Twisted Strands (23 page)

‘I’ll soon have that going,’ she murmured, closing the door for the moment. She walked between the two workshops on either side, hearing the clatter of the machinery coming
from the upper floor of the one to her left. It seemed to be the only one now where any work was being done, for when she peeped into the other workshops she saw the lines of idle frames. Auntie
Evie will soon have those busy, Bridie thought to herself, smiling, if I know her. The buildings across the end of the yard housed communal lavatories for the workers as well as for the residents
of the cottages, a coal store and an empty pigsty, where the smell of the one-time occupants still lingered.

Bridie turned and walked back towards the cottages, coming to a stop in front of the door of the centre dwelling. Her hand trembled as she touched the doorknob and turned it. To her surprise, it
opened and, holding her breath, Bridie stepped into Andrew’s home.

Bridie moved around the living room in Andrew’s home.

Although a thin layer of dust lay everywhere, everything was painfully neat and tidy. Bridie sat in his chair by the range and let her eyes roam around the room, drinking in the sight of his
belongings. Her glance came to the mantelpiece above the range and she rose to look closely at the photographs there. Her eyes widened and she gasped.

Each, in its own silver frame, was a photograph of her, one for every year of her life from babyhood to the age of twelve. Tears filled her eyes and the images before her blurred.

‘Oh, Andrew, Andrew,’ she whispered brokenly.

Then she moved to the roll-top desk in the corner and lifted the unlocked lid. Yet more photographs of her were laid out in neat bundles. There were a few envelopes or letters tied up with
ribbon and, before she even touched them, she knew that they were what she had sent or given him. Christmas cards and birthday cards that she had made for him from the time he had given her a box
of paints. Bridie wrinkled her brow, trying to recall how old she had been. Five was it, or six? There was even the letter she had sent to him when he had been ill and unable to visit the farm for
a few weeks. Her childish scrawl evoked the memory of that time and how she had missed seeing him so dreadfully, yet again forbidden by her grandmother from visiting him at his home.

She wandered through to the scullery, where the pots and pans were neatly stacked, poignantly awaiting a need for their use. Then she climbed the stairs and stepped into the main bedroom. Here
again everything was so heartbreakingly neat and tidy. On the small table beside his bed stood a larger copy of the last photograph on the mantelpiece downstairs, the one taken on her twelfth
birthday.

‘But there should be another one,’ she said aloud. ‘We had one taken in Grantham when I was thirteen, just before they left . . .’ And then she understood.

That photograph was missing because he had taken it with him to war.

In May, the sinking of the
Lusitania
brought America down firmly on the side of Britain and her Allies. At the end of the month, Richard wrote that he had had an
inoculation that day –
Not very pleasant
.

Because the months had passed and Richard, Andrew and the others had not been sent overseas, Eveleen – and Bridie too – had begun to hope that they would never go. But now it sounded
as if they were being prepared. A month later his letter contained news that made Eveleen’s heart leap in fear.

‘Can you believe it?’ Eveleen exclaimed to Bridie on one of her weekend visits to Flawford. ‘Richard talks as if they can’t wait to get over there.’

Bridie was solemn-faced. ‘I suppose they feel that’s what they’ve volunteered for.’

Eveleen glanced at her. Bridie seemed to have grown taller during the last few weeks. She was still only thirteen, but now seemed so much older. The war had taken away her childhood, bringing
her worries and possibly grief that no young girl ought to know. She was frowning now as she went on. ‘I don’t know if I ought to say this . . .’

‘Go on,’ Eveleen prompted gently.

‘Well, I didn’t want Andrew or Richard or any of them to go, but – but now they have, I do feel ever so proud of them. And yesterday I saw more volunteers marching along the
village main street. Some of them didn’t look much older than me. They looked so brave, all going off to war. I – I couldn’t help joining in the cheering, even though part of me
still wanted to run up to them and tell them not to go.’

There were tears in Eveleen’s eyes as she held out her arms to the girl. ‘Oh, Bridie, I know exactly what you mean. I feel just the same. All mixed up inside.’

‘But they’re still here in this country, aren’t they? Andrew and Richard.’ Bridie was determined to be optimistic. ‘Maybe it will soon be over and they won’t
even have to go to the Front.’

‘Maybe,’ Eveleen murmured, but said no more. She read the papers each day and they gave not even a glimmer of such a hope.

Further Zeppelin raids on the east coast of Britain had killed twenty-four people.

‘It’s getting a bit too close for comfort,’ Mary muttered and Josh, who seemed to have his head buried in a newspaper most of the time, said, ‘The government are denying
that they’re going to bring in conscription, but they passed the National Registration Bill. I reckon that’s the start of it.’

At the beginning of August Eveleen received the letter from Richard that she had been dreading. As she read the words, she gave a little gasp and, with trembling fingers, felt her way to a chair
to sit down.

We’ve been warned for draft and will probably be leaving in a few days. Oh, and I’ve been appointed Lance Corporal, so Mother should be pleased . . .

Eveleen closed her eyes and groaned aloud, wishing in the same moment that Bridie was here with her and yet glad that she was not. Eveleen’s mind raced. Perhaps they wouldn’t go.
Perhaps word would come that hostilities had ceased and they wouldn’t be needed. But she knew it was a vain hope.

The letter slipped from her lap and fell to the floor as Eveleen covered her face with her hands and wept.

Richard’s next letter came from France.

It was only a week later that Eveleen had to write to Richard to tell him that Sid had been wounded very badly in the leg and had arrived back in England. She paused, her pen hovering above the
paper. Elsie is lucky, she thought, at least Sid is still alive and she will have her husband back with her. But the words remained unwritten.

