The Loom (5 page)

After Leah and Janey’s scare with the corpse they had indeed gone to Dora’s mother to ask for some money, but she hadn’t been in. Only the children had been there and then friends of Lenny’s had turned up and they’d begun to tease the girls, who eventually, with a lot of pushing and shoving managed to lock them out of the house. The three girls then rushed up the stairs, saw the full chamber pot with a turd floating in it, took it to the window and proceeded to empty it on the upturned faced of the boys standing below, who by this time were hurling abuse and uttering dire threats of what they would do when they caught up with them.

As Leah thought of this she couldn’t help smiling as she remembered the sight of the drenched boys who had almost gone berserk at the horrible concoction: emptying that pot had been altogether too much of a temptation, but when Leah saw Dora standing waiting for them she wondered uneasily about Lenny. He would try to get even with them, of that she had no doubt.

‘What’s the matter, Dora?’ Leah said, although she really didn’t need to be told. Dora was down in the dumps again, (not unusual for her).

‘
It’s me dad,’ she said dolefully, ‘at it again.’ She made a tippling gesture with her hand.

‘He’s not!’ Leah said. Dora nodded. Leah put her arm through Dora’s. ‘Never mind; at least he doesn’t belt you.’

‘I know but me Mam’s getting fed up with him and they were going at it hammer and tongs when I left. It’s awful.’ She sighed and Leah pulled her on.

‘Try to forget it, Dora. Come on or we’ll be late.’

(Three months later Leah, Janey and Emma stood on the Liverpool dock and waved goodbye to Dora, Lenny and Mrs. Baker.

‘
I’ve had enough,’ Dora’s mother had said to Emma after her husband’s latest binge. ‘I’m off to California. I’ve an uncle there and he said he’d put us up. Not a muff though. If Ed finds out he’ll stop us.’ So it had been a big secret for a month or more until the ship sailed away. They never returned to Harwood and Ed drowned himself in drink, literally – dying of cirrhosis of the liver a few years later).

They hurried on in silence except for the loud clang of their clogs. Kitty knew what it was like to have a father who drank, although Shamus was not violent with it.

‘
Goes right soft, he does,’ Mara would say.

Leah and Janey held their own counsel and were silently thankful that they didn’t have to put up with
that.
Thank God Mam had left their Dad!

Strange the way most men in Harwood drank, Leah thought. She supposed that was their entertainment. It was different for women. They didn’t have time for entertainment. They were too worn out working in the mill all day and then cooking and cleaning, sewing and knitting for their families afterwards. It wasn’t fair, but women seemed to accept the situation. She’d never once heard her mother complain about how hard she worked.

CHAPTER FOUR

L
imbo is an in between place. A neither here nor there place! A place of doubt, of insecurity, of not knowing just what is going to happen!

Darkie Hammond had heard of limbo from Paddy O’Shea, who’d explained all about it together with purgatory, the holy-ghost and extreme unction.

Darkie had listened rather scornfully, but now he could relate to that there limbo, he thought, as he lay in his bed, listening to his mother in the room across the landing.

He had woken briefly when he heard Leah call out, again when his mother went down the stairs; then he turned over and slept deeply until ten. His sleep had not been soothing. He often dreamt of the war, although he had no actual experience of it. He’d heard stories though: disturbing stories, which conjured dreadful images that flitted in and out of his consciousness.

In other dreams (or nightmares, he would think later) he was trapped down the pit. These terrified him more than those of war. Strange, how men seemed to want to go to war. Because of this, or so the history books said, there had always been wars. War seemed to be the main aim of the human race. Why did he want to go he often wondered, knowing how terrible it was? When the War began he’d been thirteen. His mother had not worried about him going then. It would all be over by Christmas, so everyone said. Three years later it was still going strong. He was sixteen, now. Still too young to join, but how many had signed up at fourteen and even younger? Quite a few, if you believed the stories! The last time he’d been out with his mother to the Square she’d dragged him away when she saw him staring at the picture of Kitchener pasted to the wall of the Mercer Clock.

