‘Stanley says he’s fancied me for ages,’ Joan confided, as they sat with their backs to the dye house wall. ‘He says he was just too shy to do owt about.’
‘I could have told you that. I’ve seen the way he looks at you; he goes all cow eyed an’ soppy.’
‘Ooh Lacey, you make him sound awful, an’ he’s not, he’s really nice.’
‘So, is this the real thing?’
‘I’d like to think it is ‘cos he’s ever so kind an’ gentle, but it’s a bit too soon to tell.’ Joan gazed pensively at the dye house door.
‘If he’s seeing you again after work today it sounds like Stanley’s got his skates on. He’s making up for lost time.’
Stanley emerged from the dye house.
‘Ooh look, there he is.’ Joan scrambled to her feet. ‘Do you mind if I go an’ have a word with him?’ She scooted off without waiting for an answer.
Left alone, Lacey smiled fondly at her cousin’s eagerness. She was pleased for Joan who, at twenty-one years of age, was afraid of being left on the shelf. It would be nice if Joan and Stanley made a go of it, she mused, unlike me who will probably never spend another afternoon in Nathan Brearley’s company. It was most likely boredom drove him to talk to me yesterday.
Even so, it had been an extremely pleasant experience, one she wouldn’t mind repeating. But there won’t be much chance of that happening, she told herself. He’s a mill owner’s son, and whilst I might think I’m his equal, I can’t see him thinking the same. Shrugging off her misgivings Lacey finished her sandwich, and when the hooter blew again she went back into the weaving shed.
*
At midday Lacey walked the length of the Mill yard to a quiet spot overlooking the river, leaving Joan to share her dinner with Stanley and she herself removed from further taunting.
Leaning back against the warmed stone of the wash house wall, undeterred by the rank odour of wet wool, she opened her copy of Virginia, a tale of an enterprising woman who supports her husband, a struggling playwright. Disappointed when the husband proved to be an adulterer, Lacey set the book aside and closed her eyes.
‘Will you always be sitting in the sun day dreaming whenever I come to find you?’
Lacey’s eyes flew open. Nathan smiled down at her. ‘I hoped I might see you today. I so enjoyed your company I wondered if you’d consider sharing more of your time with me. What do you say to continuing our interesting discussions one day soon?’
A warm glow suffused Lacey’s cheeks. ‘I’d like that,’ she said. Although she appeared outwardly calm her blood tingled and her heart drummed a tattoo. Nathan perched on the low wall separating the Mill yard from the riverbank and gazed into Lacey’s face, his eyes tracing the arch of her brow, the high cheekbones and full lips. She’s beautiful, he thought, and electrifyingly alive.
‘What are you reading?’
‘Virginia.’ Lacey held up the book.
This simple enquiry and its answer led to another interesting interlude, Lacey disappointed when the Mill hooter called her back to work. ‘Where and when will we meet?’ Nathan asked urgently.
‘At the cairn on Cuckoo Hill, Sunday, two o’ clock.’
Lacey ran up the yard, leaving Nathan hidden behind the wash house wall. She understood that it wasn’t wise for him to be seen with her at the Mill.
Although their meeting had been unobserved, Nathan’s ears reddened as he scurried past two women on their way to the spinning shed. In truth he was nervous of the rough, outspoken women who toiled in his father’s mill. But they’re not all like that, he mused, his thoughts and his eyes on the girl who now hurried up the Mill yard in front of him.
Lacey had almost reached the weaving shed when she spotted Jimmy by the warehouse, deep in conversation with Arty Bincliffe. Lacey didn’t like Arty. He was a blagger. Tempted to interfere, she was forestalled by the second blast of the hooter. Her curiosity unsatisfied, she headed back to the weaving shed.
*
‘What wa’ you talking to Arty Bincliffe about?’ Lacey asked Jimmy, as they walked back to Netherfold at the end of the working day.
‘Summat an’ nowt.’ Jimmy’s reply was intentionally casual. He knew Lacey didn’t approve of Arty.
‘You want to keep away from his sort, he’s bad, an’ you shouldn’t be bothering with him. He’ll get you into trouble.’
‘He’s not that bad,’ Jimmy argued. ‘He wants me to go out wi’ him and some o’ t’lads on Saturday night.’
‘I hope you told him no.’
