The Girl from the Mill

by Chrissie Walsh

  ‘Aye, I remember that,’ Joshua said wearily, ‘but when I asked him why he hadn’t asked me for any rent in over twenty years he said he wa’ being kind.’

  ‘Kind be buggered,’ Matt snarled. ‘He hasn’t a kindly bone in his body.’

  Lacey chipped in. ‘Does he have documents to prove he owns the land?’

  Again Matt answered despondently. ‘He showed John Hinchcliffe a map of Hardacre. It showed our fields marked off as though they were his, but John says that map could have been drawn up yesterday for all we know. He says we need title deeds if we’re to prove owt.’

  Lacey left after tea, her heart aching for her family. If Netherfold was no longer a viable farm how would Matt earn his living? She could support them sufficiently to prevent them from starving, but that wasn’t the answer. Her Dad and Matt loved the land, and if the baby Molly was carrying turned out to be a boy, Matt would want to pass the farm on to him. There had always been Barracloughs at Netherfold for as long as anyone in the district could remember.

  *

  Lacey was restocking the haberdashery with new spools of thread when the heavily set man in a shabby pinstriped suit shuffled in. He looked like a travelling salesman down on his luck. Although her supplier was a reputable merchant in Leeds, her kind heart wouldn’t let her send this chap off without making a purchase.

  ‘Good morning, sir; what might I do for you?’

  The man cleared his throat nervously and handed Lacey a card. As she read the words:

  Frederick Lynch

  Lawyer and Private Investigator

  she couldn’t help thinking he wasn’t a very prosperous lawyer by the looks of him.

  ‘Are you Mrs Lacey Brearley, widow of the late Nathan Brearley?’ he asked, his accent letting her know he was Irish.

  Widow? Lacey took an instant dislike to him. She drew herself up to her full height. ‘I am Lacey Brearley. I’m not a widow. My husband has yet to be declared dead.’ Then, not wanting young Katie, who was standing behind the counter awaiting customers, to be party to this exchange, Lacey reluctantly said, ‘You’d better come this way.’

  Lynch smiled ingratiatingly. Lacey led him out of the shop and into the hallway of her house. At close quarters a sickly sweet smell emanated from his person. Lacey recognised it as whisky. ‘What is it you want, Mr Lynch?’ she asked, her voice sharp as she eyed him suspiciously; for a professional man he was decidedly ill at ease.

  Lynch’s left eye twitched. ‘My client, Mrs Alice Burrows, seeks recompense for a wedding dress you were to make for her daughter but failed to produce.’ His delivery sounded as though he had rehearsed it several times.

  Lacey gave an exasperated groan. ‘Mr Lynch, neither Mrs Burrows nor her daughter have ever been, or ever will be, clients of mine; there are no circumstances requiring compensation.’ Her final words biting the air, Lynch squirmed uncomfortably.

  ‘My client has a receipt proving the transaction. It bears your signature and shows quite clearly that Mrs Burrows paid in full for the said garment.’ He fumbled in his shabby briefcase then, giving Lacey an oily grin, he handed her a scrap of paper. Lacey gasped when she saw it was indeed a receipt from Lacey’s Modistes. She was further shocked to note the handwriting on it was very similar to her own. The wording however was not. ‘Paid in full’ would have read ‘Received with thanks’ had she written it.

  ‘I didn’t write this,’ she said, her voice shaking with frustration, ‘I never made any garments for Mrs Burrows.’

  ‘Certainly not to her satisfaction,’ Lynch sneered. ‘In due course my client will produce this receipt as evidence in a court of law.’

  Too late, Lacey regretted ignoring Jonas’s advice. Her patience worn thin she threw the offending receipt at Lynch, shouting, ‘Take your rubbish and your lies and get out.’ She pointed to the door.

  A sheen of sweat moistened Lynch’s brow and upper lip. He stuffed the receipt in his pocket. ‘My client is not prepared to accept an out of court settlement. She fully intends to bring the full weight of the law down on your shoulders.’ His voice cracked under the strain. If Lynch had thought to frighten Lacey with the threat of appearing before a court, he had completely misjudged her.

  Lacey laughed bitterly. ‘I didn’t offer a settlement. Now listen to me, Mr Lynch. Your client is a deluded, resentful hag, only concerned with seeking revenge. I won’t delay you by explaining her actions other than to say Mrs Burrows has a personal vendetta against me. This is not the first time she has sought to blacken my character.’

