The Girl from the Mill

by Chrissie Walsh

  ‘We thought we should call with you before we return to Huddersfield; survey your little empire, as one might call it,’ Alice said, her tone condescending. ‘We came down with Constance in the car. She’s taking blankets and cough mixture to one of her needy families in Jackroyd Lane.’ Her nose wrinkled. ‘Personally, I think she’s taken leave of her senses. She shouldn’t associate with that class of people.’

  ‘Neither she should,’ tweeted Violet. ‘She could catch all manner of diseases.’

  ‘She associates with you,’ Lacey snapped. ‘Are you any better than those in need? Constance does wonderful work for those who cannot help themselves. She has a good heart – but then you’d know all about that – you’ve taken advantage of it often enough.’

  Alice’s cheeks turned puce. ‘We didn’t call to be insulted. I was merely pointing out how unwise it is for a lady of her standing to deal with such unsavoury matters.’

  ‘It’ll do her reputation no good at all,’ Violet squeaked.

  Lacey shook her head. ‘That’s where you’re wrong, Violet. Constance has never been so highly respected in Garsthwaite. The poor and needy of this community look on her as guardian angel. Furthermore, she’s never been happier.’

  ‘Pshaw!’ Alice pushed out her jaw. ‘I imagine you inveigled her into this nonsense, just as you did with Nathan when you persuaded him to marry you.’

  At the sound of a car pulling to a halt outside and the slam of its door, Alice fell silent. Constance came in. ‘Alice. Violet. I’m back. Cheevers will take me home then carry you on to Huddersfield.’ She turned her back on them.

  ‘Oh, Lacey, you should see the new baby. He’s a healthy, bonny little chap. His mother was delighted with the blankets, and I dosed young Sammy with cough mixture before I left.’

  Alice rounded on Constance. ‘Is this wise, dear cousin? We can’t have you associating with the lowest of the low. What will people think?’

  ‘They can think whatever they like,’ Constance replied breezily. ‘Now, shall we be on our way?’

  *

  Christmas was barely a month away, and Lacey was down on her knees inside the shop window carefully covering the length of the platform with a thick white blanket. Satisfied that it looked sufficiently like the snow that blanketed the pavement outside, she spread a bright red woollen cape in the centre and placed at either side of it the two dummies she had found in the storeroom, one wearing a blouse the colour of dark green pine needles and the other a jacket in a similar shade. In between the cape and the dummies, she randomly displayed a pair of bright red gloves, a knitted cap, also red, and two green scarves.

  She’d made the cape, the blouses and the jacket to her own design, each garment beautifully detailed with braids and trims. The cap, gloves and scarves had been rescued from Henry Ollerenshaw’s abandoned stock. It was the latter items that had given her the idea of dressing the window for Christmas: her first window display.

  Eager to see the display from a customer’s point of view, Lacey nipped outside. On the pavement, intent on the window, she was unaware of the uniformed man approaching until he was at her side. A whiff of cologne, the scent familiar, set her senses reeling and she hardly dared to turn her head.

  ‘Nathan!’

  Nathan nodded at the window. ‘I see you are still turning sow’s ears into silk purses.’

  ‘Oh, Nathan.’ Lacey threw her arms up round his neck and his encircled her. Without losing hold of her, Nathan steered Lacey to the front door of their house. Inside, he slammed the door shut and covered her mouth with his, his hands roaming her body, recalling every nuance of her shape and form. Their hearts beating in tandem, Lacey responded likewise, her hands tracing the line of his jaw and his muscular shoulders.

  Lacey tossed Nathan’s cap aside and pulled his head to her breast, her fingertips stroking the unfamiliar stubble on his scalp. Then she broke free, her gaze questioning as she looked up into his face.

  Nathan chuckled. ‘Lice,’ he said, ‘the curls had to go. Too good a nesting place.’

  Lacey shuddered, noting for the first time his gaunt eye sockets and grey tinged cheeks, skin stretched tightly over features defined by hardship. Nathan was changed, yet he was still beautiful.

  Almost as though his joy at being with Lacey had made him forget, Nathan asked, ‘Where’s Richard? Where is my son?’

  Lacey’s face fell. ‘He’s with Susan but they won’t be long before they’re back.’ Her joy returning, she cried, ‘I can’t wait for you to see him. He’s wonderful.’

