Just a bit tired, that’s all.’ With her last ounce of reserve Cally flashed Red a grateful smile and squeezed his hands. ‘Lead on, my good man. Let’s find out what your parents make of me.’

  Red laughed, relieved by the sudden change in her. ‘They’ll think you’re absolutely wonderful, just as I do.’

  She allowed him to lead her over to a table close to the bar where his parents waited, smiling, ready to greet her. Gilmore Blackstone was a large, thickset man with weather-beaten skin and a shock of greying hair. He looks like a farmer, thought Cally, as her hand was swallowed up inside his meaty paw and shaken vigorously. Red bore no resemblance to him, but when Cally turned to take his mother’s hand she found the similarity between mother and son remarkable. The same pale hair and eyes; the same sensitivity expressed in finely balanced features.

  Cally sat down with the Blackstones, achingly conscious that William Cratchley was less than six feet away. They discussed the Convention and Copley House, Cally forcibly attentive, the Blackstones open and friendly. I like them, thought Cally, and I hope they like me because I love their son.

  Gilmore took little part in the conversation, but Cally and Elizabeth chatted like old friends, Elizabeth so animated and interesting that, for the first time that evening, Cally dropped her guard.

  ‘Whore! Prickteaser!’

  The foul names soared above the hum of conversation. All eyes turned on an obviously intoxicated Cratchley as he lurched towards Cally. An ominous lull fell over the room.

  ‘Raise your glasses and drink to the filthy whore who cracked my skull,’ he slurred, swaying on his feet and gesticulating wildly. Whisky slopped from his glass onto Cally’s shoulder as he glared down into her stricken face. ‘Thought you’d got away with it didn’t you, you little bitch?’ Cally sat glued to her chair, limbs and voice useless, her heart broken into a thousand pieces.

  Red leapt up, grabbing at Cratchley’s shirtfront. The glass in Cratchley’s hand smashed against Red’s temple. Gilmore Blackstone let out a roar and lumbered to his feet, his meaty fists threatening to fell two of Cratchley’s colleagues who had come to his aid. Red punched Cratchley on the nose. Cratchley crumpled to the floor and Red stepped aside, straight into the fist of one of one of Cratchley’s friends.

  By now several of the guests had joined the melee, Sykes dashing from behind the bar pleading for calm as tables toppled and glasses crashed to the floor.

  This wanton vandalism spurred Cally to action. She raced across the room to where Sally and Susan, on duty in the hall to hand out wraps and overcoats, now crowded the doorway, their eyes wide with shock.

  ‘Sally, fetch Jim Gibson. And you, Susan, ring the police. Tell them it’s urgent.’ The girls fled; one to the kitchen, the other to the telephone. Cally wheeled round and ran back across the room, shouldering past people making their way to the safety of bedroom or home, their disgusted expressions and harsh remarks stinging like pelting hail.

  ‘Stop it!’ She screamed at the scrapping figures. ‘Stop it!’

  Jim Gibson appeared at Cally’s side. Her bloodcurdling yells and the stout length of wood Jim waved menacingly had the desired effect. Red let go of the interfering friend and stepped away and Cratchley heaved himself up onto the nearest chair.

  ‘Are you alright?’ Cally asked Red. A trickle of blood oozed from his forehead, staining his cheek and the collar of his shirt.

  ‘Never better! I wasn’t going to stand by and let some drunk insult you.’ He gave Cratchley an intimidating glare. Cratchley stared back through bleary eyes, most of the bombast knocked out of him, but he wasn’t completely finished.

  ‘I don’t know why you’re defending her. She’s nothing but a common whore. From the minute that I employed her she offered herself to me and when she wasn’t on duty she was selling herself on the streets of Bradford, the filthy tart.’

  ‘Maybe I had her,’ chortled the friend who had come to Cratchley’s aid.

  Cratchley sniggered.

  Red paled.

  Elizabeth and Mary gasped.

  Sykes intervened. ‘Just a minute, that’s a terrible accusation.’

  ‘It’s true,’ slurred Cratchley, ‘she’s a common tart. I turned her out of my house when I knew what she was up to.’

