The Loom (7 page)

Darkie hated the claustrophobic work. The hard grind and back breaking toil, day in and day out. Yet, listening to some of the old timers and their stories, he realized he was well off. How children as young as three would be used in the mines to lift the trap doors, sitting in darkness for hours on end. Of women and young girls used as beasts of burden and worse. He had been horrified as he listened. How could people treat others like that, he had wondered? It had been the strikes and agitation for reforms, over many years, which had gradually changed conditions for the better.

Darkie lay wedged in a narrow tunnel. Sweat poured out of him. He wielded his pick at the jet mass above, which shone blue-black in the light of his lamp. The colour of Kitty’s hair, he thought. Everything he did he equated with Kitty. Her face flashed through his brain a hundred times a day, smiling, laughing, teasing, serious. Like the silent movies, he thought, giving a continual repeat performance. It was driving him mad!

He glanced across at Paddy working a few feet away. His hair was the same colour as Kitty’s. Stop it! He swung his pick viciously and shifted his position as huge chunks dislodged from the rock face. The whites of his eyes gleamed in the sooty blackness. He continued with the feverish pace. Chips flew wildly and he felt one hit his cheek, then the wetness of blood. He took perverse enjoyment in the physical pain. It alleviated his mental anguish, however temporarily. Another slither of coal bit into his skin. He winced. It was probably less dangerous at the Front than it was down here, he thought. He would go soon. When he got the courage to tell his Mam, he’d go. He continued with the back-breaking toil: lift the pick, slash at the coal face, pull, twist, until the jet black mass fell, repeat, again and again and again!

Darkie and the men near him stopped hacking at the first yell. They were frozen for a moment, listening. Then the rumbling turned into a thunderous roar. Darkie heard Paddy cry his name. Men threw down their picks and began to run down the tunnel towards them. They were all running now, heads bent. The roaring increased, drowning out the screams. Rocks bombarded them like missiles. A chunk hit Darkie – he didn’t feel a thing, only the wetness. He kept going. Men pushed at his back, maddened. Only with great effort did he manage to stay upright.

Just as suddenly the roaring stopped. The silence following was even more ominous. It was punctuated by a high-pitched scream. An agonizing scream! Darkie felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. They waited for the dust to subside, still listening to the sound. Then some of the men went back along the tunnel. The screaming came from a man trapped from the waist down by a huge boulder. Paddy? He looked around and heaved a sigh of relief when he saw him standing a few feet away. The victim was one of the new Irish immigrants who were pouring into Harwood. Mike Flannigan had only just arrived from Dublin with his wife and eight children. Darkie bent down and looked into Mike’s agonized eyes.

‘
It’ll be all right, Mike, just hang on, hang on.’ He liked Mike. His eyes filled with tears. Why did this always have to be the way? He brushed a hand over his eyes. He pushed and shoved with the others to dislodge the boulder. Mike’s screams had subsided to a weak moan. A great gush of blood, like an obscene tongue, suddenly leapt from Mike’s mouth. Darkie jumped back as Mike gave a last shuddering breath. The men looked silently at one another. What could be said? Mike was dead. It had happened before, it would happen again. They walked back down to the cage in silence and got in.

Paddy was crammed next to him. He could feel him shaking. He had a large gash on his forehead from which blood ran steadily down the side of his face. Darkie pulled out a large piece of cloth from his pocket. ‘Here,’ he said, handing it to Paddy. His own hand trembled. ‘Thanks,’ Paddy whispered.

‘Bit bloody close, that one, eh.’

Paddy nodded, dabbing at the wound. ‘Too bloody close.’

Darkie was still trembling when the cage reached the top. The back of his head hurt. He’d been scared stiff, bloody scared stiff. That was definitely it! He’d had enough of the pit and he’d either get another job or join up. Anything was preferable to that hellhole.

He drew another shaky breath. His mother hadn’t wanted him to work in the pit but no, he’d had to have his own way. It had been the pay, but the pay was no good if you were six feet under, was it? He shuddered as he thought of how close they’d all come to being trapped down there. Entombed alive which was worse than what had happened to poor Mike. I’d rather die with a bullet in me, he thought!