  Nathan smiled enigmatically. ‘Does this mean we have the house to ourselves?’

  Lacey’s eyes twinkled.

  Grabbing her by the hand Nathan raced her upstairs to their bedroom.

  *

  ‘Hello. Lacey. Where are you?’ Joan’s voice rang in the stairwell. ‘Susan’s back with Richard, and Molly’s here.’

  In a flurry of half donned clothing Lacey appeared on the landing, Nathan at her heels. Joan stared up at them, her face breaking into a knowing smile as they descended the stairs.

  ‘No need to ask what you two have been up to,’ she smirked. ‘Hello, Nathan, it’s lovely to see you. Making yourself at home wa’ you?’

  Nathan laughed and gave Joan a brotherly hug. ‘Time is of the essence,’ he said, letting go to push past her to where Susan stood with the pram. ‘Now where’s this wonderful son of mine?’

  Nathan peered into the pram. A pair of grey-blue eyes gazed solemnly up at him, so like his own it took his breath away. ‘Can I hold him?’ he asked, reverently.

  Lacey laughed. ‘Of course you can. He’s yours. He’s been waiting for you to hold him from the minute he was born.’

  Nathan picked up his son and held him at arms length. Tears blurring his vision, he surveyed the sturdy little body as if to imprint every feature on his memory. Then he held him close, nuzzling Richard’s cheeks with his lips. Richard let out a wail, squirming to be free, his eyes searching for his mother. Nathan’s eyes also sought Lacey.

  ‘It’s the bristles,’ she said, patting Nathan’s unshaven cheek and then taking Richard from his outstretched arms. ‘There, there,’ she cooed to the squalling child, ‘it’s your daddy come home to see you.’

  Molly and David and Joan and James looked on, a forlorn expression on Joan’s face and James staring at the tall stranger in bemusement. Suddenly Lacey was overcome with guilt and sorrow. She was celebrating the surprise homecoming of her husband, introducing him to his son; Joan would never know such pleasures again. Thrusting Richard into Nathan’s arms, Lacey folded her own about her cousin. Instinctively, Joan understood. ‘It’s all right, luv. I’m OK. Don’t let thoughts of me an’ my problems spoil your happiness.’ Lacey hugged her all the tighter.

  Nathan addressed Molly. ‘I’m forgetting my manners. Hello, Molly, and David. Welcome to the family. And you must be Susan. I’ve heard a lot about you.’

  Both Molly and Susan flushed with pleasure.

  The front door opened and Constance walked in. ‘Nathan!’ she cried, hurrying forward to embrace her son and grandson in hungry arms.

  All thoughts of work abandoned, Cheevers was ordered to take the car and collect Jonas from the Mill. A short while later the happy party sat down to tea, Jonas and Constance barely able to take their eyes off their son holding his own son on his knee.

  Jonas, quick to spot the three pips on Nathan’s jacket sleeve, tapped his arm. ‘I see you’ve made captain, lad,’ he rumbled, his voice thick with emotion and pride.

  Nathan grinned. ‘It’s well I did, otherwise I wouldn’t be considered for these trips back to Blighty. We’ve been given seven days and I’ve used three of them getting here.’ As the happy gathering registered the brevity of Nathan’s leave their joy diminished.

  For three glorious days and nights, Lacey lived as in a dream, unwilling to face the realities awaiting her. However, on Nathan’s last night at home as they lay in bed, sleep evading them, the burning questio
n buried deep in Lacey’s soul finally found a voice.

  ‘What’s it like over there?’

  Lacey’s urgent whisper sibilant in the stillness of the room, Nathan stiffened, his breathing suspended. ‘You don’t want to know,’ he muttered. ‘Don’t ask.’

  Lacey propped herself up on one elbow and with her free hand stroked his brow. It was clammy with sweat. A choking sound erupted from the back of Nathan’s throat. He trembled. ‘I can’t tell – and I never will.’ He fell into a restless sleep, Lacey gazing at the dearly loved face until eventually, she too slept.

  Nathan returned to the Front, and Lacey and Joan worked late into the night to fulfil their commitments before Christmas. As she sewed, Lacey’s thoughts were on Nathan’s brief visit; he had seen his son, held him in his arms and fallen in love with him. That’s all that mattered right now.