‘
Don’t even think about it,’ she threatened. He did, though, even after he’d wake sweating.

Last night he had a beautiful dream (for a nice change). He was paddling in a stream: a crystal clear stream, the ripples emanating slowly outwards from his moving feet. It was a warm day and his feet felt so cool in the water. Then a rosy face appeared in the water’s reflection. Shining black hair lifted in the breeze. Blue eyes gazed into his through the water. White teeth smiled at him. A dimple deepened. Kitty!

Darkie Hammond had worked in the Townsend pit since he was fourteen. He hated the job but the pay was good and the heavy work had filled him out and with his naturally solid build, at sixteen he looked like a prizefighter.

He got up, had some bread and dripping for his breakfast and a cup of strong tea which still remained in the teapot on the range. He didn’t start the next shift until later and he decided to have a walk to the Town Square. He looked out of the window. The rain had stopped and the sun was trying its best to shine. Perhaps it would clear up? It was still cold, though and he was glad of the heavy jumper, which his mother had knitted, as he walked purposefully up Glebe Street towards the Co-op. Most people were at work but a number of women were doing their shopping, baskets in hand, coats, or more often shawls wrapped warmly around them.

Darkie strode on up the street and then was suddenly aware that the woman coming towards him was holding her hand up. He automatically raised his, although he didn’t think he knew the woman. As she passed by she slipped something into his hand. She hadn’t smiled, hadn’t said a word, but he knew immediately what it was. His fingers uncurled about the small white feather, which lay in his palm. He looked at it and swore softly. Bloody hell, another one! This was the third time it had happened. The first time he’d laughed it off and flung the feather from him without another thought. The second time he hadn’t been quite as amused. Now he was bloody mad. It wasn’t his fault that he looked old enough to be at the Front. He was no coward and if it hadn’t been for his Mam he’d be there!

He was still fuming on the incident when he heard a voice calling him. He turned round. Paddy O’Shea was running to catch up, so he waited. ‘What the hell’s the hurry,’ Paddy said, breathing heavily.

‘No hurry,’ Darkie growled. He held up the feather.

‘
Join the club!’ Paddy dropped his disdainfully on the ground. They both laughed ruefully.

‘
They must be doing a roaring trade.’

‘Aye, looks like they’ve really got it in for us. Seems like people have nowt else to do these days.’

‘I’m getting bloody sick of it,’ Darkie said.

Paddy nodded. ‘Aye; bloody silly women must be bored to death if they’ve nothing better to do than run around town all day giving us feathers. They need a bit more work, that’s what.’

‘What I’d like to know,’ said Darkie, still seething, ‘Is how these bloody women have the cheek to give us feathers when none of ‘em have ever been in a war. They want the vote and everything else so why can’t someone give ‘em a rifle if they’re so keen and let them shoot a few of the Hun. It’d keep ‘em off our backs, any road!’

Paddy laughed. ‘Now don’t get so het up, Darkie lad. You know what women are like. Anyway, it doesn’t bother me how many bloody feathers they give me. All I know is that I’m not going until I have to.’ He gave Darkie an affectionate push on the shoulder. ‘Come on; stop thinking about the bloody things. Life’s too short to worry.’

Darkie looked sheepish. ‘I do get a bit riled up. I should be more easy going, like you, Paddy.’

Paddy couldn’t understand Darkie. They could give him a sack full of feathers for all he cared. What he did was his business and he knew what those silly women could do with their feathers.

Darkie was fond of Paddy. He had been his best friend for as long as he could remember, was easy going, generous and had a good sense of humour, even if he didn’t want to ‘go’ to war. Paddy didn’t worry about anything much. Yet he wasn’t a push over, either. Darkie had seen evidence of this when Paddy had given Ted Ainsely a black eye. Just like that, bang! Ted had been obnoxious Darkie had to admit, a dirty talker, mainly about women. Paddy couldn’t abide him.

‘So I hit him,’ Paddy said to Emma when Darkie related the incident, ‘me Mam’s a woman. I think he forgot
that
in his dirty talk.’ Emma nodded, pleased.

