Down Weaver's Lane (9 page)

He was silent for a long time, then said in tones of mild surprise, ‘Another one as is loyal.’ After that he walked off without another word.

She heard him fumble with the front door then go clumping off towards town. With a weary sigh she went back into the bedroom to find her mother sprawled across the bed, snoring. Emmy could not bear the thought of sleeping in a bed still warm from
him,
so went and lay down on the rag rug on the floor in front of the embers of the fire, as she did sometimes.

 

The next day George came tramping back down the lane just after noon, a scratch decorating his face where Madge’s nails had raked it. He seemed in the best of humours and was whistling tunefully. Emmy saw him through the front bedroom window, for she and Mrs Tibby were putting clean sheets on the bed, sheets which smelled of fresh air and soap, unlike those on her own bed. She sighed and stopped work for a moment to watch him.

‘What’s wrong, dear?’

Emmy beckoned her across and pointed. ‘That’s George Duckworth. My mother works for him. He doesn’t usually come to see her so early in the day, so I can’t help wondering what he wants. I don’t like the way he looks at me sometimes.’

An hour later there was a knock on the back door and when Emmy went to open it she found her mother there, looking as tidy as she ever got nowadays.

‘Can I speak to Mrs Oswald, lovie? I won’t come in. Just ask her if I can have a minute or two of her time.’

Tibby hurried to the door, afraid Emmy’s mother might be here to take her away.

The child lingered nearby, eavesdropping in case this unexpected visit meant trouble.

‘I’ve been thinking, Mrs Oswald,’ Madge began. ‘You’re being very kind, taking Emmy as your maid, given the circumstances. But people won’t like it, her coming back to me every night. I wonder - if she took less wages, could she maybe live in?’

Silence, then Tibby said briskly, ‘That sounds like a good idea to me, but I’d have to hire her by the year if we did that, which I’m quite willing to do. It’s the usual arrangement, you know.’

Madge nodded. ‘Yes, I do know. I had a maid of my own once.’ She saw the surprise and disbelief on the other woman’s face and spread her arms wide, looking down at herself in sudden disgust. ‘You don’t think I was always like this, do you? You don’t think I
wanted
to turn to this sort of life?’

‘Can you not - find some other way to earn your bread?’ Tibby watched Emmy’s mother stare for a moment into the distance as if she saw something dreadful there, then shake herself and focus on her present task again.

‘No, Mrs Oswald, I can’t. It’s too late for me now. But I want better for my daughter. She’ll learn a lot working for you and I thank you for it.’

‘Then we shall make an agreement. I’ll take Emmy for a year. She may come and see you occasionally because I wouldn’t keep a mother and daughter apart, whatever people say.’

‘If it’s all right with you, I’d rather come and see her. I’ll come to the back door, be discreet. You see, I’m moving into the alehouse and I don’t want her coming to that place.’

Inside the house Emmy gasped and clapped one hand over her mouth. She had no doubt this was all being done at George’s prompting. Why? And the answer was obvious, of course. He hadn’t changed his mind about her, but he wanted her kept somewhere safe till she grew up and in the meantime would make do with her mother. She moved forward, not even trying to pretend she hadn’t overheard. ‘Do you have to go and live with him, Mum?’

Madge laughed, a short bitter bark of sound. ‘It’s the best thing for me, lovie. I’ll be
safe
with George. No walks home through the dark streets. No worries about anyone breaking into my room. Well, as safe as I’ll ever get anyway.’

Emmy doubted that. She felt anything but safe when that man was around.

However, as a result of his interference she found herself living in what was, to her, paradise, and was grateful for that at least. And she had a whole year before she need worry about things, as well as a clean house which she loved to polish and where they could keep everything nice. She even had a room of her own and decent clothes to wear. What more could you want in life?

Sometimes in the town she passed Lal and Dinah, and the older girl made scornful remarks if no one else was around about ‘harlot’s daughter’ and ‘I haven’t forgotten you’. But Emmy found it easy to ignore them and always walked past as if she hadn’t heard.

Sometimes she saw Jack Staley in the distance, in a hurry usually. She didn’t go up to him, thinking he might not want to speak to her. But when she met him one day in the lane that led from the end of Weavers Lane into the countryside that still touched the town at this end, he stopped at once, smiling at her.

