The Loom (9 page)

The truth was she was getting cold feet. What was she letting herself in for? She’d no idea what went on in a big house like the Hall and the thought of working in a kitchen had almost made her change her mind and go back to the mill, because she wasn’t too keen on cooking
or
cleaning. She was relieved when she was told that her main job would be to help with the sewing. She liked sewing, but just couldn’t see herself scrubbing pots and pans from morning till night.

When she really thought about returning to the mill, however, she went cold. She’d gone back once with her mother to give her notice. Even that short time had been enough. Why had she never noticed the noise before, or the dankness of it, or how depressing it was? She felt faint even now when she remembered what had happened.

So here she was and there was that head, looking like a dismembered thing and calling to her to come in. As there was nothing else she could do, in spite of her misgivings, Leah pushed open the gate and walked cautiously along the flagged path. On either side of the path were neat rows of vegetables. She stared at them curiously. They’d never had a garden. Fancy, growing your own food, she thought in wonder!

As she drew nearer the door Leah smoothed down her dress and pushed the stray wisps of hair back off her face. Did she look neat enough? She felt all hot and bothered after the episode on the drive. The door was now open wide and the woman in the mob cab stood smiling at her. She wore a long black dress, over which was an immaculately starched white apron.

‘
Come in, lass, come in,’ she said. ‘Now, now,’ she continued, seeing the look on Leah’s face. ‘We’re not going to eat you. I’m Mrs. Walters, the cook and you must be Leah Hammond.’

Leah nodded shyly and made her way into the kitchen. She relaxed a little at the warm welcome and, feeling more reassured she stood awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen.

She looked around her. She’d never seen so many pots and pans in her life! There seemed to be hundreds, hanging from the ceiling, stacked on open shelves, on cupboards. They were everywhere. It smelt wonderful, too, in this gigantic kitchen and her mouth watered when she saw what was on the table. She hadn’t eaten much breakfast. She’d been too worried. Now she was starving! Maud saw the hungry look.

‘
What about one of my teacakes, love with some butter on,’ she said. She could see Leah was uneasy and Miss Fenton didn’t want to see her for another half an hour.

‘
You’ve time for a cup of tea as well,’ she added with a smile. Leah nodded.

‘
Oh yes, please, Mrs. Walters.’

‘
Sit yourself down then,’ Maud said and pointed to one of the chairs.

What a lovely looking lass Maud thought, eyeing Leah surreptitiously. Just look at them eyes! She bustled about pouring Leah a mug of tea and placed it, and a teacake covered in butter (not margarine, Leah noted like they always had), in front of her on the table.

Leah sat perched nervously on the edge of the chair, her eyes flicking from Maud’s busy figure and then around the kitchen. She was just wondering what the noise was in the scullery, when Gertie Wicklow stomped through into the kitchen. There was a frown of annoyance on her face. Seeing Leah she stopped short, the annoyance changing to surprise.

Gertie, her expression as grim as a gate, quickly took in the small figure sitting on the chair: the auburn hair neatly braided; the wispy tendrils, the milky skin and right down to the cumbersome clogs.

Gertie’s gaze raked her like a razor. Leah felt paralyzed by it.

‘
Oh,’ Gertie said, as she looked Leah up and down and then at Mrs. Walters, ‘Oh, a cup of tea already? Well, she’d better drink it quick because I’ve just seen Miss Fenton and she’s been asking about her.’ She jerked her head at Leah, who had just taken her first bite of the teacake. It now stuck in her throat like a piece of cardboard.

‘
Is she,’ Maud said, immediately sensing Gertie’s antagonism. ‘Well, she can wait another five minutes till Leah here gets her breath back after that long walk from Harwood. I know Miss Fenton won’t mind. Anyway, Gertie, this is Leah Hammond.’

Gertie made a quick ungracious nod of her head.

‘
Leah, this is Gertie Wicklow, parlour maid at the Hall.’

‘
Head
parlour maid you mean,’ Gertie said, pressing her lips together and straightening her apron importantly.

