Twisted Strands (20 page)

Gracie was contrite. ‘I’m sorry, mi little lass, if I’ve opened my big mouth and let it run away with itself.’

‘Please, don’t apologize. It’s high time I knew about my family, but it all seems to be such a big secret, especially with my gran. Mary, I mean,’ she added to make it
clear about whom she was talking.

‘I’d best say no more, ’specially not on that subject.’ Gracie clamped her lips together to stop them uttering any more gossip. ‘Drink up and I’ll show you
the way to Singleton’s Yard, but I’ll not come in with yer, if yer don’t mind. I’m not exactly Harry Singleton’s favourite person.’ She smiled ruefully.
‘Bit too free with me tongue. I’m likely to give him a piece of me mind when I see him and I wouldn’t want you to get off on the wrong foot with him because of me.’ The
woman dropped her voice, but Bridie’s sharp ears picked up her words. ‘That’ll happen without any help from me.’

They were standing at the end of a narrow street.

‘This is Ranters’ Row,’ Gracie said, smiling. ‘That’s what us locals call it, but its proper name is Chapel Row. It’s a dead end as you can see and your
grandad’s place is up there on the left-hand side.’ The woman placed her hand on Bridie’s shoulder. ‘Good luck.’ She turned to go and then glanced back. ‘If you
need any ’elp, you know where I live.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Turner.’

Bridie took a deep breath and walked up the street, coming to a halt in front of a solid green gate. To her left was a long brick wall with windows and a door in the centre. Bridie pushed open
the gate and stepped inside.

She was standing in one corner of a rectangular-shaped enclosure. To her left was a line of cottages, the back wall of which was obviously the one facing the street. Now she could see the front
doors of the three homes facing the yard. The street side of the building had looked austere, but on this side a huge tree climbed the walls, straddling the whole frontage. Curiously she looked
about her. A brick path ran in front of the cottages and halfway along it was a pump. From this, another path ran the length of the yard, branching off to the buildings on each side and at the far
end. There were patches of garden on either side of the path, but the ground was neglected, growing wild and any plants were choked with weeds.

There was no-one about, the place seemed deserted, but then she became aware of the noise of machinery. Bridie stared up at the two-storey buildings. These were obviously not homes. On each
floor there was one window, with tiny square panes, running the full length of the wall. Bridie smiled, knowing at once what these were.

These buildings were her grandfather’s workshops. The windows were just like the ones in the back streets of Nottingham, where lacemakers and framework knitters worked in their own
homes.

This was where Andrew worked. She glanced back towards the cottages, wondering which one was his home. Suddenly she felt close to him and tears started in her eyes. She had longed to see his
home and, although she was here at last, he was not. Impatiently she brushed away her sentimental thoughts and approached one of the buildings. Inside, she climbed the steep stone steps to the
upper floor, the clatter of machinery coming closer and closer.

At the top, she was standing in a long room. The machines, twenty or so, were set close together with the operators sitting back to back, and in a row down the side of the room beneath the long
window. Only three machines were in use, two operated by older men and one by a young boy about Bridie’s age. Against the opposite wall, too, there were machines, even though the light would
not be so good there. These stood idle.

No-one had noticed her arrival; they had not heard her above the clatter so, for some time, Bridie stood watching the rhythmic operation of the framework knitters, trying to work out which of
the two men was her grandfather.

As if feeling her gaze, the young lad looked up and grinned cheekily at her. Bridie smiled back, but the boy did not get up and come over to her. Instead, he shrugged and gestured towards the
man sitting directly behind him. Then he pulled a grimace and drew his hand across his throat, intimating to Bridie what he thought the man would do to him if he left his work.

Bridie nodded, understanding. For a moment, she stood unobserved, watching the man. He was a big man, but his broad shoulders were stooped with the long years spent at his machine. He had a
bushy white beard and moustache, which completely hid his mouth, and his heavy eyebrows met across the bridge of his large nose. He wore thick spectacles, but even with their aid he leant forward,
peering at the rows of knitting as if he had trouble seeing them. She moved forward into his line of vision, hoping he would see her, but his whole attention was on his work.