‘Why? There’s nowt wrong wi’ him. I can go if I want.’
‘His lot are too old for you to bother with, an’ they’re always up to no good, so stay away from ‘em.’
Jimmy tossed his head. ‘Anybody ‘ud think I wa’ still a bairn.’ He marched on, leaving Lacey to make her own way home.
Lacey watched him go, a worried expression creasing her brow. Jimmy worked in the Mill warehouse, a job requiring no particular skills, which was just as well considering Jimmy’s lack of aptitude. Whilst he managed to earn his keep, he was an immature and gullible lad inclined to believe the best in everybody.
In his first weeks in the Mill his workmates, quick to spot his naivety, had made a fool of him. One day they sent him to the spinning shed to ask for a long stand. Jimmy set off, expecting to return with a piece of equipment. After he had stood and waited for twenty minutes the spinning overseer said, ‘There lad, you’ve had a long stand, now bugger off back to t’warehouse.’
On another occasion they sent him to the Mill office for ‘nip-scrotes and mankers’. Jimmy, unaware this was old Yorkshire dialect for penny pinching idlers, couldn’t understand why the chief clerk clipped his ear before turfing him out into the yard.
When Lacey heard about these pranks she shrugged them off as just that, but when a group of particularly rough women from the spinning shed grabbed Jimmy in the Mill yard and ‘sunned him’ Lacey intervened, sorting the matter with fists and fierce tugging of hair. Whilst she didn’t object to the ritual, harmless teasing all new workers suffered, she drew the line at sexual humiliation.
The women had Jimmy down on the ground minus his trousers, pouring oil on his genitals then manhandling him when Lacey had rushed to his rescue. Jimmy hadn’t wanted to go back to the Mill after that, but within a matter of days a newer boy became the butt of his tormentors, and Jimmy was left in peace.
Lacey knew she couldn’t protect Jimmy from every situation, but she determined to be watchful. It wouldn’t do for someone to take advantage of Jimmy’s innocence.
*
For the rest of that week Lacey’s thoughts focused on the Sunday ahead. Whilst she caught fleeting glances of Nathan as they both went about their work, he didn’t approach her again. By Friday her anticipation had faded, Lacey convinced his request to meet her again would come to nothing.
Midday Saturday, the working week ended, Lacey walked home in low spirits. Nathan had made no attempt to confirm the Sunday arrangements. By the time she arrived at Netherfold, she had reached the conclusion that he had had time to consider the consequences of walking out with an employee, and now thought it unwise.
Even so, at one o’ clock on Sunday afternoon Lacey stood in her bedroom puzzling over what to wear for her meeting with Nathan. Should she wear the green dress again, or the blouse with a white sailor collar edged with navy and a matching skirt. Not wanting to appear overdressed for a walk in the countryside, she settled on the blouse and skirt, another of her creations made from cheap cotton remnants she’d bought last Bank Holiday at the Monday market in Huddersfield.
The weather still warm, she wouldn’t need a jacket, which was just as well because she didn’t have one to go with her chosen outfit. Complementing her ensemble with a straw boater and a pair of white gloves, Lacey ran downstairs to the kitchen where, Sunday dinner over and the washing up done, Edith sat reading.
‘By, you look a picture,’ Edith remarked. ‘Are you going somewhere special?’
‘Nathan Brearley’s asked me to walk out with him. I met him on the canal trip.’
Edith’s eyes widened. ‘Nathan Brearley: Jonas’s son? Eeh, lass, you can’t go walking wi’ the likes of him.’
‘Why ever not? He’s a nice lad, and I enjoy his company.’
Edith frowned. ‘He might well be a nice lad but he’s the boss’s son. The Brearley’s won’t approve. Don’t go getting mixed up in summat that might cause you trouble, Lacey.’
‘Mother! It’s a walk on the moor I’m taking, not a visit to chapel to arrange the banns. I hardly know him. An’ anyway, he more than likely won’t bother to turn up.’
‘It might be better if he doesn’t,’ Edith retorted, ‘He’s not your sort.’
Lacey’s brow puckered and her tone had a hard edge to it as she said, ‘Are you saying that I’m not good enough to walk out with Nathan Brearley? Would you rather I stuck to the likes of Sam Barton?’