‘Hello, lass. How are you going on?’

She smiled at him, feeling shy but delighted that he wanted to speak to her. ‘I’m fine, thank you, Mr Staley. I’m still working for Mrs Oswald and I live in now. She’s really nice.’

‘My friends call me Jack,’ he said, returning her smile. He could see she was happy. She had filled out a little, her hair was shining and her clothes were clean. She would be lovely when she grew up, he realised, beautiful even. Her cousin Lal was like a caricature of this delicate creature, same colour hair but crinkled instead of softly waving beneath the bow that tied it back. And Lal was shaped like an overstuffed bolster where Emmy was slender.

‘You work at the mill, don’t you?’ she asked and saw his face cloud over. ‘Don’t you like it there?’

Somehow he found himself able to talk to her. ‘No, I hate it. But I’ve got no choice. My father’s dead and there’s only me to look after Mam and the others.’

‘They’re lucky to have you, then. My mother didn’t have anyone to help her. That’s why she - um - got into trouble.’

He could not hold back his bitterness. ‘I’m not so lucky to have my family hanging like millstones round my neck.’

‘You should be glad you’ve got someone to love. I’d give anything to have a brother or sister and not always be on my own.’

His large hand curled round hers for a moment and the anger he’d been bottling up eased just a little. ‘I suppose so. I never thought of it like that. Do you get lonely, then?’

She nodded. ‘Mmm. Well, I used to. Not since I’ve been with Mrs Tibby, though.’

The church clock struck the hour and he sighed. ‘I have to get back to the mill. It’s been nice talking to you, Emmy.’

She stood and watched him go, then went back inside. She didn’t tell Mrs Tibby about the encounter but kept it to herself, a small secret that gave her immense pleasure. Jack Staley wasn’t exactly a friend but he didn’t scorn her and perhaps they might chat now and then if they met.

He probably didn’t need a friend, but she would love to have one.

 

On one of her mother’s visits, while they were walking along a country lane nearby, Emmy told her about the two girls who had thrown stones at her and asked if they really were her cousins.

‘Yes, lovie, I’m afraid so. Though they’re a miserable lot, the Butterfields, always praying and nagging people to be tidy. I was glad when my Emerick took me away from them.’

‘Haven’t you tried to see your brother since you came back?’

‘What, Isaac? No, not me. He’s as bad as our father, so respectable he daren’t smile for fear his face would crack in half. And he married Lena Simmleby, who wouldn’t have taken him if she could have got anyone else, only she couldn’t because she’s a nasty, ugly, spiteful creature. He only married her for her money, I’m sure. My father put him up to it.’

That made Emmy very thoughtful. How foolish of her mother to have left a respectable family for the sort of life she was leading now - even if they were strict. But it didn’t take much thought to work out why. Her mother had met her father and gone away with him because he was handsome and loved her. And in doing so she’d taken a lot from her daughter: family, respectability, hope. No decent man would want to marry someone with a mother like hers. And Emmy wasn’t going to marry someone who wasn’t decent, let alone give herself to men for money, so she’d have to stay unmarried. She’d worked that out already.

She didn’t for a moment believe her father had married her mother, whatever Madge claimed. Everyone knew men didn’t marry women like her. But it was at least a relief to know she came from respectable stock. That sort of knowledge gave you a bit more confidence in yourself, somehow.

 

As Tibby Oswald grew a little stronger, partly thanks to her young handmaiden’s cosseting and partly because she now had something to live for, she began to talk of them attending church regularly. ‘Just because I’ve come down in the world is no reason to neglect my duties to my Maker,’ she said one fine, sunny day in July. ‘In fact, we’ll go to church tomorrow and every Sunday morning from now on. It’ll make a nice little outing and I’ve hardly been through its doors since I moved to Weavers Lane.’

She had shown Emmy her old home, a larger house set higher up the hill overlooking the church. She had had to sell it to pay for poor James’s funeral and headstone, and to pay off his debts. After she had moved she hadn’t gone about much, for it was easier to live in poverty when you didn’t bump into former acquaintances every day. But gradually she had learned to hold her head up again, to nod to ladies she knew - though she didn’t accept any invitations to take tea with them, partly because she could not return their hospitality and partly because she didn’t want anyone patronising her. Going to church would show everyone how worn and old-fashioned her best clothes had become, but they were clean and well-mended, weren’t they? That must suffice for her pride.

