Of late, Edith, Constance and Felicity were frequent visitors to the house in Towngate, lured by the prospect of becoming grandmothers and an aunt. Today Joshua and Jonas accompanied them, withdrawing to a corner of the room to discuss the news on the war and restrictions on trade. The women talked babies.
‘We must hire a nurse to attend you after the birth and a nanny for the little one,’ said Constance. Lacey’s jaw tightened; was Constance about to spoil their amicable relationship by overly interfering in the way she wanted to rear the child.
Mentally making a note to curb Constance’s enthusiasm should it get out of control, Lacey said, ‘I’ve already spoken to Ivy Vickerman, the midwife. I won’t need a nurse or a nanny; I’ll look after my own baby.’
Constance pursed her lips but refrained from arguing. However she couldn’t resist adding, ‘You know your own mind, Lacey.’
Lacey smiled impishly. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’
About an hour after the Barracloughs and Brearleys had departed, a rapid tattoo on the front door had Lacey opening it to yet more visitors. This time it was Joan and young James.
‘Ooh, Lacey, you’ll never guess what’s happened.’ Joan, her cheeks pink and her eyes shining, blurted out her good fortune as she helped James up the steps and into the hallway. ‘A man from Brearley’s office came to my door with money in an envelope.’
Lacey beamed. Jonas had let his heart rule his head. The following morning, she handed a neatly written letter of resignation to a clerk in the Mill office. Her work at the Mill was complete.
26
Lacey closed the back door of the house in Towngate behind her and crossed the yard to the door of the adjacent building. Metal rasped against metal as she turned the large iron key labelled ‘shop’ in the lock. The door creaked on its hinges.
Lacey stepped into a long, narrow room lit by one small window; a storeroom of sorts. Walking further into the gloom she came face to face with two elegant heads on long, slender necks above bared shoulders. Startled, she came to an abrupt halt, giggling when she realised they were just mannequins. Another door led her into the shop. She stood breathing in the dusty smell that permeated the disused haberdashery.
In the dim light filtering through the window blinds she made out an L shaped counter, and behind it a serried row of glass fronted cabinets with neat, narrow drawers beneath them. On the wall to her right an ornate gaslight jutted from the wall and under it, on a little shelf, was a box of matches. Cautiously she turned the gas tap and lit the mantel. It puttered and plopped before bursting into light, illuminating the shop.
It was quite spacious, and the cabinets and drawers were in good repair. Lacey trailed her fingers in the dust on the polished surface of the counter top; ideal for cutting lengths of fabric on, she thought.
Next, she went behind the counter, opening drawers to disclose socks, ties, undergarments, scarves, buttons, handkerchiefs and ribbons: a veritable treasure trove. The cabinets, their shelves mainly bare, produced an outmoded shirt and a bowler hat.
Deep in thought, Lacey walked the length of the shop and back again, her imagination working overtime. Two sewing machines in the middle of the floor; lengths of fabric and paper patterns in the cabinets; sewing requisites in the drawers; Lacey could see it all. Clapping her hands in delight, then executing a circular tour of the shop and a dizzying twirl she came to a stop in front of the door leading out into Towngate.
To the right of the door was the shop window; Lacey knew this without removing the blind. She’d seen it often enough from the outside. On the inside was a narrow, raised platform. Lacey envisioned the blind removed, the window glasses gleaming, the platform draped in a long swathe of soft, grey velvet and the two dummies from the storeroom each wearing well tailored blouses of her own creation. What a display.
Her heart drumming and her thoughts flying, she turned out the gaslight, locked the rear door and went back into the house. Over a cup of tea, she wrote out a list of the things she needed to start her business. When Edith called in the afternoon, Lacey told her what she intended to do.
Edith was surprised. ‘Shop? What shop?’
Lacey laughed. ‘The shop next door, of course. The haberdashery.’
Edith’s brow puckered. ‘Oh aye, Henry Ollerenshaw’s. He didn’t half give everybody in Garsthwaite summat to talk about when he cleared off.’
Lacey’s curiosity was aroused. ‘Why, what did he do?’
Edith grimaced, her eyes lighting up at the memory. Lacey settled to listen; Edith always told a good story.