  ‘Liar! You tried to rape me,’ yelled Cally, ‘and, yes, I did hit you over the head but it was only to defend myself. You made my life a misery with your filthy advances. There was no way I’d give myself to you. I was a virgin. I still am. And as for you,’ she spun on her heels to face Cratchley’s friend, ‘you’ve never met me before.’

  She lowered her tone. ‘I’ve nothing to be ashamed of, but you, William Cratchley, are the most despicable animal I’ve ever come across. It’s you should be ashamed.’

  ‘The police are here,’ Sally screeched from the doorway. A burly sergeant and a constable marched into the room. They glanced from face to face, noting the overturned tables and broken glass, and the blood on Red’s shirt.

  ‘What happened here then?’ asked the sergeant. ‘Who’d like to start?’

  Several voices attempted to tell the tale.

  ‘Hold on, hold on; not all at once,’ the sergeant protested. ‘We’ll start wi’ you Mr Balmforth, seein’ as how you’re the proprietor of these here premises.’

  Sykes explained that Cratchley had started the kerfuffle by being abusive towards Cally. Cratchley retaliated, stating he’d only told the truth. He told them about his cracked skull.

  ‘Is that right, miss? Did you attack this gentleman whilst you were in his employ?’

  Cally met the sergeant’s gaze defiantly. ‘Yes, but only because he tried to rape me.’ For the sergeant’s benefit she reiterated the incident. ‘I’m not the only girl he forced himself on and all the servants in his house know it’s true. Even his wife knows.’ She turned to face Cratchley, her eyes blazing, her blood boiling. ‘What’s more I’m prepared to go to court and say it.’

  William Cratchley visibly sagged. His slack mouth opened but only a gurgle erupted.

  The sergeant approached him. ‘Well, sir, do you wish to press charges?’

  ‘No,’ Cratchley mumbled, slumping further into his chair and covering his face with his hands.

  ‘And what about you, sir?’ The sergeant addressed Sykes. ‘Do you wish to charge these gentlemen for damage to your property?’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ said Sykes, ‘but I would prefer it if he didn’t stay the night. If you escort Mr Cratchley off the premises I’d be most grateful.’

  ‘Right,’ snapped the sergeant. ‘Let’s be havin’ you.’

  The policemen urged Cratchley into the hallway none too gently. ‘I’ll get his things,’ said Cally, beckoning Jim Gibson to accompany her. In minutes they were both back, Jim bearing the leather bag. The policemen ushered Cratchley out of the house.

  After he had departed, the remaining guests stood in uneasy silence. Elizabeth was the first to speak. ‘I think we should leave.’

  As she slipped into her fur coat she thanked Mary and Sykes for an interesting evening and then nodded coolly at Cally. ‘I’m glad we met.’

  But there was no warmth in her voice. To Cally it sounded as though she were saying, I’m glad I found out about you before our son became too involved. Gilmore ignored her completely. Red, his face creased with confusion, his eyes lacklustre, whispered, ‘Take care, Cally. Goodbye.’

  *

  Goodbye. Red had spoken with such finality that the word repeated itself over and over again in Cally’s head as she tossed and turned in bed. She’d no doubt meet him again but not in the
way she was used to. She pulled the blankets over her head, pressed her face into the pillow and let the tears flow.

  After a while, unable to sleep, she crept from the bed to the window, peering into the darkness. She could just make out the rooftops of Blackstone Hall Farm. Was Red unable to sleep or had he simply dispensed with her; believed the awful things Cratchley had said about her? Tears came again and as dawn broke over Stand Edge she was still there, head throbbing, feet like ice and a heart smashed to smithereens.

  19

  The fracas of the Wool Convention might have damaged Copley House’s reputation in the eyes of the locals but the guests who visited during the remaining weeks of summer knew nothing of it. At Copley House it was business as usual: but not for Cally.

  Try as she might, Cally couldn’t shake off the shame and humiliation of that awful night. Devastated by Red’s apparent defection, work now seemed a monotonous chore. Mary went out of her way to assure her she was blameless and, in the hope of bringing some cheer to the hapless girl, suggested she invite George to stay at Copley House.