‘Are you sure you’re strong enough to walk up the hill?’ Emmy worried.

‘Definitely. I haven’t felt this well for a long time. Now, what shall we wear?’

‘I don’t think I’d better go with you, Mrs Tibby. People won’t like it.’ And anyway, Emmy had never been inside a proper church. The Mission was one thing, where the ladies knew you weren’t from a respectable home and didn’t mind if your clothes were ragged, but she’d seen well-dressed people coming out of Northby parish church on Sundays and she knew such people would look down their noses at her.

‘You’re coming to church with me,’ Tibby said firmly. ‘And if anyone tries to stop you, they’ll be stopping me too. I do so love a stained glass window on a sunny day, and I’ve heard they have a good choir, too, since the new choirmaster took over. I shall enjoy the singing. I had a little piano once, did I tell you?’ She sighed, then put her regrets firmly aside and went on making plans.

 

Sunday saw Emmy following her mistress hesitantly inside the church, which was a stone edifice far older than most of the bustling little town it now served. As she had expected there were whispers at the sight of her, but she tried not to show her embarrassment.

Then she saw Jack sitting to one side with a group of other young men and his presence made her feel better, for no reason she could fathom. When he turned his head and smiled, she gave him a quick smile back. One person wasn’t ashamed to know her, at least.

However, when Lal Butterfield followed her parents into church and stopped with a squeak of shock at the end of the rear pew where Mrs Oswald had left her maid sitting with some other servants and poorer people, Emmy began to worry, so vicious was the glance Lal threw at her.

As the Butterfield family took their places in one of the pews halfway down she saw her cousin tug at her mother’s arm and whisper something, then a look of outrage come over the mother’s face. Mrs Butterfield nudged her husband and leaned across to whisper in his ear, and Emmy saw him turn round and rake the rear pews with his eyes until he saw her. She also noticed and was surprised by the sadness that came into his face. It was as if he had recognised her. Which didn’t make sense because she had never seen him before, since he worked long hours in the mill every day and certainly did not spend any time down at her end of Weavers Lane. Unless she reminded him of her mother? Yes, that’d be it.

Emmy didn’t understand most of the ceremony and couldn’t read the long words in the hymnbook, so just imitated the actions of those around her and pretended to sing with them. When Parson asked the choir to sing, Jack went forward to stand with the others at the front, there being no choir stalls in this small, plain church. Their singing was so lovely it brought tears to Emmy’s eyes. She had never heard music like that. Organ grinders made scratchy sounds compared to this, and although she’d enjoyed watching the little monkey that collected the coins for one man, the music hadn’t affected her as this did.

After the service was over the Rishmore family led the way out into the churchyard and then the better class of people filed out behind them, so that pew after pew emptied into the river of rustling silk skirts and dark superfine coats that flowed towards the sunshine. The Rishmore ladies, a mother and daughter whom Mrs Tibby had pointed out in town, were today wearing very large hats so loaded with ribbons and trimming that it amazed Emmy how they kept these monstrous creations balanced on their heads. The two gentlemen from the front pews carried top hats and put them on as they went outside.

Emmy watched it all wide-eyed, utterly fascinated by life among respectable folk.

As the church continued to empty the rustling silks were followed by the plainer garments of the less affluent families, whose menfolk had a variety of headgear and whose womenfolk wore mainly bonnets, though also with a great many ribbons and trimmings fluttering on them. The Butterfields were among these and the three females of the family looked the other way as they passed Emmy’s pew, but Mr Butterfield slowed down for a moment to stare right at her and look sad again.

Someone poked Emmy in the back and she realised it was time for the occupants of the final pew to leave the church. Even the poorer men around her were carrying caps or hats of some sort, and the women had on simple bonnets. No wonder Mrs Oswald had fussed about finding Emmy a straw bonnet to wear. She reached up to stroke the lovely silky ribbons tied under her chin. Such a pretty shade of blue and hardly showing any wear at all. It was one of Mrs Tibby’s own.