  Lynch’s confusion apparent, he blustered, ‘My client intends to take this case to court.’

  Exasperated beyond bearing, Lacey heaved a huge sigh. ‘Mr Lynch, pardon me for saying this but you’re not much of a lawyer, are you? That’s if you really are one. I have my doubts.’ Lynch flushed at the insult. ‘Now,’ said Lacey, ‘I suggest that in future, you do your homework before throwing scurrilous allegations in people’s faces. I can’t explain how Mrs Burrows came by that receipt but I do know it has no validity. If you wish to pursue the matter I suggest you contact my solicitor, John Hinchcliffe. You’ll find his offices at the top of Towngate.’ Lacey walked to the door and opened it. ‘I’ll bid you good day.’

  Lynch shuffled off. Lacey picked up the telephone. Recently installed, like the electricity, it was proving to be a valuable facility in times of stress.

  ‘John? Lacey here; I’ve just had a visit from a strange character by the name of Frederick Lynch. He says he’s a lawyer acting on behalf of a supposed client of mine.’

  ‘Fred Lynch.’ John sounded both startled and amused. ‘Is that old fraudster still practising? I thought he’d been disbarred years ago. Was he sober?’

  Lacey chuckled. ‘I can’t vouch for that. He reeked of whisky. He’s been hired to prove I took money from a client without producing the goods. She’s filled his head full of nonsense and downright lies.’

  John’s laughter crackled down the line. ‘And poor old Fred believed her.’

  ‘It appears so. I’ve sent him up to you. He should be with you shortly, if he’s taken my advice. Set him straight, will you? I’m tired of this woman’s barmy games.’ Lacey gave John a brief account of Alice’s other spiteful tricks.

  There was silence on the line. When John spoke his tone was sombre. ‘She may be barmy but these are dangerous allegations, Lacey. If you’re hauled through the courts it will be unpleasant,’ then in a lighter tone, he added, ‘although if she’s relying on Fred Lynch to present her case, it won’t hold water. Leave it with me.’

  Lacey thanked him and was about to replace the receiver when she remembered Joshua’s problem. ‘John, before you go, any further progress on Dad’s land?’

  A sigh through the receiver whistled in her ear. ‘Like I told your Dad, Lacey, without title deeds it will be hard to prove. Don’t despair though. I’m still on the case.’

  Problems, problems, problems, thought Lacey, setting the telephone to rest. Was this to be the pattern of her days for years to come? She went through into the sitting room and gazed at Nathan’s photograph on the mantelpiece.

  ‘Oh, Nathan, where are you when I need you,’ she said out loud. His smiling image gazed directly back at her. Suddenly the light in the room brightened and flickered across the photograph. Lacey jumped. Had Nathan nodded his head affirmatively, because that’s what it looked like. She clasped the photograph in both hands, staring hard at it. The image was lifeless, fixed a time long ago. The light dimmed, and although Lacey’s common sense decreed that the movement she had seen was caused merely by changing rays of sunlight shining through the window, she took it as an omen. He was thinking about her, giving his support no matter how far apart they were.

  *

  ‘Has anyone seen my little black notebook; the one I jot ideas in?’ Lacey opened first one drawer, then another, in the cutting table. ‘I haven’t used it for ages but I usually leave it in here.’

  Molly looked up from her mach
ine. ‘The last time I saw it was in the cupboard where you keep the new receipt books.’

  Receipt? Although it was several days since Lynch’s visit the word still held unpleasant connotations and Lacey flinched. Molly carried on sewing.

  Later, in John Hinchcliffe’s office, Lacey explained what she thought had happened. The woman who had dashed from the shop that day Lacey had forgotten to lock up must have been Alice. ‘I’m sure now that it was her. She must have stolen the receipts and my notebook. They copied my style of writing from it but the wording on the receipt was all wrong.’ Demonstrating with a used receipt book, she pointed out the differences.

  ‘What’s more,’ John said, ‘the receipts are numbered. The stolen book’s numbers will not correlate with the ones you are currently using. Your duplicate receipts will show a history of use in strict order and the correct wording.’ He went on to discuss how he thought the case should be handled, Lacey leaving his office with a much lighter step.

  No longer overly concerned by Alice’s threat, Lacey concentrated instead on forthcoming pleasures: Joan’s wedding to Alfie and the birth of Matt and Molly’s baby.

