The Loom (38 page)

They married as soon as the annulment came through, Marion immediately falling pregnant, which had not helped the situation. Raymond slept on the tattered sofa in the living room, loathing every bit of city life: the crowded confines of the tenement, the teeming thousands who thronged the streets who talked in every conceivable language, noise prevalent day and night. He had jumped at the chance to escape when Mike suggested he go with him to Alaska.

Alaska! Even the name had excited him. Marion had been tearful when he left. Just another part of her past being extinguished, she thought as she and Darkie saw them off. She was heavily pregnant, it was snowing and she’d never been so cold and miserable in her life.

Darkie and Mike went north by train to Canada, then westward by all kinds of transport: train, trucks, even a horse and cart at one stage, across the hundreds of miles of prairies and vast stretches of forest until they reached the other side of the continent. Raymond was silent most of the way, overcome by the vastness of the land, the strange names of the different provinces they passed through: Quebec, Manitoba, Saskatchewan, Alberta and then north through British Columbia to Alaska. The journey took almost four months, the trains increasingly undependable as they left the more civilized east behind.

In comparison the quaint towns, fields and hills of England seemed like miniatures. Everything was larger than life in this vast landscape, as though a giant hand had formed everything on a giant scale, the immensity of the land itself a wonder, from west to east an area comparable to the distance from California to Georgia; south to north, Canada to Mexico.

But it was the towering, gigantic mountain systems that literally took his breath away. Mt. McKinley soaring to over twenty thousand feet (he immediately compared it to Pendle Hill); the numerous lakes, turbulent rushing rivers, glaciers stretching for miles. He had come to love this majestic and, to him, spiritually uplifting country.

They were three years in the Yukon, panning for gold, and although the big strikes had been made, he and Mike had accumulated enough to start their lumber business in Fairbanks. They had just paid off the last of their mortgage when disaster struck. Only the month before he’d mentioned to Mike that he was thinking of going back to England to see his parents. Now, of course, that would just about be impossible the way they were fixed for money.

He tore the letter open and began to read, conscious that Mike, although pretending to read his newspaper was dying to know what was in it.

My darling Raymond
, the letter began (as usual). He grimaced as he read this. It made him feel guilty. Not once had his mother condemned him for his attitude to her all those years ago, or complained at what a poor correspondent he was.
‘As always I hope all is going well for you out in the wilderness
(she
must think he was living in a hut in the back of beyond, Raymond thought with a slight
smile).
I have just returned from Germany and as I mentioned in my last letter, Frieda (Paul’s wife), decided to accompany me back to England. Before returning to Harwood we stayed for a few weeks in London and it is as a result of our visit there that I am writing to you, for it concerns you, although indirectly.

It seems that for years we have all been under a misapprehension! Whilst in London Frieda underwent a series of tests by a Dr. Baker, an extremely competent gynecologist in the hope of discovering the reason for her inability to conceive. It was found that, far from being infertile, Frieda should have had no trouble at all in bearing a child. The problem, it seems, lies with Paul, who agreed to
have similar tests. As suspected, it is Paul who is sterile and the doctors say, has always been so and would at no stage in his life have been able to father a child.

So you see, darling, your father could not possibly be Paul and as there has never been any other man in my life, except George, I will leave you to draw your own
conclusions.

As you can imagine we were all stunned by the tests, for various reasons (Frieda has no idea why you left, of course), but I am sure that this news will set your mind at rest. Perhaps now you might consider that long overdue trip to see us. I will close now and hope fervently to see you in the not too distant future…Your loving Mother.

Mike watched as he finished reading. Raymond folded the letter and put it back in the envelope. It was then that he noticed another piece of paper, folded, in the letter. He pulled it out and opened it. His eyes widened in surprise. It was a bank cheque for five thousand pounds. He handed it to Mike who said

‘
Wow!’ with great feeling.

‘
We can pay off the truck with some of that,’ Raymond said. ‘Think you can manage without me for a while as well?’

‘
About time you did the right thing, Ray.’

Raymond made an impatient gesture, aware of the censure in Mike’s words. ‘Okay, okay. You don’t need to lecture me. I’ll make arrangement to go, say the end of this month?

‘
That should be fine. We’ll have that big order under way by then. By the way, Paquita asked me this morning if she and the kids are ever going to see you again.’

‘
Tell her I’m sorry I haven’t been around. Of course I want to see her and the kids. I’ll call around tomorrow, if that’s all right?’

‘
I’m sure it will be. Come to dinner. You know how Pac likes feeding you up.’

‘
Yeah, it’s like being fattened for the slaughter. Tell her no match making, will you. I’m quite happy to have dinner with just you and the kids.’

‘
Okay, okay, I’ll tell her.’

Raymond was fond of Mike’s family. Paquita came from the Aleutian Islands just off the coast of Alaska. They had two children, Troy five and bit of a hellion and cute three year old Leonie, who never stopped talking.

He finished a few bits of paper work, discussed some of the jobs for the next day and then went out of the building, pulling on his fur cap. He gasped at the cold and hurried over to his car. It turned over sluggishly, then the engine roared into life. He put it into gear and drove out of the yard, excitement stirring in him as he thought of the coming journey. After all this time he was finally going back!

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

A
friend of Mike’s, Joe Beamish, had just recently bought a De Havilland Tiger Moth and invited Raymond to fly with him to Vancouver on his maiden flight. Raymond was apprehensive. He’d never flown before. How would he feel up there with nothing except fresh air between him and the land, thousands of feet below?

Once airborne, however, a wave of euphoria struck him, which lasted until they banked steeply into Vancouver. He was hooked!