‘Henry was a sanctimonious old hypocrite. He never served you but what he did a bit of Bible thumping to let you know what a decent chap he was. He ran off wi’ a right flighty piece that worked behind the bar in The Bull’s Head. She was all fancy hat an’ no knickers. Left a wife an’ three children, Henry did. That shop’s bad luck.’
Lacey roared with laughter. ‘Fancy hat and no knickers; Oh Mam, you are funny; there’s no such thing as bad luck. You make your own, and you can be sure I’ll be wearing knickers when I make a success of my dressmaking business.’
*
Two weeks later, Lacey again walked the length of the shop, this time admiring the transformation; newly painted walls courtesy of Matt, linoleum scrubbed and polished by Edith, and grey linen curtains made by Lacey to replace the window blind. Fabrics, paper patterns, scissors, tapes, spools of thread, trims and buttons in the cabinets and drawers and in the centre of the floor two sewing machines.
‘Think on now,’ Lacey warned Matt and Edith as work progressed, ‘not a word to anyone, most of all our Joan.’
Now, alterations complete, Lacey could barely contain her joy. She patted the bump that, God willing, would soon be her son or daughter, telling it proudly, ‘Your Mam’s in business, love; building a dream.’
*
Later that week, Lacey waited by her open front door in order to beg a favour from the postman, Sam Barton. He was an old boyfriend of hers; one she hoped was still friendly enough to do what she asked.
Sam came whistling down Towngate. ‘Nothing for you, Lacey,’ he called out, but when she beckoned him to her door he arrived with a warm smile.
‘I know it’s not legal, Sam, but will you shove these through the letterboxes on your round?’ Lacey held out a pile of leaflets, printed by the small printing house in Towngate.
Sam took the leaflets. Out loud, he read from the uppermost one.
Lacey Brearley
Seamstress. Quality work assured.
Material made up to a pattern of your choice. Alterations undertaken. Private fittings on request.
Lacey grinned. ‘I’m starting up in business, Sam. Deliver these an’ I’ll mend your shirts for nowt.’
Smiling fondly, Sam shoved the leaflets in his sack. ‘I always knew you’d make summat o’ yourself, Lacey,’ he said.
‘You’ve done all right yourself, Sam. A postman’s a big step up from mill hand.’
Flattered, Sam replied, ‘Leave it to me, Lacey. I’ll get you more customers than enough. You’ve always been a grand lass. If I’d not married Elsie Tattershall I’d o’ married you.’
Lacey chuckled. ‘An’ if I hadn’t wed Nathan Brearley I might o’ married you.’
*
‘Is anybody home,’ Lacey shouted as, later that morning, she let herself into Joan’s house in Scar End. It was an unnecessary question; Joan rarely went out. Still conscious of her injuries a swift trip to the grocer’s was as much as she made these days.
Joan was sitting by the fire with baby James on her knee, a headsquare hiding her damaged scalp. She turned eagerly, gladdened by Lacey arrival.
‘I wa’ just thinking I haven’t seen much of you lately,’ Joan said.
Lacey sat down, her eyes twinkling as she smiled at Joan. ‘That’s because there’s big changes afoot, Mrs Micklethwaite; a new start for both of us.’
Joan’s face registered a gamut of expressions as Lacey to
ld her all that had taken place in the past two weeks.
‘Do you really think we can make a go of it?’ Joan asked Lacey in awed tones.
‘We did well enough when we were on short-time from the Mill. Let’s go for it in a big way this time, shit or bust.’
Joan’s laughter was heartier than any Lacey had heard from her in a long time. She knew she had done the right thing. Come hell or high water she’d make a success of her business.
*
‘Keep your fingers away from the needle, Joan. Guide the material through gently, don’t pull it!’ Lacey’s voice rose to a squeal as Joan tugged at the fabric on the machine board.
Joan stopped treadling and threw her hands in the air. ‘I’ll never get the hang of it, Lacey. I’m hopeless.’ She looked so crestfallen Lacey hadn’t the heart to be unkind.
Lacey released the mangled piece of cloth from the presser foot, rethreaded the needle and then patiently demonstrated yet again how to sew a seam. ‘Let the machine do the work, Joanie. Just hold the cloth in place, then let it glide under the needle. You can do it, I know you can.’