  Once again, Lacey designed a wedding dress for Joan. ‘Eeh, Lacey, I can allus rely on you to make me look a picture on me wedding day,’ Joan commented, when she tried on the dress for its final fitting.

  ‘Aye, well, don’t be expecting a third. I draw the line at two.’

  Joan smiled dreamily. ‘Who’d a thought I’d be married twice, me as never thought I’d find anybody. I can’t believe how lucky I am. Everything seems to be going my way, what with Alfie getting his…’ Joan looked puzzled. ‘What do you call it, Lacey?’

  ‘His prosthesis.’

  ‘Aye, that’s it, a propereesith.’

  Lacey laughed. ‘If I were you I’d stick to calling it his false arm.’

  ‘It’s ever so clever,’ Joan said. ‘It has this clip like thing at the end where his fingers should be. It fastens onto his elbow an’ he can open an’ shut it just by squeezing the muscles in his upper arm. He’s got really good at picking things up. He wa’ thrilled when the army sent for him to go to the hospital to be fitted with it.’

  ‘I’m sure he was.’ Lacey shuddered. ‘I’d hate to lose one of my arms. I’d not be able to sew.’

  ‘Alfie says he wa’ lucky because there isn’t enough of ‘em to go round. When he wa’ in hospital in France just after it happened, he says there wa’ dozens of lads wi’ no arms an’ legs.’

  ‘And God love each an’ every one of ‘em,’ Lacey said fervently. ‘This war has a lot to answer for.’

  Joan’s face clouded. ‘Eeh, I’m sorry, Lacey. Here’s me babbling on ‘cos I’m so happy an’ you still haven’t had any news of Nathan. I’m a thoughtless, selfish pig, so I am.’

  ‘Don’t upset yourself, Joanie. We can’t go round being miserable all the time. God knows I miss Nathan every minute of the day. In fact I’d give my eye teeth just to have him home, but don’t let his not being here spoil your happiness.’ Lacey paused, a wistful expression on her face. ‘I don’t think he’s dead, Joanie. If he was I’d know in here,’ Lacey thumped her hand over her heart.

  ‘Alfie thinks he’s in a prison camp,’ Joan said, her tone firmly indicating she hoped this was true.

  ‘I hope to God Alfie’s right. Now what’s this about Alfie’s new job?’

  ‘He starts the week after the wedding. It’s in Tommy Jackson’s hardware store. He’ll be weighing out nails an’ screws an’ serving behind the counter. He says he can do that wi’ no bother now he’s got his you know what.’

  *

  They celebrated Joan and Alfie’s wedding with as much aplomb as wartime allowed, the ceremony prompting Lacey to dwell on memories of her own wedding day. Not even four years ago, it seemed a lifetime away.

  *

  ‘Gentleman to see you, Mrs Brearley; he’s waiting in the haberdashery,’ said Ann, colouring as she added, ‘I think he’s had a drop too much to drink.’

  ‘In that case I’ll go an’ get rid of him,’ said Lacey, setting her scissors aside.

  Frederick Lynch was even more slovenly than when she last saw him. Lacey’s spirits sank. She thought she’d seen the last of him.

  ‘What is it this time, Mr Lynch? More ridiculous allegations?’

  Lynch cleared his throat and peered at her through bleary eyes. ‘My client, Mrs Alice—’

  ‘Yes, I know all about that,’ Lacey snapped. ‘Get on with it.’

  ‘She’s instructed me to take the case to court.’

  Lacey flew at him, shouting in his face. ‘Get out before I call the constable. I refuse to be harassed by a drunk on my own premises.’

  ‘Only carrying out my client’s orders,’ Lynch slurred.

  Lacey watched him stagger up the street and then made another call to John Hinchcliffe.

  *

  Later that day, in need of comfort, Lacey and Richard paid a visit to Netherfold. After an hour in Edith’s company, Lacey’s frayed nerves were soothed sufficiently for her to turn her mind to more mundane matters.

  ‘I’m popping upstairs to the attic. There’s an old fox fur in Grandma Barraclough’s trunk I might use to trim a suit or two in my winter collection.’

  ‘Your winter what?’ Edith sounded bemused.

  ‘My winter collection; the new outfits I’ll make at the back end of the year. That’s what the magazines call the stuff fashion houses make each season, collections.’

  ‘It sounds awfully grand. You’ve come a long way, our Lacey. Folk from miles around talk about your sewing. I’m fair proud of you.’