  *

  Lacey, like many grieving widows and anxious wives and girlfriends, found it nigh on impossible to celebrate Christmas that year in the absence of their men. Without Nathan, and Richard still too young to appreciate the meaning of Christmas, she welcomed the arrival of 1917. Now they could get back to some semblance of normality.

  ‘T’pavements are as slippy as Hell,’ Joan reported one morning in late February as she arrived for work. ‘I nearly went all me length outside t’butchers.’

  Lacey, cutting out another red cape, grinned at the remark. ‘Don’t you go falling and breaking your arm. That’s the last thing we need with all the work we’ve got on.’ She snipped at the woollen cloth, the sixth cape she had made since Christmas, the one in the window bringing in a flood of requests. The blouses too, had attracted attention, affluent women still finding the urge to dress in the latest style regardless of the war.

  She glanced through the window, just in time to see an elderly gentleman topple to the ground. Lacey dashed outside and helped him to his feet, dusting snow off his overcoat before releasing her hold on him. It was the elderly solicitor whose offices adjoined Lacey’s workshop. ‘Good morning, Mr Hopkinson; no bones broken, I hope?’

  Norman Hopkinson grimaced. ‘The only damage is to my dignity. I’m getting too old for these harsh Yorkshire winters. It’s one of the reasons I’m shutting up shop, Lacey. Retiring. Making the most of the time I’ve got left.’

  ‘You’ll be missed, Mr Hopkinson,’ Lacey said, sad to hear he was leaving.

  Norman shook his head. ‘I hardly think so. I’ve outlived most of my clients, and the few I had left have all taken my advice and transferred to your friend, John Hinchcliffe. I’m too old to be involved in other people’s problems. My wife and I are moving to Brighton. The bracing sea air might ensure our longevity. Will you keep an eye on the place until I find new tenants? Notify me if anything’s amiss.’

  ‘I certainly will, Mr Hopkinson.’

  New tenants? Lacey scrutinised the two storey dwelling as though seeing it for the first time, the seed of an idea – coming from nowhere – suddenly germinating.

  The idea took root. ‘Did you say you’re renting out the premises, Mr Hopkinson?’

  A short while later, the transaction complete, Lacey walked jauntily back into the shop, clapping her hands for attention. ‘We’re moving up in the world, Joanie; or next door, to be more precise.’

  A day or two later, Lacey found herself involved in another business matter. The Presbyterian Minister was vacating the house next door to Lacey’s own, moving to another parish. His replacement not requiring the house, and Nathan not there to make a decision, Lacey decided to refurbish the house and let it, not for the peppercorn rent the Presbyterian Chapel Committee had paid, but for its true value. Garsthwaite was changing and she must move with the times.

  War work had increased the prosperity of the valley, engineering personnel had been brought into the district to deal with the increase in manufacturing. If Lacey leased the house to one of these newcomers, the revenue would more than offset the rent on her new premises.

  Before the end of the month, the refurbished house was let to an engineer from Oxford, and the sewing machines and materials moved into the offices next door. Joan and James, glad to leave the little terrace house in Scar End that was full of bitter memories, were living on the upper floor above what was now the new workshop.

  ‘I’m going to love living here,’ panted Joan, as she and Lacey humped the last of Joan’s possessions upstairs into the sitting room. Joan dumped a box on a table then flopped into a chair by the window. ‘I can keep an eye on the goings on in Towngate from up here.’ She leaned forward, crying, ‘Oh look, Lacey, there goes Ivy Vickerman into Sally Bevin’s across the street; the baby must be due.’

  Lacey chuckled. ‘The folk in Garsthwaite had better watch what they do from now on. They’ll have no secrets with you spying on them.’

  Joan sniffed. ‘I’m not nosey; I just like to know what’s going on around me.’

  ‘Aye, you’ll be better than a watchdog. It’ll be lovely having you next door. I’ll not feel so lonely on a night knowing you’re only a couple of rooms away.’ She hid her own sorrow at being a woman with no man to keep her company by admonishing, ‘Now get off your backside and get this stuff put in its rightful place.’

  *

  The new premises were open for business, and the clientele no longer limited to the residents of Garsthwaite, so Lacey concentrated on designing and making garments just as she had for the Christmas display. This time, with spring in mind the window regularly sported dresses and blouses in the latest style.

