The Loom Part 23

'You'd better come in and get ready,' she called.

'Walter's here and we'll be going soon.'

'I don't want to go for a walk.' Stephen continued to bounce the ball on the gra.s.s as he walked up to his mother. He was as tall as she was, long and lanky and so much like his father that Leah sometimes had to look away.

Christine was still quite chubby, even at eleven and retained some of her endearing, even baby, ways. Leah suddenly felt afraid. She didn't want them to grow up, to grow away from her. Who knew what the future held? Look at what had happened to Darkie and Janey. She knew her mother still missed her son.

'You have to come, Stephen. Walter's mother has asked us to tea and we can't refuse.'

'She doesn't even like me.' He could have added, or you for that matter, but thought it wise not to.

'Of course she likes you,' Leah said sharply. 'Now go upstairs both of you and change into something clean.'

Stephen walked into the house looking sulky. He hated those walks with Walter, mainly because he didn't like Walter, or Walter's mother for that matter. Who could like them, and he was amazed that his mother could even think about going out with Walter.

Leah grimaced. 'He's getting to be a bit of a handful,' she said.

'Aye, he needs a man's hand at the moment.'

'Yes, I know, but if you think Walter will be able to sort him out you'd be wrong. He's the last person who can handle him.'

'Aye, I know, love. It's a pity though.'

Emma looked concernedly at Leah. She wanted Leah to get married again, but not to Walter. She just couldn't see that working out. But Leah needed a man at the back of her these days, although Leah had no financial worries. Leah needed emotional security that was it. In this respect she wasn't like herself because after she left Harold she felt like she'd been let loose. Ee, no, she couldn't think of anything worse than having all the trouble of being with a man. Picking up after them from morning to night, getting their meals, doing their was.h.i.+ng and all the other things which having a man of your own entailed. She got gooseb.u.mps just thinking about being at the beck and call of some man again.

But Leah was different and she would have been easier in her mind if she was settled with someone, but she was not easy in her mind about Walter. He was a bit too prim and proper for her liking, but beggars couldn't be choosers and there wasn't much to choose from in Harwood. They were like Walter, proper owd women she called them to herself, or all booze and wind. She sighed and heaved herself out of the deckchair and followed Leah into the house.

Walter was sitting on a kitchen chair. He jumped up when he saw Emma. He was always extremely polite but for some reason this also annoyed Emma. He looked hot, as well, for the day had turned warm. No wonder, Emma thought, with all that he's wearing. He would have been a lot more comfortable with just a s.h.i.+rt and slacks on. It was none of her business, though. He could walk around naked as far as she was concerned. She wondered for the umpteenth time what Leah saw in him!

'How are you Walter,' she said.

'I'm well, Mrs. Hammond, and you?'

'Aye, middling, though the arthritis is bad at times.'

Walter nodded sympathetically, making a tut-tutting sound (like an old woman, Emma thought again).

'I'll go now, Leah, love,' Emma said. 'Call in tomorrow after work and I'll have something cooked for you.'

'You don't have to do that. I'll get some steak puddings from Smithsons.'

'Now, I said I'd make your tea and I will, it's no trouble. Ee, it gives me something to do with me time. I've all day to do on, so just call in and never mind Smithsons.'

Leah nodded. 'All right, then, but not too much. The last lot you made for us could have fed an army.'

Leah put her hand on her mother's arm. Emma looked up in surprise. 'I do appreciate everything you do for us.'

Emma gave a short laugh, embarra.s.sed.

'You don't have to tell me that Leah, love. I like doing it. Ee, no, it's no bother at all. Nothing's too much trouble for me own,' and she gave Leah's hand an uncustomary squeeze and walked up the pa.s.sage. 'I'm going now Stephen and Christine,' she called up the stairs, 'Ta-ra.'

'Ta-ra,' came drifting down.

Leah watched her mother walk slowly down the path and through the front gate. For some reason she found she had a lump in her throat. She continued to gaze at her mother's retreating back, her eyes glazed. Emma turned for one last wave, her long brown coat flapping in the breeze and her brown felt hat pulled well down over her ears. It was a warm day but she never felt warm herself, lately.

Leah walked slowly back into the house. She brushed the tears away. She didn't want Walter to see her like this because he made such a fuss. She closed the door quietly behind her and leant against it for a brief moment, her eyes closed. The day seemed dull in spite of the bright suns.h.i.+ne. She opened her eyes and looked despondently down the pa.s.sage where Walter was waiting. She wasn't at all in the mood for a walk, or Walter. In fact, she would have loved to be on her own with some peace and quiet. But then she knew if she were on her own she'd start to think again and that was fatal because all those terrible memories would come rus.h.i.+ng back, swamping her. No, she must keep busy, go for walks when she didn't want to, take tea with people she didn't like, talk to people when she didn't feel a bit like it and just try to blot out everything in the past which was best forgotten.

PART SEVEN.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

A land of wonder, a never-ending kaleidoscope of colours, sounds and smells; a sense of overwhelming majesty: this is how Raymond Townsend thinks of Alaska.

To him it is a source of continuous joy, excitement and yes, even danger. The last gives Alaska that extra dimension, like spices added to an already tasty dish. Work and play were all one in Alaska (to him, at least, each merging into the other so that one is never quite sure which is which.