***********

Emma sat in the old chair in front of the window. A large portion of the stuffing protruded from a hole in the side. She stared out onto the cobbled yard, eyes bleak. An Indian summer had descended on Harwood and the sun shone down onto the bare back yard, glistening blindingly off the slates on the shed roof at the bottom.

A black cat stood on them with its back arched, staring with unblinking yellow eyes at the motionless figure of Emma at the window. The cat paused for a moment and then disdainfully swung gracefully around, jumped onto the next coit with a flick of its tail and disappeared from view into the next yard.

Emma sighed. She brushed a stray wisp of hair back from her forehead. It
was
hot, she thought, undoing the two top buttons of her blouse. She continued her stare into the back yard and thought of the recent events, which had turned her life upside down. She felt she’d aged twenty years since then. Her once open, happy face was haggard and drawn.

Kitty’s death had hit them hard especially Darkie and she knew that her worst fear concerning him would soon be realized. She’d known what he’d do, if not straight away, then soon. Even though he was under age, they’d take him. A big strapping lad! Of course they would! They’d jump at him, especially now that the war wasn’t going well and they needed all the manpower they could get. What was the point of it all, Emma thought wearily; all those men dying and for what? People’s lives didn’t get any better, did they?

Emma bit her lip. She’d better not cry or she wouldn’t stop. For the past week she felt as though she’d had a lump of lead on her chest. She was unable to sleep at night and during the day was so tired that each night she thought, I should sleep the night, but this had been a vain hope. When at last she did sleep, her nightmares were so terrible she was thankful to wake, only to lie in a torment of half sleep, her mind dwelling always on the source of her fear.

She swallowed and brushed a hand across her eyes. She’d never been a crier, not even when her Mam had died, and she’d loved her Mam. She shook her head to try to get rid of her morbid thoughts. Come on now, Emma lass, she remonstrated with herself. It’s no good getting all het up before there’s something to get het up about. He hasn’t joined up yet. But then she thought of all the wives without husbands, mothers without sons, and the dwindling numbers of young boys and men on the streets of Harwood. The dread welled again.

And what about those who
had
come home! She gave a shudder, thinking of the maimed men who had returned. Leah and Janey had made paper flowers to sell for the war effort and had taken the money to Whalley Hospital. A nurse took them around some of the wards. That was an experience she never wanted again. Leah and Janey hadn’t been able to sleep for nights after that. She shouldn’t have taken them, but how was she to know the horror of it! It had brought home like nothing else the appalling waste of war!

It was on Kitty’s death that Emma dwelt most often. How it had affected all their lives. How Shamus and Mara were still inconsolable in their grief. How she, herself, would often find her eyes filling at the thought. A wonderful light had gone out of their lives with Kitty’s death.

Leah still hadn’t got over it, especially the way
Kitty had died. It had taken Emma all her time to persuade her to go back to work. Leah had nightmares for weeks after, waking screaming at the top of her voice and scaring Emma half to death. Then she’d stated that she wasn’t ever going back to the mill.

‘
But what are you going to do?’ Emma said in dismay.

‘I don’t know, but I’ll find something.’

‘What about the munitions factories?’

‘
I don’t know, Mam, I don’t know. All I do know is that I never want to go into another mill as long as I live.’

Annie Fitton had been in and out every day since the tragedy, doing her best to cheer them up, her fat face (and all her chins) all of a tremble with the effort.

Emma had been thankful for Annie (as usual Leah was fed up with her and even Janey, who it normally didn’t bother, complained). When Annie heard about Leah, saw Leah’s white, drawn face, her constant tears she ‘put on her thinking cap’ as she said to Emma later.

‘I got to thinking, Emma love,’ she said, frowning, her fat face creased into numerous rolls. ‘It’s such a shame that your Leah wants to give up weaving, her being such a good little weaver, but I suddenly remembered something our Rosie said, you know, my brother Ted’s girl, who used to work up at Hyndburn Hall. She said she heard from the housekeeper up there that they’re looking for a new kitchen maid. Miss Fenton, the housekeeper, you remember her don’t you, a nice woman? Well, she said that Doreen Ormrod, ee, I never liked her, got in the family way and had to leave and God only knows who the father is. But anyroad, as I was saying, they need a couple of maids and they’re finding it hard because all the young ‘uns want to work in the factories, especially the munitions. I know the pay’s probably better in the mill but I’m sure that won’t bother Leah, will it? What if I ask Rosie to put in a good word with Miss Fenton?’