Edith sighed. ‘No lass, I’ve always thought you deserve somebody better than a carder in t’mill who’s a bit too fond of ale, but Brearley’s are gentry, and y…’ Her argument petered out, her eyes taking on a dreamy expression. ‘Still, wouldn’t it be grand if summat came of it?’
Lacey laughed out loud. ‘Sometimes Edith Barraclough, your imagination runs riot. It must be all that reading you do.’ Although Lacey’s tone was tart, her amused expression was full of love and understanding. Edith’s vivid imaginings were a family joke.
‘I only want what’s best for you, lass.’
‘So do I. I’ll be off an’ see what I can do about it,’ Lacey pertly replied.
*
Nathan Brearley was there at the cairn when, shortly after two o’ clock, Lacey topped the brow of Cuckoo Hill. When she saw him, resplendent in a smart fawn jacket and brown trousers, a gentle breeze ruffling his tawny curls she breathed a sigh of relief.
Nathan too breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn’t entirely believed that this outspoken, independent girl, popular with many of the tough, brawny mill hands would be interested in someone as pale and insipid as he thought himself to be.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ Lacey called out as she drew nearer, ‘me Mam kept me talking.’ She wouldn’t tell him she’d doubted he’d be there.
‘No need to apologise,’ Nathan said, the words denying his fears that she wouldn’t come at all, and his admiring gaze letting her know she was forgiven.
‘What’s it to be then?’ Pointing left then right, Lacey allowed Nathan to choose one of the two paths leading from the cairn to the moor.
‘I’m not familiar with either. I don’t often come this way. What made you choose Cuckoo Hill?’
‘I love it up here,’ she said, her sweeping gesture taking in the panorama of wild moorland and below it in the valley, Garsthwaite, its skyline dominated by tall chimneys. From their high vantage point Lacey and Nathan could see Towngate flanked by narrow streets of terrace houses, and behind them the huge mills and the canal and the river slinking darkly on its long journey to the sea. ‘From here you can see for miles an’ miles.’
Nathan slowly turned full circle, taking in the view. ‘Masters of all we survey,’ he jested.
‘I don’t think so,’ Lacey said.
Hearing the bitterness in her voice Nathan said, ‘You sound angry; why so?’
‘Because of the unfairness of it all: It’s all about profit as far as the mill owners are concerned, and not enough about people’s rights. I think we’re treated badly, paid too little an’ expected to work too fast for safety.’ She shrugged dismissively. ‘Apart from that I can’t complain.’
Nathan looked serious. ‘I know exactly what you mean. There’s much to be done to improve working conditions. I frequently question the demands imposed by the managers.’
Lacey blinked her surprise. ‘You do? Good for you; keep it up. An’ one day, when you’re in charge you can do summat about it before one of us weavers ends up chewed to bits in one of her looms.’
For a long moment Lacey and Nathan silently surveyed their surroundings, weighing up the awfulness of such a consequence. They were both familiar with accidents that frequently happened in the weaving and spinning sheds, the thrashing machinery inflicting terrible harm to those unfortunate enough to fall victim to it. Yet again, Nathan admired Lacey’s outspokenness and the reasoning behind it. He was about to compliment her on this when she intervened.
‘Hey up!’ she cried, ‘we’re not here to make one another miserable, so forget about the Mill for today an’ let’s go walking, Mr Brearley.’
They took the right hand path, Lacey pointing out Netherfold Farm tucked in a cleft of the moor on the edge of the town. ‘That’s where I live. Me Dad runs sheep on the moor an’ grows swedes an’ beet in the fields behind the house. We’ve a couple of pigs an’ all. Me mother sees to them an’ the geese an’ hens. It’s only a small place, not big enough to support us all, so only our Matt works with me Dad.’
‘And Matt is…?’ Nathan was pleased to be learning so much about her without having to ask.
‘Me older brother,’ Lacey said. ‘An’ me younger brother, our Jimmy, works in the warehouse at Brearley’s. You might have seen him around. He’s a skinny little lad with a mop of brown curls an’ a cheeky grin.’
‘I’ll keep an eye out for him. See if I can recognise him from your description.’
In this manner they walked over the moor, talking easily, sharing likes and dislikes regarding books and music and anything else that came to mind. As they made their way back to the cairn neither of them wanted the afternoon to end.
The cairn in sight, Nathan asked. ‘What does it represent?’