  ‘There’s only a group of ramblers booked in for next weekend,’ she commented, as they sat in the kitchen drinking tea. ‘Why don’t you get your dad to come for the weekend? It would be nice for him to see how much you’ve achieved, as well as being a bit of a holiday for him.’

  Cally nodded thoughtfully. ‘I suppose my dad would like to see where I work.’ She smiled, wryly. ‘He’s always interested in Copley House whenever I visit him, asking who we’ve had in and what they were like. It’s a vicarious pleasure for him. He never goes further than the pit and the pigeon lofts; he likes birds.’

  Mary smiled. ‘Well then, if he likes birds we’ve plenty round here to satisfy him and it’ll give you a chance to spend some time together.’

  Cally wrote a letter that night and received a reply four days later. The enthusiasm with which George accepted the invitation cheered her immensely, at the same time making her feel guilty at not offering it sooner.

  The following weekend, on Saturday morning, Cally parked the Morris in St George’s Square, close by the entrance and exit to Huddersfield Railway Station. She’d set out too soon and, with time to kill before George’s train arrived, she sat in the car watching the constant flow of people passing through the Station’s massive Grecian styled portico; where were all these people going to or coming from? Was the bearded man who charged ahead of a porter lugging a huge cabin trunk up the steps a worldwide traveller embarking on yet another expedition? And was the little old lady who gazed anxiously up at the clock in the façade’s pediment waiting for a tardy son or daughter to meet her?

  She was so intent on watching them she almost missed him, his blonde hair lighting the gloom of the entrance before he bounded down the steps into the Square. He was wearing the same suit he had worn the night of the fateful Convention dinner. Red looked every inch a gentleman as he crossed the Square to the George Hotel and lounged in its doorway.

  Cally gripped the steering wheel, leaning forward to peer through the windscreen, her palms moist and her knees trembling. Should she open the window and call out, let him know she was there? Fumbling for the winder she changed her mind and grabbed the door handle instead. Halfway out of the car she called his name.

  Her cry floated plaintively across the Square, unheeded. Red only had eyes and ears for the petite girl with a mass of blonde, shiny curls now hurrying towards him. As he stooped to peck the girl’s cheek his face wore the smile Cally had thought was hers alone. She watched as they walked arm-in-arm into the hotel.

  Cally slumped back into the driver’s seat, overwhelmed by her loss. She’d waited too long. He’d found someone new. It had been foolish to think he would come looking for her, yet she had been convinced that was what he must do: if he really loved and believed in her, then he would come.

  She had considered going to find him but something akin to pride had deterred her. Grovelling for forgiveness was not in her nature, and besides, she wasn’t guilty of any crime. The best she could do now was to forget about him. She glanced up at the Station clock. It was ten thirty; time to meet the train.

  The smell of smoke, steam and cinders bit into her throat as she waited on the platform. Like a giant anaconda the train glided into the station, plumes of grey smoke swirling upwards and clinging like ominous rainclouds to the glass and metal structure covering the platforms on either side of the track. The train juddered to a halt, a short, fat guard running its length, opening doors. George, suitcase in hand, stepped down, closely followed by a peevish looking Annie.

  Oh dear, thought Cally, we’re off to a good start. Smiling brightly she hurried to meet them. George set down the case to hug her.

  ‘If I’d known it was going to take so long to get here I’d never have come,’ Annie grumbled. She’d obviously made an effort to look her best but she’d grown stout over the last few years, her green two-piece costume tight round her midriff and hips. Her features marred by years of discontent and bitterness, she appeared far older than her years. Cally narrowed her eyes when she saw the brooch pinned to the lapel of Annie’s jacket but she passed no remark.

  Instead, determined the occasion should be a pleasant one if only for George’s sake, she chirped, ‘It’s lovely to see you both. I wasn’t expecting you, Annie. I’m so glad you’ve come.’ She led the way out of the station. ‘This is our car,’ she said.’ Annie made a rude, dismissive noise with her lips.