The journey across Canada to New York (by train) was not quite as harrowing as the trip to Alaska thirteen years ago. Nor had it been as exciting, Raymond thought ruefully as he made his way through the hustle and bustle of quayside activity on the docks of the Hudson. He was thankful, though, that at least he wasn’t ‘roughing’ it. He must be getting old! Once he would have revelled in it! He’d booked a first class cabin on the ‘Queen Mary’, from all accounts one of the best of the great liners plying the Atlantic. He was looking forward to the trip.

**********

The tall, rangy man in the unusual check coat was drawing a lot of curious stares. He placed his bag on the ground and took a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket. He looked around. The place looked familiar and yet he could have been standing on Mars! He lit a cigarette and bent and picked up his bag. The last time he’d returned to Harwood it had been from school and Grimsby had been waiting next to the Rolls to take him to Hyndburn. This time there was no Rolls or Grimsby because he hadn’t told his mother when he’d be coming. He wondered now whether that had been a good idea.

No good worrying now, he thought as he walked out of the station. He’d have to use shanks pony and, ignoring the openly avid curiosity of a number of old men standing outside the station he walked on towards High Street, took a couple more puffs on the cigarette, dropped it on the ground and stubbed it out with his shoe.

Ever since Raymond had disembarked at Southampton he was acutely aware of a feeling of claustrophobia, especially when he reached Harwood, as though he’d got lost in one of the toy towns he used to play with, in the nursery at Hyndburn. (The one with the tiny terrace houses no bigger than his finger. The not much bigger mills with minute curls of smoke made from some kind of thin material, a miniature wood the size of his palm, together with a trickle of transparent material for a stream with a fairy bridge over it). For so long he’d been used to the wide-open spaces of Alaska. The streets were dingier here than he remembered, everything in different shades of grey, although it was hot at the moment and the sun shone (unbelievably, for it was normally raining if he remembered rightly) from an unblemished blue sky. In contrast Alaska seemed all white, clean and bright, almost like that hymn he’d sung when he was very young, mother singing it with him.

He walked up Queen Street, again to curious stares and then past the Butts Mill, which looked even greyer and more forbidding than it had done all those years before. The workers were just finishing and they streamed out of the gates, a look of strain and weariness on their faces. He paused for a moment to let this tide of humanity sweep by, searching for he knew not what. Perhaps a familiar face, he didn’t know, although he hadn’t known many mill workers, so why should he? What he did know was that he could never live in this town again. He was already missing Alaska and his friends, especially Mike and Paquita.

As the crowd of workers dwindled he carried on up the main street, looking in the shop windows at the rather boring array of goods. He quickened his step. Now he was so near home he had the urge to run; to see his mother again, his father (his ‘real’ father as he now thought of George), the house, the garden, everything. His heart began to hammer, an urgent thumping sensation echoing the urgency of his thoughts.

As he walked on, almost running by now, the clearer his recollections became and the enormity of what he’d done thirteen years ago suddenly hit him. He blinked as though the blow was literal, as though he couldn’t believe it himself, what he had done. How could he have been so cruel? His mother had broken the moral code. So what! His years in the wilds of Alaska, of roughing it, of seeing life and people in the raw had tempered his thoughts and broadened his outlook. What a callous and pampered brat he’d been! He’d left them, just like that, shooting out of their life without a word, like a shooting star disappearing over the horizon! He should be shot!

He wondered how his parents would react to his reappearance. With open arms! The return of the prodigal son! Get out the fatted calf! Not likely! They’d probably show him the door, more like and tell him to bugger off especially his father and he wouldn’t blame them. He remembered when Stephen had died. Marion had written to him about it. Naturally he’d been shocked and saddened. He’d never really known his older brother; never taken the opportunity to get to know him because he’d been too busy being the little bastard. What a terrible waste – that Stephen’s life had been cut short in the prime of life – that he’d never get to know his brother. He could only imagine the heartache Stephen’s death had brought to his parents.

As these thoughts ran helter-skelter though his mind, increasing his apprehension, he had the urge to turn and run, yet at the same time knew he had to reach Hyndburn. It was a burning need now to return to his roots, whatever the consequences; a nostalgic yearning for familiar faces and places.

The climb up Queen Street had made him breathless and as he turned the corner onto the Square at the top, he slowed his pace. It was hot after the coolness of Alaska and this weather must be a heat wave for Harwood! He couldn’t ever remember it being so hot and he dropped his bag on the ground, shrugged off his coat and rolled his sleeves up. He wiped the sweat off his face with a handkerchief, picked up his bag and swung his coat over his shoulder. There was a shop across the square facing the Mercer Clock. LEAH’S, the sign said. He stood uncertainly for a moment. That must be Darkie’s sister’s shop! Darkie had mentioned something about her in his last letter. Should he step in for a moment and make himself known? After all, her son was his nephew! He had a vague recollection of her. A skinny kid with big, scared eyes (well, she would have been scared of him if he remembered rightly. He was always playing dirty tricks on her, and everyone else as well).

Straightening his shoulders he set off once more, this time striding purposefully in the direction of the shop.

Mrs. Pringle stood on a low stool. She watched through the mirror as Leah adjusted the dress to fit her fat hips, which must have housed a lot of Smithson’s steak puddings. Leah smoothed the green material over the rolls of fat and pinned in the last dart. She moved another pin so that the dress lay smooth across the vast contour. As broad as a hippopotamus, she thought. She peered around Mrs. Pringle, who was looking at herself intently in the mirror, her unattractive face twisted into a frown. She’s got a face like one, too, Leah thought, fat cheeks and flaring nostrils. All she needs are the horns and she’ll fit the bill. She placed a hand over her mouth to cover her smile. She gave a stifled cough instead (her mother again?) and Mrs. Pringle looked at her sharply.