‘
Aye, well, seeing that you’re the
only
parlour maid here,’ Maud replied sarcastically, ‘Then I suppose you’re the head parlour maid. And if you are then you’d better get cracking, because the mistress has been ringing for her tea these five minutes past.’

‘
Well, I’ve only got one pair of hands and as I’ve said a million times before, we should have another maid for upstairs, in this big place. It’s all right for some who’ve got time to sit on their bums and have tea,’ Gertie said, with a quick scathing look at Leah. ‘But some people have their work cut out for them from dawn till dusk.’

Leah sat with the teacake lodged in her throat, looking at Gertie’s red, indignant face in bewilderment. What had she done? She’d been as quiet as a mouse and as far as she knew hadn’t made one wrong move, but somehow she’d managed to rile this girl with the big bum and horrible face.

Leah knew instinctively that she had an enemy here. She sensed the hatred, which seemed to seep out of every pore of this obnoxious person, like poisoned gas. Leah turned quickly to Maud, who stood with her hands on her hips, glaring at Gertie.

‘
Now listen, Gertie. Keep a civil tongue in your head. This is Leah’s first day here and she’s feeling a bit strange, as you should be able to understand. You were new here not that long ago, if I remember rightly, so just have a bit of thought for someone else, for a change.’

Gertie snorted and stamped over to the scullery, muttering under her breath. She could only go so far with Maud and from the look on Maud’s face, she’d reached that limit.

Maud shook her head. When would Gertie learn to keep her mouth shut? She looked at Leah who hadn’t touched her teacake since that first bite.

‘
Now, lass, don’t you worry about Gertie. She has her ups and downs. Just drink your tea and then I’ll take you to see Miss Fenton. And you don’t have to worry about her because she’s a real nice woman. She’ll treat you right if you do right by her, and I’m sure you will, so there’s nowt to worry about.’

Leah wanted to cry and call for her Mam, like she’d done when she was small. Here she was in a strange place with strange people. She’d just lost her best friend; Darkie would be going away to war soon and even thinking of these two things made her want to put her head down and howl.

Then this Gertie, for no apparent reason, had taken an instant dislike to her and from the look of it was going to make her life here a misery. And on top of everything, and she went cold at the thought, she'd called the dark man on the horse a silly sod! She should have stayed in the mill! She put her cup carefully back on the table. She couldn’t drink another drop because she was too choked up.

Maud had been watching Leah anxiously. I could murder that Gertie, she thought, as she began to prepare the last of her baking.

‘
Now, lass,’ she said. ‘Don’t let that nasty piece bother you. People like that,’ she nodded her head in the direction of the scullery where they could hear dishes being banged around, ‘They usually get their just desserts, sooner or later.’ And I hope it’s sooner she thought. ‘Now, finish your tea and we’ll go and see Miss Fenton.’

‘
I…I don’t want any more tea, thank you Mrs. Walters,’ Leah said in a quavering voice.

‘
Aye, well, all right then. We’ll go on up now. Just remember what I said. You’ve got nothing to worry about, nothing at all.’

Gertie suddenly emerged from the scullery. She was carrying a silver tray (as though they were the Crown Jewels, Leah thought). It was set with a white damask cloth with lace edging, and she carried it haughtily to the sideboard without looking at either Maud or Leah and banged the tray down. She took a fine porcelain cup and saucer from the cupboard, a small silver teapot, sugar basin and milk jug, making a great fuss of straightening the cloth, moving the handle of a cup and so on and so forth. Still ignoring Maud and Leah, who were watching her, (Leah in a kind of fascinated fear, Maud with intense irritation), Gertie poured boiling water into the teapot and milk into the jug. Then, without a word, she walked heavily out of the kitchen with the tray almost resting on her ample bust, which stuck out like the prow of a ship.

CHAPTER SIX

G
eorge Townsend often wonders whether houses could be termed as animate. He is, however, quite sure that Hyndburn Hall lives and breathes: this house is part of him, a
presence
he returns to rather than bricks and mortar. The windows are benevolent eyes watching, the open door welcoming arms. The house seems to digest him when he enters. He is absorbed by it, his memories and desires echoing off the very walls. He is aware, too, of others from a bygone era, can hear whispers, feel soft breath on his face, catches glimpses, so he says, of insubstantial figures flitting down hallways.