  Cally stowed the suitcase into the boot of the Morris. ‘By lass, but you’ve done well for yourself,’ George said, admiration wreathing his face and warming his voice. Although Cally had been driving for some time now she still hadn’t plucked up enough courage to drive all the way to Calthorpe, so George hadn’t seen the car before.

  ‘Aye, since you beggared off to Bradford you’ve fair come up in the world. Quite the proper lady now, aren’t you?’ Annie’s tone was as sour as her face.

  I didn’t beggar off to Bradford, Cally wanted to shout. You forced me to go. Placed me in the house of a man you knew was a danger to young girls, a man who has ruined my life. You didn’t give a fig whether I did well or not, and if I have it’s no thanks to you.

  Cally opened the car door, then pulled the passenger seat forward, her anger suppressed. ‘You hop in the back, Annie, and you sit in the front next to me, Dad.’

  Annie heaved herself in, grumbling at the tight squeeze. She perched on the edge of the seat, her face as solid as the Sphinx. Anyone would think she was going to a funeral, thought Cally.

  In the busy town centre, Cally concentrated on the road, George complimenting her on her driving skills. The town behind them, she pointed out landmarks, giving a similar commentary to that which Sykes had delivered on her first journey to Copley. Next to her George sat proud and erect, listening and questioning, interested in all he saw. They drove through the valley and when they reached the open moors George marvelled at their rugged beauty, telling Cally she was lucky to live in such spectacular surroundings. Annie maintained a stony silence.

  Sykes and Mary welcomed them warmly, and by the time lunch was ready George had spent a convivial hour with Sykes, partaking of a pint or two of Sykes’s best bitter. Annie, complaining of a headache, kept to the bedroom.

  Mary, quick to spot the antagonism between the two women, gave Cally a wry smile when she went into the kitchen. ‘Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea after all,’ she commented. ‘I think you’ll have your work cut out keeping that one happy, but do it for your dad’s sake. He’s settled in rightly. I just hope Sykes doesn’t get the pair of them sozzled before we’ve eaten.’

  ‘Mary, I think you’re forgetting my dad’s a collier. It’ll take a lot more than a couple of pints to get him tipsy. Drinking comes second nature to most miners, much to the regret of their wives and children. You’ve no need to worry about my dad.’

  Mary laughed. ‘You look a lot like him, though I heard him telling Sykes you’re the image of your m
other. He said you get more like her every time he sees you.’

  Cally flushed with pleasure.

  *

  After lunch Sykes suggested a walk, and Mary, pleading her legs weren’t up to it, suggested Annie stay and keep her company. Annie wavered. Walking didn’t interest her but, jealous of George and Cally’s closeness, she joined them at the last minute. In deference to Annie they chose an easy route to Stand Edge.

  ‘By, but this is grand,’ remarked George, as they made their way over the moor. A grouse took flight, its jewelled wings catching the afternoon sun and a hovering hawk swooped and then rose again, its prey dangling pitifully from its beak as it wheeled high into the sky and out of sight. Delighted, George quickened his pace, Sykes keeping abreast of him. Cally lagged behind with Annie.

  She enquired after Daisy, Bernard and Arthur then tried other topics of conversation, Annie rebuffing each one. Eventually, her patience evaporated, Cally halted abruptly. Turning to face Annie, she looked her squarely in the eye.

  ‘Why do you hate me, Annie? I never did you any harm, yet you went out of your way to hurt me. When my mam died you never offered me one word of comfort, and no matter what I wanted you always made sure I didn’t get it.’

  Annie gawped. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she blustered.

  ‘Yes, you do. From the moment you came to live with us, you took a dislike to me.’

  Annie bit her lip and shook her head as if trying to dispel, or deny, thoughts she didn’t wish to acknowledge. ‘It was hard for me when our Ada died,’ she mumbled, ‘and if I didn’t have much time for you it was because I was saddled with a houseful of children.’

  Cally narrowed her eyes. ‘That’s no excuse for destroying everything I loved.’

  Annie blanched. ‘I don’t know what you mean. I—’ Cally allowed no time for excuses or lies.

  ‘Yes, you do, Annie. I was there; remember? That’s what you do, Annie. You destroy what doesn’t please you. You tried to destroy me.’