The following week there was no letter from Richard, nor one from Andrew to Bridie. Eveleen’s anxiety grew, but she tried to suppress it by throwing herself into her work. She arrived at
the factory earlier each morning and left later every evening. But even there the war and its tragedies were never very far away.

Luke Manning, who seemed to have stepped, unofficially at present, into Bob Porter’s shoes met Eveleen at the entrance to the factory one morning. ‘You’d best get to the
warehouse, Eveleen. There’s trouble in the inspection room.’

‘Trouble?’ Eveleen said, her brow puckering. ‘Where’s Helen?’

‘Seems she’s the cause of it.’

‘Helen?’ Now Eveleen was shocked. She turned and then looked back briefly and nodded towards the factory. ‘Everything all right?’

Luke smiled. ‘Don’t you worry. We’re right as nine-pence now he’s gone.’

Her eyes widened. ‘You mean Bob?’

Luke nodded grimly. ‘He was a troublemaker. He should never have been promoted into Josh Carpenter’s job. We’re best without him. Only trouble is there’s not going to be
much work for any of us soon, is there?’

Eveleen smiled now. ‘I want to talk to you later, Luke. I’ve got some ideas about what we can do. But now I’d better get to the inspection room.’

Eveleen smiled as she hurried towards the warehouse. It had come as a pleasant surprise that Luke, and perhaps the rest too, were pleased to see the back of Bob Porter. There was nothing to stop
her recruiting more women if only she could find the work for them. But now, she hoped, she had the answer in her uncle’s yard.

Every day more and more men were volunteering and the workforce at Reckitt and Stokes – indeed at all the workplaces throughout the city – was being rapidly depleted. And now Eveleen
had official approval for employing women. The government had appealed for women to serve their country by signing on for war work. Perhaps the making of lace could not be classed in that category,
but the manufacture of clothes for the troops certainly would.

Eveleen climbed the flights of stairs to the top floor, breathless when she arrived in the inspection room. The women were all crowded at the far end of the room and no work was being done. The
lengths of fabric lay strewn about the floor, as if work had started that morning only to be cast aside.

As Eveleen approached the huddle of women, they became aware of her presence, nudging each other as they spotted her. They fell silent until the only noise left was the sound of uncontrollable
weeping. Then they stepped back, parting to make way for Eveleen until she saw the cause of the women’s concern and the reason they had deserted their work.

Helen was sitting on the floor rocking backwards and forwards, her arms wrapped around herself, her face wet with tears. Mrs Hyde knelt beside her, her arm about the young woman’s
shoulders. As Eveleen knelt down too, she and Mrs Hyde exchanged a helpless look.

‘Her young man’s parents have had a telegram, Mrs Stokes.’

There was no need for Mrs Hyde to say any more.

Eveleen took the distraught Helen home with her. Since the death of both her parents Helen had lived on her own, but this was no time for the young woman to be alone.

Eveleen tried to comfort her, but there was nothing she could say or do that would bring Leslie back. With the first death to touch their lives so closely, Eveleen’s terror for Richard,
and for Andrew too, increased.

For the first time, she was truly glad Bridie was safely in Flawford.

‘He could still be alive,’ Eveleen tried to give Helen a vestige of hope to cling to when at last she heard the exact words of the telegram. ‘It only says,
“missing,
presumed
killed”.’

Helen raised her face, swollen and blotchy from the tears she had shed, yet at this moment there was an almost pitying look on her face. ‘Evie, they can’t find half the bodies.
They’re blown to bits by the shells. Sometimes they don’t find anything, not even their tags.’

Eveleen shuddered and said nothing. There was nothing she could say.

Helen’s weeping had stopped now, as if she had cried and cried until there were no more tears to shed.

‘There’ll be no grave even, just his name recorded somewhere. In a book, maybe, or on a monument. Along with thousands of others, he’ll just be a name. Nothing more.’

‘Helen, don’t say that.’ Eveleen squeezed her hand. ‘He’ll always be so much more to everyone who knew him, especially to you.’

‘I seem to lose everyone I love, Evie, don’t I? First Ronald, now Leslie. Even both my parents. They were only in their sixties. It’s too soon, Evie. I lose everyone far too
soon.’

Again, there was nothing Eveleen could say. She could only put her arms about the grieving young woman, hold her close and wonder how long it would be before she too would be mourning her
loss.

And Bridie? What about Bridie? How would the poor child cope if word came that Andrew had been killed?

At that moment Bridie had more pressing matters on her mind. Although Andrew was never far from her thoughts, indeed living here in Flawford she felt closer to him than ever
before, but her every waking moment was taken with caring for her great-grandmother. At least she was making headway with her. Now the old lady had regular and nourishing meals, her clothes were
washed and the house was warm and comfortable.

But Bridie was getting nowhere with her grandfather. He refused resolutely to acknowledge her presence. Although he made no effort now to send her away from Bridget’s house, he made it
clear he wanted nothing to do with her. He closed and locked the door of his cottage whilst he worked. If he passed her in the yard, he turned his head away.

‘Great-Gran, why doesn’t he want me here?’ Bridie settled herself on the end of the old lady’s bed.

Now that she was well cared for Bridget’s mind had improved and, whilst she still occasionally absent-mindedly called her great-granddaughter Rebecca, she was almost back to what must have
been her normal self.

‘It goes back a long way, lass,’ Bridget said. ‘None of it’s your fault, yet you’re taking the brunt of his bitterness.’ She closed her eyes and sighed.
‘And there’s nothing I can do about it. Maybe once I could have stood up to him, but I’m too old and too tired now.’

Bridie reached out and patted the wrinkled hand. ‘I don’t expect you to fight my battles,’ she said and smiled mischievously. ‘I’ll fight me own.’

Bridget smiled at her. ‘You’ve a lot of your auntie Eveleen in you, love. She’s a fighter.’