  Lacey mounted the stairs to the attic, glowing from the compliment. A musty smell rose from the trunk as she rummaged for the fox fur. The trunk’s contents disturbed, Lacey could now see a pile of tattered papers, brown with age and tied up with a ribbon. Her curiosity aroused, she untied the ribbon, scanning the papers one by one.

  Receipts for hoes, ploughshares, livestock and oats made dull reading, and she was just about to bundle them back into the trunk when a pair of little beady eyes and a whiskery snout peered over its edge. Lacey leapt to her feet.

  It was hard to say who was most startled – Lacey or the mouse – one unsuccessfully attempting to hold onto a sheaf of papers, the other springing to the floor and scuttling to safety. Catching her breath and inwardly cursing her nerves Lacey gathered up the papers.

  Edgar Beaumont. The name on the document jumped out at her. She read on, whooping with delight as she hurtled downstairs, fox fur forgotten.

  ‘Look what I’ve found!’ Lacey cavorted round the kitchen table waving the flimsy sheet of paper, brown with age and curled at the edges.

  Edith, kneeling at the hearth with Richard, turned so quickly she demolished his tower of building blocks. Richard roared his disapproval. ‘What is it?’ Edith cried, scrabbling to her feet. Just then Joshua and Matt came in from the yard.

  ‘Hey up, our Lacey. What’s to do?’ Joshua exclaimed, seeing his daughter jigging round the kitchen waving a piece of paper.

  Lacey shoved the document under Joshua’s nose. ‘Read it, Dad, read what it says.’ She turned to Matt. ‘I found it in Grandma Barraclough’s trunk.’

  Joshua screwed up his eyes and read the faded print, his lips wobbling as a great gust of air escaped his lungs. ‘By bloody hell! I knew all along them fields wa’ ours. Me Dad ‘ud ‘o told me if it had been otherwise.’

  Matt craned his neck to peer over Joshua’s shoulder. ‘What does it say?’

  ‘It says on the first day of July eighteen seventy-nine, Edgar Beaumont sold ten acres of land to Jacob Barraclough for two hundred an’ forty-nine pounds, seven shillings an’ sixpence.’

  Joshua handed the receipt to Matt. Matt scanned it, his face lighting up as he read. In awed tones he said, ‘It wa’ witnessed by Norman Hopkinson, so it must be legal.’

  He pointed out the signature of the now retired solicitor.

  Lacey flung her
arms round Joshua and hugged him tight. ‘See Dad, everything’s going to be all right, so stop worrying.’ She laughed merrily. ‘It’ll be one in the eye for Arnold Beaumont when you produce this. It’s proof without a doubt.’

  They celebrated with mugs of tea and a lardy cake Edith had baked that morning. Joshua scratched his chin thoughtfully. ‘I thought it were just women’s clutter in that trunk. If I’d done owt about it I’d o’ saved meself an awful lot o’ damned worry this past while back.’

  ‘Mebbe you should look through the rest of the papers, Dad; you might own half of Garsthwaite,’ chirped Lacey. ‘In the meantime you’ve got mice in the attic.’

  *

  Three evenings later, Lacey was again at Netherfold, this time in the company of Ivy Vickerman, the midwife. In the bedroom, in the final hours of labour, Molly sweated and intermittently dozed. The clock on the mantelpiece showed half past eleven.

  ‘She’ll have it afore midnight,’ Ivy said sagely, ‘second babies always come quicker than first ones.’

  For the umpteenth time that evening Matt stopped pacing the landing and peered round the edge of the door. Ivy tutted, her eyebrows raised in mock indignation. ‘They’re all the same, first time fathers. They think ‘cos it only takes ‘em two minutes to put the baby there in the first place, it’ll take t’same length o’ time for it to come out nine months later.’

  Matt mumbled an apology. Lacey laughed. ‘Don’t fret, Matt. Ivy knows what she’s doing. She’s delivered half the population of Garsthwaite.’

  ‘I couldn’t bear it if owt happened to either of ‘em,’ muttered Matt.

  ‘It won’t,’ Lacey replied confidently.

  She was right. As the clock struck midnight Matt’s son squalled his way into the world: another generation for the Barraclough family.

  *

  The following morning John Hinchcliffe called on Lacey. ‘I’ve got the contract for the new tenancy on the property next door for you to sign,’ he said, the engineer from Oxford having been replaced by a family from London.