After a few moments the young lad slid off his seat, tapped the man on his shoulder and gestured towards Bridie. The man looked up, squinting towards her. Without even pausing in his operation
of the machine, he gestured with a swift, angry movement of his head that she should leave. The boy lifted his shoulders in a shrug then stepped nearer to her, putting his mouth close to her ear to
shout, ‘He’ll not stop till dinnertime. You’d better go.’

But now the man did leave his work. He stepped towards them, his arm raised, and dealt the young lad a blow across the side of the head that sent him reeling halfway across the room. ‘Get
back to your work, you idle beggar. And you,’ he thundered, turning to Bridie, ‘be off with you. And don’t come here to see him again.’

For a moment, she thought the man might hit her too, but she stood her ground and faced him squarely. Now two machines were stopped, only the one worked by the other older man still making a
noise, and Bridie could make herself heard. ‘It’s not him I’ve come to see.’ Taking a chance that this was the right man, for he seemed to be the one in authority, she
added, ‘It’s you.’

‘What d’you want?’

She was aware of the boy’s curiosity and even the other man, though still working, kept glancing at her.

Well, they’d all know sooner or later, she thought, so she lifted her chin and said boldly, ‘I reckon you’re me grandad.’

She saw the man start and then he leant closer, squinting at her. Suddenly he gripped her shoulder and hustled her towards the top of the stairs, almost pushing her down them in front of him,
but keeping hold of her shoulder with such a strong grip that his fingers dug into her.

Out in the yard, he spun her round to face him. ‘Now, I don’t know who you are or what you’re after, but I don’t want to see you round here again. That clear?’

Bridie stared at him. Then, quite calmly, she gripped his wrist, trying to release his grasp on her. ‘Let go,’ she said firmly. ‘You’re hurting me.’

‘I’ll hurt you, you little tyke.’ It was the same name, the same tone that her grandmother, Mary, had used so often that Bridie almost laughed aloud. But the moment was far
from funny.

‘That’s a nice way to greet your granddaughter, I must say.’

The man released her suddenly as if the touch of her was burning his hand. ‘I haven’t got a granddaughter.’

‘Yes, you have.’ For a brief moment, Bridie wondered if she had picked the wrong man in the workshop. Maybe the bent, wizened little old man on the other machine was Harry Singleton.
But some instinct told her she had made the correct choice.

She lifted her chin higher, staring boldly up at him. ‘You had a daughter, Rebecca, didn’t you?’

He was about to deny it, even opened his mouth to refute it, but the words never came. Suddenly the huge shoulders sagged and he put out his hand to the nearby wall to steady himself.

‘She’s dead.’

‘I know that,’ Bridie said, her tone gentler, ‘but I’m her daughter, Bridie. I’ve lived with me gran, Mary. She’s your sister, isn’t she?’

He nodded dully, but still he kept his gaze averted.

‘She’d never let me come to see you.’

He gave a harsh, humourless laugh. ‘Well, that doesn’t surprise me.’

‘She said you wouldn’t want to see me.’

Now he was silent and to her, desperate to hear his denial, it was instead confirmation.

‘Even Andrew wouldn’t let me come.’ There was a catch in her voice.

Now the man met her gaze, but he was still frowning. ‘Andrew? Andrew Burns? What’s he got to do with it?’

‘He’s my godfather. He used to come most Sundays to the farm to see me.’

‘Well! Well, I never.’ Harry – for now she was sure it was her grandfather – seemed genuinely surprised, but he was still not pleased. ‘And how long has this been
going on?’

Bridie shrugged. ‘As long as I can remember.’

‘He never said.’ There was accusation in his tone.

‘It was in his free time. You don’t own him.’

‘Mebbe not. But I employed him. I gave him his living. And I own the cottage he lives in.’ He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘I could sack him and turn him out of his
home, if I had a mind. Just like that.’ He snapped his finger and thumb together. His voice dropped to a deep, aggrieved rumble. ‘In fact, I might just do that. His place is standing
empty now the silly young beggar’s volunteered. Rushed off with all the rest of ’em into the Good Lord only knows what.’

‘Which is his cottage?’ Bridie asked, craning her neck to look beyond the huge frame of the man standing in front of her.

‘What’s it to you? Don’t think you can go meddling in there.’

‘Andrew wouldn’t mind.’

‘
I
don’t know who you are. You could be anybody, for all I know.’

‘Yes, you do,’ Bridie insisted. ‘I’m Rebecca’s daughter. I even look like her. Andrew said.’