‘What a wonderful imagination, darling.’ Jessica says.

George Townsend sits in the breakfast room. His wife, Jessica, refers to it as the ‘morning room’ – much more elegant! It has pale beige walls, highly polished walnut furniture and a light Aubusson carpet, patterned in large pale pink roses and green garlands, cover most of the polished floor.

The round table, at which George sits, is covered with a crisp white damask cloth set with Royal Albert crockery and Wiltshire silverware; a large bowl of roses, their perfume mingling rather incongruously with herrings, dominates the centre. Curtains of raw silk are swagged back from the French doors, which look out onto the rose garden.

A tantalizing smell of porridge, bacon and eggs, toast and kippers wafts from the chiffonier set against the far wall. George eats his kippered herrings, toast and marmalade and drinks his tea, without seeing any of this because his mind is solely on his eldest son. George frowns. Stephen hadn’t been the same since this bloody war. Not surprising, really. From what he’d heard it was a nightmare. Stephen had not said much about it, was quite taciturn when the subject was mentioned. He should get it all off his chest, George thinks, biting into his last piece of toast, but instead Stephen seemed more and more withdrawn.

George takes another sip of tea. Each time Stephen has returned from the Front George sees less of the fun loving boy and more of the sombre, withdrawn man he felt he did not know at all. How could he get Stephen out of his despondency? He has mulled over the problem for days. His most deep-seated fear he would never acknowledge. To do so he would, he felt be tempting fate in some obscure way. All who participated in this damned war were vulnerable. Death did not discriminate. One only needed to think of the recent demise of Asquith’s brilliant son. He’d thought about suggesting that they go over to the Grenthams to hunt.

The Grenthams were good friends of theirs with a large property in Yorkshire. Stephen liked hunting and the new motor bike did not seem to have overly impressed. Or perhaps not, George remembers Stephen’s desire for solitude. London, then! They could at last get some use out of the house he’d just recently bought in Belgravia, mainly due to urgings from Jessica. A complete waste of money he had thought. He sighs. How true it was that once you had children you never stopped worrying about them, whatever their age. He takes out the heavy gold fob watch. Where was Stephen? He’d promised to have breakfast with him. He taps his fingers on the table. Tap, tap!

Eight thirty! He would have to be off soon. Old habits died hard with George Townsend. He liked to be in his office in Manchester by nine thirty. He would be late this morning! His eyes wandered round the room for a moment, suddenly conscious of it. It was so quiet! The Messein clock on the sideboard ticked loudly and the sounds of the birds drifted in on the slight breeze with the strong, sweet scent of the roses. He loved this room. There was a large painting of his grandfather on one wall. Jessica didn’t like it.

‘
It doesn’t suit the décor, George,’ she said, when he insisted.

‘
It’s staying,’ he retorted, knowing that his grandfather’s lack of breeding, was what she opposed. She looked down her aristocratic nose at all his relations.

Jessica was a snob. That he was one of the richest men in the north didn’t impress her. George’s great-grandfather had been a self made man. A mill worker! A common weaver from the slums of Manchester, who by sheer luck, a keen and natural intelligence and exceptional good looks had inveigled himself into the family, who owned the mill where he worked. He had ended up by marrying the mill owner’s daughter.

He had eventually inherited the mill and by this time was more interested in the money than the daughter. He’d made a few canny investments, mainly in property in Manchester, which had sky rocketed in value and doubled the inheritance many times over.

By the time George came along the Townsend’s were very rich, but they were ‘new rich’ and often scorned by the blue bloods who looked down their noses unless it suited them to do otherwise. This was what annoyed Jessica.

There was a large painting of his first wife, Anne, on the far wall. He’d paid a fortune to have it done from a photo after she died. His gaze softened. Anne, his dearest Anne. How he’d loved her! Pain flickered in his eyes as he remembered that one brief, passionate year together and then the agony of her death at the birth of Stephen. He’d been devastated and so lonely and miserable that when he met Jessica it had not been at all hard to succumb to her charms.