Joan bit down on her bottom lip and set the machine in motion, the needle bobbing in and out and the material travelling freely as she joined the two pieces together. Removing the cloth from the machine she waved it in the air. ‘I did it,’ she yelled triumphantly.
*
The business soon flourished, Lacey and Joan busy making alterations to outdated or outgrown garments; ‘make do and mend’ as Lacey termed it. The war that those in power had predicted would last three months was now in its third year, the inhabitants of every town in Britain applying a certain austerity to their apparel; the poor because they simply could not afford new clothes, and the wealthy because they felt it was their duty to exercise economy in these troubled times. Whatever the reason, Lacey welcomed her clients with open arms.
‘The butcher’s wife wants this bedspread making into a pair of curtains, Joanie. Can you do that while I finish Mrs Dobbs’ tweed suit?’ Lacey asked Joan one morning at the end of their first month in business.
Joan set to work.
The curtains made, Lacey held each one up to the light, checking each seam. ‘They’re perfect, Joanie, I couldn’t have sewn them better myself.’
‘You’re a hard taskmaster, Lacey Brearley. Me fingers are worn to t’bone. Weaving was a doddle compared to this. Before long you’ll be expecting me to set sleeves an’ pleat skirts.’ Although the words were harsh, Joan’s delight at pleasing Lacey was written all over her face.
Lacey and Joan soon developed an efficient system. Whilst Lacey concentrated on the more complex alterations, or the cutting out and sewing of new outfits, Joan attended to the simpler tasks; stitching buttons or sewing straight seams. Orders came in regularly and, as the month ended, they were pleased to find their earnings equalled those they had received as weavers.
*
‘So, you’ve set yourself up in business’ said Jonas, an amused smile creasing his fleshy face. He had been away and this was the first Lacey had seen of him since leaving the Mill. She returned the smile, her heart swelling at the approbation in his tone. ‘How are you for funds, lass?’ he asked. ‘It must have a cost a bob or two to put the shop to rights.’
Lacey’s smile faded as she recalled the expense. ‘It took all my savings, but if business continues to thrive I’ll soon be in profit.’
Constance sniffed disapprovingly. ‘You’re beginning to sound like Jonas. I’m pleased you no longer work in the Mill, but I am concerned you may be overstretching yourself. The baby’s less than two weeks away. You should be resting in preparation for the birth.’
Lacey smiled, impishly. ‘I know that ladies of quality spend much longer than nine months taking things easy, it’s what they are used to, but where I come from women work right up to the birth and in most cases it does them and the baby no harm. The older women in the weaving shed still talk about the time Lizzie Isherwood went home to give birth to her third baby just before breakfast time and was back at her looms in the afternoon.’
‘I remember that,’ Jonas chortled, ‘she’s a tough ’un is Lizzie. Best Mrs Weaver I’ve ever employed.’
Constance waved a hand in front of her face as though to prevent herself from fainting. ‘But that’s appalling,’ she gasped, ‘and you, Jonas, shouldn’t allow it.’
‘I knew nowt about it till t’day after.’
Seeing his chagrin, Lacey said, ‘Sometimes, Mother Brearley, needs must. Lizzie’s husband is an invalid. She’s the breadwinner.’
Constance nodded thoughtfully. Her daughter-in-law frequently made her re-evaluate her opinions, and whereas once she had considered herself entitled to her privileged life she now realised how fortunate she was. ‘The poor soul,’ she said feelingly, ‘but even so, Lacey, I think you should take things easier.’
‘Sewing isn’t heavy work, and I promise I’ll be careful.’
Constance somewhat appeased, and pregnant women and babies uppermost in her mind, she said, ‘We have two women due to give birth this week; one in Jackroyd Lane and the other in Canal Street.’
Jonas harrumphed. ‘I’ll leave you to talk women’s talk while I attend to some unpaid bills.’ At the door he turned, looking sternly at Lacey as he delivered his parting shot. ‘And you, young lady, take care o’ that grandson o’ mine. Do as she tells you,’ he nodded in Constance’s direction, ‘and don’t be working all hours.’
‘You must know something we don’t,’ Lacey said to Jonas’s departing back, and then to Constance, ‘He seems certain it’s going to be a boy.’