'Watch that end, Jack. Make sure the load's tight or we'll have another d.a.m.ned accident.' There was still a tinge of accent there. He wore a thick wool duffel coat, moleskin slacks, fur-lined boots to his knees, fur lined cap and still felt the cold.

'Okay, boss,' Jack Enright called.

Raymond Townsend, co-owner of Tanana Lumber of Fairbanks, Alaska, satisfied the loading was going to schedule, hurried over to the office. A cup of hot coffee would go down very well, but he would never leave until satisfied that everything had been done right! It paid to be vigilant when the trucks were being loaded. After last year's disastrous winter any kind of accident was to be avoided.

As he stepped into the office he took off his cap and ran his hand through his thick dark hair. He'd changed a lot in the last thirteen years: a few grey hairs, fine lines etched by the harsh climate, but his grey-blue eyes were the same, direct, penetrating, with a hint of humour always seeming to lurk there.

He brushed the snow off his jacket and made for the office at the far end of the room where Mike Flannery would be ensconced, reading the paper and drinking numerous cups of coffee. What a relief it had been to have a reasonably mild winter. He shuddered as he remembered the previous winter, the havoc when the ma.s.sive winter snows had thawed, the Tanana River bursting its banks, huge ice floes swirling and pounding anything in their path, tearing into barges, boats, buildings. Their warehouse was carried downstream before their startled eyes. He, and a few of the men, had been working on the lower section. They only just managed to scramble to higher ground or they, too, would have been swept away.

Until then they were doing reasonably well, business had increased, debts finally paid. Insurance had only covered part of the damage.

He went over to the huge fire burning in the grate and held his frozen hands to the flames.

'That you, Ray,' his partner, Mike Flannery called.

'Yes, I'll be there in a minute when I thaw out,' Raymond answered.

'Mail's been and there's a letter for you.' There was also more than a trace of accent in the voice coming from the back room. It was Irish, no less, although Mike Flannery had lived in Alaska for thirty of his forty-five years.

Mail, again! Raymond didn't get much mail and there had been a letter from Darkie and Marion only last week so it wouldn't be from them. As usual Darkie had urged him to sell up and move to California. He had offered him a job and possible partners.h.i.+p in his car parts business, which seemed to be doing well in spite of the Depression. He'd been tempted, but so far had done nothing, procrastinating as usual. The letter might be from Mother. He pushed open the office door. Mike Flannery looked up as he walked in.

'Everything going all right out there,' Mike said, stubbing his cigarette in the ashtray.

'Fine; you said you had a letter for me?'

Mike nodded and picked up an envelope from a pile on the desk and handed it over. Raymond recognized his mother's writing immediately. She must be back in England, then.

The last letter had been from Germany. She had not been overly impressed with the visit. Just reading between the lines he gathered she had not liked what was going on there at all, or the fact that Paul seemed so wrapped up in it all.

Raymond experienced a momentary twinge of guilt as he opened the letter. Why hadn't he gone back to England? He should have, if only to make amends with his parents, but somehow time had just slipped by and there had always been something to prevent him, possibly his own feelings of guilt. Facing a wild grizzly had been preferable to facing George and Jessica.

'It's from mother,' Raymond said, answering Mike's questioning look.

Mike nodded. He knew Raymond's story, had known Raymond since he'd first touched down in New York twelve years ago. Mike had been twenty-nine, a seasoned veteran of ten Alaskan winters; Raymond a naive lad of seventeen.

The first few months in New York had been a nightmare. Meeting Mike had been his lucky break. He, Darkie and Marion had hated the crowded, dirty city and to make matters worse none of them were flush with money. They were reduced to living in one of the worst sections, a dingy rat-infested tenement, freezing in winter, a furnace in summer. Marion was terribly homesick. She found it impossible to adjust, horrified at the dirty, noisy place where they lived and longing to be back at Hyndburn. Only her pa.s.sion for Darkie and his for her had kept the two of them going.

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 pa.s.sed 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 rus.h.i.+ng 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 acc.u.mulated 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 att.i.tude 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 h.e.l.lion 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 cla.s.s 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 s.p.a.ces 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 b.u.t.ts Mill, which looked even greyer and more forbidding than it had done all those years before. The workers were just finis.h.i.+ng 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 b.u.g.g.e.r 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d. 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.

'It looks nice on you, Mrs. Pringle,' Leah said quickly. 'That colour really suite you.'

Ugh! She made herself sick at times they way she mealy-mouthed at some of her customers. She liked most of the people she dealt with but Mrs. Pringle was not one of them. She detested her! She did nothing but complain! Thank G.o.d she'd made her change her mind about the large flowering print, which had been Mrs. Pringle's first choice. She would have looked the size of an elephant in that!

Leah sighed and adjusted the hem. She glanced at the clock. It was well after five and she was still at it, thanks to this annoying woman who wasn't satisfied with anything. If she'd had her way she would only sew for those who could show off her creations to the best advantage and it was definitely not Mrs. Pringle, who was a human version of Mt. Everest. But beggars couldn't be choosers, although she certainly wasn't a beggar. But picking and choosing customers did not make money, so she just put up with people like Mrs. Pringle and said, 'Yes, Mrs. Pringle, no Mrs. Pringle, three bags full Mrs. Pringle.'

Leah walked to the front of rhino woman, who further endeared herself by saying. 'How long are you going to be? I haven't got all day.'