Emma listened patiently to the garbled account. She was used to Annie and it always took her a while to get to the point. Her face was hopeful at the end of it.

‘
Would you, Annie? Who would have thought our Leah would have taken Kitty’s accident so bad. It would be a godsend if she could get a job at the Hall, because I know that the Townsends are a nice family. I don’t know how she’ll get on in the kitchen. She’s quick, though and if they need any mending done, Leah’s your girl. She’s good with a needle is Leah, tell Rosie to tell Miss Fenton that, will you?’

Annie nodded, all her chins wobbling at once. ‘I’ll do that Emma, straight away.’

Annie had put in ‘her good word’ and Leah had been summoned to the Hall the week before for an interview.

Emma had seen her off, dressed neatly in her dark long dress, stockings and clogs. Emma had rubbed her hair with a silk cloth and then tied it back in two tight plaits. It shone like a new minted sovereign! Emma was proud of Leah’s hair.

‘Now don’t worry, lass,’ she said as she waved goodbye. ‘Just use your manners like you’ve been taught and you’ll be right.’

‘They’re nobs, though. I’m not used to talking to nobs.’

‘They’re only people, so don’t worry.’

Leah had been too awed at the interview to really take anything in except that everything around her was the complete opposite of Glebe Street. The luxury of Hyndburn Hall left her speechless and she felt that she’d stuttered her way through the interview without knowing what in the world she’d said. Miss Fenton seemed to be kindly, she could remember that and amazingly she’d been put on, for a month’s trial. She’d raced home to tell her Mam, the world suddenly a brighter place, Kitty’s death already beginning to seem like a nightmare from which she was gradually waking.

Emma was unsettled and uneasy at all the changes that had suddenly charged into her life (like a mad bull she would think at times). Leah would be living at the Hall during the week because it was too far away for a daily walk. Darkie would be gone, too, no doubt about that! He hadn’t been able to meet her eye lately, though he’d said nothing. He’d been so down in the dumps. She couldn’t blame him, poor lad. He’d been besotted with Kitty. In the flush of first love! It was a shame, it was! Emma gave another heartfelt sigh and got up slowly to put the kettle on for a cup of tea.

PART TWO

CHAPTER FIVE

T
his part of the north of England is steeped in history: old Roman roads wind their tenuous way up the Pennines, there is evidence of Viking invasions, monasteries dating back to the Normans and so on and so on. It is even said that Cromwell rode over the old bridge at Mitten!

The first Hyndburn Hall was built in the sixteenth century. It was bequeathed to a squire, later knighted by Queen Elizabeth the First. He then sold it and moved south (where it was warmer) and eventually the Hall ended up in the hands of the Townsends, wealthy mill owners.

Hyndburn Hall lay in a slight hollow between the Calder and Hyndburn Rivers, which formed the northern and eastern boundaries of Harwood. When the Hall was rebuilt in the late eighteen hundreds on the ashes of the previous residence, which had been razed to the ground, presumably due to a careless servant, the Scottish architect had been aghast when told that the house was to face the north.

‘
You’ll regret it, Mr. Townsend, you’ll regret it. Those winds from yon north’ll be nay good for the front of yon house, nay good at all.’

‘I’d rather the cold north winds than the view of Harwood,’ Henry Townsend declared firmly. The architect shook his head and the builders had gone ahead with the house, which faced northeast, a slight concession. In winter thought, the freezing winds would sweep into the front hall on the opening of the huge oak door, but to compensate, so Henry insisted firmly, was the grand view: first of all were the scenic gardens; green manicured lawns, hedges and rose gardens, terraces filled with colour, pathways edged with nodding flowers and sturdy shrubs. Further afield (and more importantly to Henry) were the meadows, moors, copses, the sparkling Calder and beyond this, in the distance, Pendle Hill and the Pennines rising serene and majestic, in summer startlingly clear, in winter often enveloped in swirling mists and fog but still breathtakingly beautiful.