‘So am I,’ said Constance, reaching out to pat Lacey’s hand. ‘Now where were we? Ah, yes, Mrs Stubbs and Mrs Haigh. I’ve seen to it that they have sufficient clothing and bedding but…’ she frowned as she recalled the miserable hovels in Jackroyd Lane and Canal Street, ‘what they really need is an extra pair of hands. Mrs Haigh already has six children to care for while her husband is fighting in France.’ She shook her head, exasperated. ‘He was conscripted in the last round-up.’
Lacey sighed. ‘Aye, there are too many women left to deal with too many children. This war has a lot to answer for. I don’t know that I’d manage to look after six children single handed.’
‘Which brings me to my next problem,’ Constance said acerbically. ‘Have you thought any more about hiring a nanny?’
Lacey frowned. ‘I’m still considering it. Let me see how I cope without one then if I do change my mind I’ll rely on your help with that matter.’ To pacify Constance, Lacey said these words out loud at the same time inwardly telling herself, I’ll be the one to look after my baby. Stop interfering!
‘Fair enough,’ said Constance, ‘now, what about the christening? We need to be organised for such a special occasion.’
Lacey groaned inwardly. Here we go again; Constance taking charge, and the child’s not even born.
*
Regardless of Constance’s advice that she should take things easy Lacey continued to work although the baby was due any day. She had plenty of orders and today she was in the workshop cutting out a dress for one of her new, wealthier clients. Carefully, she guided her scissors around the paper pattern pinned to a length of dark blue silk. It was a warm August day and Lacey, feeling the heat, had opened the door, a welcoming breeze accompanied by rays of bright sunshine filtering in from the street.
Thinking, this baby gets heavier by the minute, she set aside her scissors to massage her aching back. As she did so, she caught sight of a young woman and an older one peering through the open shop door; it was Alice and Violet Burrows. Lacey stared. Alice looked back at her, a sneer on her lips and her eyes glinting maliciously as they registered Lacey’s advanced state of pregnancy. Then, without a word, Alice grabbed Violet’s arm and chivvied her down Towngate.
Lacey hadn’t given either of them a single thought in months. What were they doing in Garsthwaite? Were they on their way to Fenay Hall to beg forg
iveness? She hoped not; she didn’t want them back in her life.
Later that evening, when Constance and Felicity called to see Lacey, she asked if Alice and Violet had called at Fenay Hall.
‘Pshaw!’ spluttered Constance, ‘if they had I would have shown them the door. My sympathy for Alice expired long before she made those scurrilous remarks regarding yourself and Nathan. I was glad to be rid of her and her tiresome daughter. I only tolerated them out of pity: not that they were grateful for my hospitality. Alice’s vindictive nature caused more arguments than enough.’ She patted Lacey’s hand. ‘Forget about them; I have.’
27
Lacey woke with a start. The baby jiggled inside her. Smiling contentedly, she rolled over onto her back dreamily visualising the small body cocooned in its watery haven, limbs folded, small fists clenched, eyes tight shut in a tiny puckered face.
Abruptly, reverie changed to anxiety, the movement she felt next not the usual gentle shifting and stirring but an insistent pushing. She lay perfectly still, forcing herself to breathe slowly and deeply, and with each breath the pushing feeling grew stronger. Suddenly the bed sheets under her were soaked and she cried out.
‘Mam! Mam! The baby’s coming.’
From the room next door, where Edith had slept for the past three nights, came a thud followed by a shout. Half in and half out of her dressing gown and with her hair in curlers, Edith was at Lacey’s side in minutes. With surprising composure, she quickly assessed the situation. ‘Hold on now. Keep calm. It won’t come straight away. I’ll get Ivy Vickerman. You just stay there.’
Lacey laughed feebly. ‘I’m not likely to go anywhere the way I’m feeling.’
Edith shuffled downstairs as fast as her slippered feet allowed.
*
Bright autumn sunshine streamed through Lacey’s bedroom window. At either side of the bed, both wearing triumphant smiles, Edith and Ivy sat clutching mugs of hot tea. In the bed, Lacey held a mug in one hand, the other gentling the baby rested in the crook of her arm. She gazed down into the tiny sleeping face.
The Girl from the Mill Page 22