‘So what’re you going to do today,’ Paddy said as they sauntered on to the Square. The sun had come out and a few older people were sitting on the benches around the railings enclosing the clock.

Darkie shrugged. ‘Oh, nowt much; I might have a bit of a kip later and then go down to the mill and catch Kitty when she comes out.’

Paddy raised his eyebrows and made a kissing sound. ‘Don’t be a silly bugger,’ Darkie said, blushing.

He turned around as one of the old men sitting on the bench called out to him and waved him over. Darkie turned to Paddy.

‘
Come on, Paddy, we’ll go and have a natter with old Bob Haskell. He’s a bit of a character.’

They sat on the bench next to Bob and his friend, Tom Newbury. Both had worked in the mines all their lives. Tom looked ill, and coughed a lot into a grimy handkerchief. His face was a chalky white. Bob still looked healthy enough, in spite of his hard life down the mines and his seventy odd years.

‘See Alf Fifty over there,’ Bob said when Darkie sat down next to him on the bench. He pointed to a very small man in well-worn clothing and a black neb cap, selling black-eyed peas from a barrow in the middle of the Square. Darkie nodded.

‘
Have you ever wondered why he got that name?’

Darkie and Paddy looked puzzled.

‘
Think about it for a minute,’ Bob said with a wink.

‘You’ve got me stumped, Bob,’ Paddy said.

‘He got it on account of the peas,’ Bob said triumphantly.

‘Peas,’ Darkie said. He grinned at Paddy and winked. ‘All right, go on, tell us.’

‘Well, I was saying to Tom here. What happens when you eat peas? Tha knows what happens doesn’t tha, Tom?’

‘Aye, I does,’ said Tom and lifted off the seat a little and let off a loud fart.

Paddy and Darkie roared. Bob looked at Tom in disgust. ‘All right, all right; you don’t have to demonstrate.’

‘Sorry, Bob.’ Tom grinned, showing a toothless gummy mouth. ‘I had to do it or I get a right pain. You know how it is.’

‘Aye, I do, I do. Let me get on with me story. Well, now, owd Alf must have eaten a lot of peas, right?’

‘Right.’

‘And he must have had a lot of wind, poor bugger. Right?’

‘Right.’

‘Well, it stands to reason they couldn’t call him Alf Farty, could they. It would have been a bit much.’

‘Aye, it would.’ Tom was still perplexed.

Bob looked at him in exasperation, then at the two boys who by this time could hardly contain themselves.

‘Ee, he’s thick,’ Bob said to Darkie. He turned to Tom. ‘So they couldn’t call him Alf Farty. You know, so what did they call him?’

‘
Alf Fifty!’ Tom said triumphantly.

‘Good story, Bob.’ Paddy grinned down at Bob as he stood up. ‘Very classy, like.’ Bob laughed.

‘What’s that?’ said Darkie. They stopped talking to listen.

‘It’s the Salvation Army Band and it’s coming up Church Street. They’re playing Tipparary,’ Paddy said. They waited and soon, round the corner came the

Band followed by a trail of brass band enthusiasts and a few heckling children. The Band came to a standstill on the Square and people began to gather round to sing the popular war song. Darkie and Paddy got up off the bench and joined in. Darkie listened to Paddy’s soaring tenor in appreciation. When the song finished he turned to Paddy. ‘You should do something with that voice, Paddy. It’s wasted here in Harwood.’

Paddy was embarrassed. ‘Get away with you. What could I do?’

‘Oh, I don’t know, join a singing group or something.’

‘What with all the owd fogeys? You must be wrong in your bloody head, Darkie lad. It’s bad enough having to sing in the church choir, and I only do that because me Mam pestered me to death.’

‘All right, all right, it was just a thought. Remind me to mind my own business next time,’ Darkie said.

*********

Leah watched in irritation as Janey wandered around her loom as though she’d all day to do on. Janey was so slow and daydreaming again as usual. You just could not afford to daydream in their job. It was piecework and the more you wove the more you made.