Lacey looked askance. ‘To say you’ve lived round here all your life you don’t know much about your own place, do you?’
Nathan laughed uneasily. ‘I was away at school most of the time. I had a sheltered childhood.’
‘Aye, you must have done, ‘cos I never saw owt of you when you were younger.’
Nathan didn’t want to dwell on his own upbringing. Compared to the men Lacey usually kept company with, he thought she might think he’d been mollycoddled; a namby-pamby as she might say. ‘I thought you were going to tell me about the cairn,’ he urged.
‘I am,’ Lacey replied, and adopting a schoolmarm-ish voice said, ‘Well, young man, for the benefit of your edification the cairn was built about a hundred years ago to commemorate a small community of home weavers who lost their lives in a disastrous fire that swept through an entire row of weaver’s cottages up on the moor. It happened at night, the grease from the raw wool turning the houses into a roaring inferno whilst they slept.’
Nathan drew a sharp intake of breath. ‘That’s a tragic tale.’
‘Aye, it is, but them as makes cloth have never had it easy.’
They were now at the bottom of Cuckoo Hill, the place where they would part, Lacey down the country lanes to Netherfold and Nathan along the road to Towngate and Fenay Hall.
‘We appear to have ended our walk on a sad note,’ Nathan commented, ‘what do you say to doing this next Sunday afternoon? Avoiding the sad tales, of course.’ He gazed into Lacey’s eyes, his expression pleading for a positive response.
He got one.
‘I’d love to,’ Lacey said, her green eyes flashing delightfully. ‘Cuckoo Hill next Sunday then.’
Nathan smiled his relief, the smile fading as he said, ‘I’ll see you at the Mill, no doubt, but I’ll not draw attention to our friendship.’
This time Lacey’s eyes flashed annoyance. ‘Why! Are you ashamed to be seen with me?’
Nathan looked shocked. ‘Not at all, but there are some who will object and I don’t want our friendship to end before it’s barely started.’ He flushed. ‘You must know what I mean.’
Lacey gazed into Nathan’s face, and seeing a genuine plea for understanding she smiled gently, softening her tone when next she spoke. ‘I do, Nathan. I can’t say as I appreciate the women�
�s gossiping, and I’m sure you don’t. We’ll just keep it to ourselves for the time being. That way we won’t spoil things.’
It was Nathan’s turn to smile. ‘Does that mean you’ll be here next Sunday?’
Lacey stretched up and pecked his cheek. ‘There’s your answer, Mr Brearley.’ She turned and skipped down the lane leading to Netherfold Farm. Never had she been so happy.
5
‘Stanley’s asked me to marry him,’ Joan said, as she and Lacey kicked their way through the last of the autumn leaves scattered in the lane at Netherfold.
‘Oh, Joanie!’ Lacey was thrilled because she knew it was what Joan had been hoping for. ‘When will you do it?’
‘Next spring, Stanley says. It’ll give us a bit of time to save up for a place of our own an’ buy a bit of furniture. I don’t want to end up living with Hettie Micklethwaite if I can help it.’ At the mention of Stanley’s mother, Joan’s euphoria dissipated. Hettie Micklethwaite was a termagant, renowned for her moaning and whiplash tongue.
‘Lord no!’ To dispel Joan’s anxiety Lacey added, ‘It’ll not come to that. Stanley’ll get you a house.’
‘The wedding won’t be a big do. Me mam’s got nowt to give us and we won’t have any spare money. Goodness knows what I’ll wear. I’m not frittering money on a dress I’ll only wear once.’
‘You won’t have to,’ Lacey said.
Joan frowned. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Wait an’ see,’ Lacey said, her smile anticipating the pleasure Joan would take from the blue, crepe suit she’d make from one of Grandma Barraclough’s dresses.
‘Our Joan’s getting married,’ Lacey announced as soon as they entered Netherfold’s kitchen.
Edith shoved the battered copy of Galsworthy’s A Man of Property down the side of the chair and hurried over to the hen’s carcass she’d been plucking before abandoning it for her book.
‘Eeh, that’s grand news, Joan. Is it Stanley Micklethwaite?’
Joan affirmed it was. ‘It’s not till next spring, mind.’
‘Is your mother pleased?’ Edith’s tone suggested that May Chadwick might not be.
The Girl from the Mill Page 4