‘I can’t see the likeness myself.’

‘That’s because you can’t see very well now, can you?’

‘Who told you that?’ he barked, his resentment surfacing again swiftly.

‘I don’t need anyone to tell me. I watched you at work. I was stood there for ages before you saw me.’

‘Can’t hear anything above the noise.’

‘Mebbe not. But you were squinting at the knitting as it came off the machine. And there was a flaw in it you didn’t notice.’

‘Cheeky little baggage, aren’t you? You’re not like my . . .’ he began, almost tricked into acknowledging that at least it was a possibility that she was his
granddaughter. As if to counter his moment of weakness, he made an angry gesture with his right arm. ‘Be off with you. And don’t come here again.’

Bridie regarded him steadily. Far from being frightened of him or fazed by his anger, she felt sorry for him. It was obvious his once thriving business was struggling. Only three to carry on the
work; an old man, a young boy and a man who could hardly see now. It was obvious Harry Singleton needed help. But he was too stubborn to seek it.

She would go – for now – but first there was someone else Bridie wanted to see. With a quiet dignity that belied her tender years, she said, ‘I’m going nowhere,
Grandfather, until I’ve seen my great-grandmother.’

Bridie let herself into the end cottage in the row. She stood a moment until her eyes became accustomed to the gloom. Then she glanced around the room, cluttered with
possessions accumulated over the years. Everywhere was covered with a film of dust. There was no fire in the grate in the range, only ashes not yet cleaned out. The range itself was dull and
neglected. She tiptoed through into the scullery to find unwashed post and bits of mouldering food. There was a stale smell about the place too. In the far corner of the scullery was the staircase
and Bridie climbed it, calling out as she went.

‘Are you there, Great-Gran?’ She didn’t know what else to call the old lady who lived here. The full title – great-grandmother – was such a mouthful, but she
didn’t want to appear in the old lady’s bedroom unannounced and startle her.

A querulous voice came from the larger of the two bedrooms on the first landing. ‘Who’s that? Is that you, Lil?’

Bridie pushed open the door. The old lady was lying in the double, metal-framed bed against a mound of greyish-looking pillows. Her white hair stuck up in unkempt tufts and her thin face was a
network of lines and wrinkles. Her bony, purple-veined hands plucked at the covers and her voice was frail as she quavered, ‘Who are you?’

Bridie moved to the side of the bed and began to say, ‘Don’t be frightened, I’m . . .’ but the old woman clutched at the covers until her knuckles were white and
shrieked, ‘Rebecca!’

Bridie stopped and gasped in surprise as they stared at each other. Both were startled but the old lady had a look of sheer terror in her eyes.

Bridie reached out towards her. ‘I’m Rebecca’s daughter, Bridie.’

‘Bridie?’ she quavered. Then she moaned and closed her eyes. ‘Oh, dear Lord. She’s come for me. It’s my time. Rebecca’s come for me.’

‘Great-Gran,’ Bridie said firmly. ‘Please listen to me. I’m Bridie. I’m Rebecca’s daughter. But I know I look a bit like Rebecca.’

The old lady seemed to be recovering her senses a little after the first shock. She opened her eyes and stared at her. ‘Bridie? Your name’s Bridie too?’

‘My name is Bridie,’ the girl said mystified. ‘But what do you mean “too”?’

‘That’s my name, Bridget, but me da always called me Bridie.’

The young girl beamed. ‘Then obviously I’m called after you.’

‘After me? Why?’

The poor old thing confined to her bed was obviously confused. Patiently Bridie explained. ‘Because I’m your great-granddaughter.’

The old lady blinked, trying to focus her watery eyes on the figure standing at the end of her bed. ‘My . . .’ She began and then lapsed into silence, lost in thought and trying to
catch hold of vague, ephemeral memories. Then she let out a long sigh and fell back against the pillows.

‘Bridie. Now I remember. Eveleen came with a little baby, Rebecca’s baby, and said they were going to call her after me.’

‘That’s right,’ Bridie said eagerly. Perhaps the old lady was not so senile after all. Perhaps all she needed was a little tender loving care.

‘Brought the baby back here to be christened in the chapel across the road. But Harry didn’t go. Harry wouldn’t even go to the poor little mite’s christening.’