  ‘We’re falling behind with the orders,’ Lacey told Molly, one morning in April when Molly called in on her way back from the grocers. ‘We’ve umpteen customers wanting stuff finished for this week and next.’

  ‘I’ll give you hand if you like,’ said Molly. ‘I used to work for a dressmaker in Halifax before I got married to David’s dad.’

  Askance, Lacey gasped. ‘You sew? Why ever didn’t you mention it before?’

  Sweet, self-effacing Molly shrugged. ‘I didn’t like to. I thought you might think I was muscling in on your an’ Joan’s business. You’ve all been so kind to me since I married Matt, I didn’t like to take advantage.’

  ‘Take advantage! You’d be a godsend; what can you do?’ A quick inspection proved Molly was indeed a skilled seamstress.

  ‘It ‘ud be a positive waste not to use your talent,’ Lacey said, as she admired Molly’s handiwork, ‘and Susan won’t mind looking after David. One more won’t take a feather out of her.’ She cast a quick glance round the workroom. ‘Where is David, by the way?’

  ‘In your house,’ Molly replied. ‘James saw us through the window and David pestered to go to him. Susan said she didn’t mind.’

  Laughing merrily, Lacey and Molly went through to the house to find Richard, James and David happily playing with a Noah’s Ark and a farm set. Down on her knees, Susan was cheerfully supervising the game.

  Lacey smiled warmly at the energetic young girl who never tired of entertaining her charges. ‘What do you say to having one extra?’ Lacey asked Susan.

  ‘The more the merrier,’ Susan replied, knowing her generous employer would reward her fairly.

  *

  With Molly installed for a few hours each week, Lacey found her workload considerably eased. So much so, that when the Brearley’s large maroon Jowett rolled majestically to a halt outside the door, Lacey strolled out to greet its passenger. Constance lowered the window and, after a brief exchange, Lacey agreed to accompany her on a visit to one of her problem families.

  Cheevers drove the car to the far end of Towngate and into the warren of mean streets close by the Mill. As they travelled Constance told Lacey about Lily Bottomly, widowed with six children. ‘Her husband was conscripted last autumn and killed at the beginning of this year. He never knew he had fathered another son.’

  Cheevers brought the car to a standstill outside one of the shabby little houses in Jackroyd Lane. Constance and Lacey got out, Cheevers handing
Constance the large basket stowed on the front seat.

  The house was damp and cold, a pathetic fire burning in the grate. A skinny woman huddled up close to it, a puny baby at her breast. She smiled eagerly at Constance and Lacey’s arrival, her parted lips exposing stumps of blackened teeth. Two pasty faced toddlers played with torn paper in the corner of the sparsely furnished room, their eyes widening in anticipation when they saw Constance.

  After a few words of concerned enquiry Constance went into the small scullery, and, taking a bag of porridge and two bottles of milk from the basket she filled a large blackened saucepan. Lacey stared in amazement at her mother-in-law performing the menial task, she who never carried out such tasks in her own home. Startled into action, Lacey emptied the basket of a loaf of bread, margarine, the remains of a ham shank and a soft, squishy package.

  ‘Make sandwiches with the ham; that poor woman has hardly strength enough to make a meal,’ Constance advised in a whisper. She filled three chipped dishes with porridge then set the pan and its still plentiful contents to one side. Lacey made sandwiches, Constance instructing her to put some on a plate and to wrap the rest in the greaseproof paper that had contained the ham. They carried the porridge and sandwiches through to the living room.

  ‘Now,’ said Constance, briskly efficient, ‘There’s more porridge in the pan and sandwiches for the older children when they return from school and enough bread and margarine for breakfast tomorrow. There’s also a parcel of leftover chicken. It’s cooked, ready to eat.’

  ‘Chicken!’ Lily Bottomly almost choked on her porridge. ‘Eeh, I couldn’t tell you when I last tasted chicken.’

  The children and their mother addressed the porridge and sandwiches like a ravening horde. Lily, old before her time and wearing an air of defeat like a shroud, raised her head to smile gratefully, her eyes moist with unshed tears. ‘Thanks, Mrs Brearley; we’d never manage without you.’ She left the table and resumed her position by the hearth.