Mill Town Girl Read online

  ‘If you’re worrying about paying your board and lodgings,’ she said quickly, ‘you can leave it over. I can wait till your money comes in.’

  ‘It’s not just me lodgings, Carrie. I’ll have to go home to Ireland.’

  He sounded worn out, beaten. It seemed to her that he was making more of it than was necessary and it made her reply in exasperation. ‘And leave everything? Why?’

  ‘It was borrowed money, Carrie. Unless I can sell them, or borrow more, I’m finished.’

  It was a shock, hearing him say that. Borrowing, owing money, was as bad as a crime. ‘You mean to tell me that you’ve been doing all those houses on borrowed money?’ She snapped the words out.

  ‘Yes.’

  She could hear her father’s voice now, ‘Neither a borrower nor a lender be,’ he used to say. He’d had a way with words, and not just words. He had a horror, a loathing of debt and he’d passed it on to her. She had never owed a penny in her life. Debt was the ultimate degradation. ‘Then you’ll have to sell them. And get people paid back.’

  He didn’t seem to be listening. He just sat there with his shoulders slumped forward. ‘D’you hear me?’ she asked, a bit louder, though not loud enough for anyone outside the door to hear.

  ‘You don’t understand. I need money. Now. Or I’ll go to jail.’

  Carrie sat down at the table, her back to him, fingers drumming on the table, her thoughts a turmoil. What should she do? Was it Christian to lend him money? Was it Christian to let him go to jail? What would her father have done? Her father had despised moneylenders. He’d seen too much of it, he’d told her. Her father had sworn to himself that in his own life he and his family would hold their heads high. And they had . . . Until now. ‘Oh, God save us,’ she breathed. ‘How much do you need?’ She turned to look at him.

  ‘Eight hundred pounds,’ he answered in a despairing voice.

  ‘I haven’t got eight hundred pounds,’ she said. Eight hundred pounds was a fortune but the Temperance Hotel was worth more than that. Frank Carter had asked her to sell it to him for a thousand and the Potts’s had offered her eleven hundred.

  ‘I wouldn’t take it even if you had, Carrie,’ he said. ‘I’ll go home to Dublin.’

  She ought to let him go home to Dublin. Once he’d left, her life would go back to what it had been. She’d soon forget him. She’d be able to hold her head up in chapel again, not be afraid everyone could see her shame written all over her face. Nobody had guessed up to now. Not Jane nor Danny – she’d soon know if they had found out about her and Patrick. The bedroom maid didn’t know. Maggie Bettley didn’t know. She could put it behind her. Never see him again. Never be tempted again. Never want him again. Never . . .

  She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t let him go. If this was love . . . and the Bible said, ‘faith, hope, charity – but the greatest of these is charity’. And Charity meant Love. She must do what had to be done. She stood up and went to stand before him. She took hold of his hands and looked into his poor, frightened face.

  ‘I’ll marry you, Patrick,’ she said. ‘I’ll sell the hotel to the Potts’s. We’ll pay off the creditors and live in one of your houses.’

  ‘Carrie girl,’ he said, pulling her towards him and burying his face in her chest. ‘I don’t deserve you. But I’ll not fail you. I swear it.’

  ‘Then go to your creditors and tell ’em they’ll have their money,’ she said gently, pushing him away. ‘It’s the beginning of September. I’ll have the money for you by the middle of the month. We’ll get married as soon as we can.’

  He didn’t even kiss her, just sat there, looking bewildered. She went to the door, leaving him to think. ‘Don’t tell my sister or Danny,’ she said quietly. ‘I’ll tell Jane when the time’s right.’

  Later, when she went to his room, he seemed to have recovered some of his spirit. Yet strangely they neither of them were moved to lovemaking. They sat there, holding hands in the dark, whilst he told her how much he loved her, really loved her, not just lust, he said. He loved her like a man should love a wife but that they must not marry yet, until the creditors were paid. For if he married her and the creditors made trouble then she, being his wife, would be held as responsible as himself.

  No, he said, she must have a loan drawn up, with herself as creditor and the unfinished houses as her security. They would marry later on, when it was all settled, privately, between themselves.

  It sounded a sensible arrangement. Though what the minister would say about the pillar of the chapel marrying a Roman Catholic she could only surmise.

  ‘Will we move into one of the houses right now?’ she asked. That would set the tongues wagging if they did.

  ‘No. You can rent a house – any house – somewhere cheap, for the time being. Danny and I will go back to the Swan. Douglas McGregor will let us have a room. We’ll move into Wells Road once we’re married,’ he said.

  Douglas drew the curtains in the back parlour. The bar was quiet on a Tuesday night and the barman would manage without his help. It was the night he normally went to choir practice but the choir could manage without him for once. He placed a tray with three glasses and the whisky bottle on the unpolished table and raked the fire to a blaze before putting a few more lumps of coal into the flames. It was chilly for September.

  Hearing them coming in the back way, he went to the door of the parlour and called out, ‘Patrick! Danny! Come in and have a dram. I want to talk to you.’

  ‘Down in a minute,’ Patrick called back. ‘We’ll have a wash first.’

  Douglas stood with his back to the fire when they came into the room. He was taller than Patrick and, for once, felt it to be an advantage. He had to talk seriously to them tonight.

  He was fond of both Kennedy brothers and owed his life to Patrick.

  They had served in the navy together during the war. Had it not been for Able Seaman Patrick Kennedy’s bravery in keeping him, the Chief, afloat after the second torpedo attack, Douglas knew he would not be here tonight.

  And Patrick Kennedy would never have him speak of the hours they had spent in the water, with him holding Douglas until the rescue boat picked them up at dawn. All he would ever say was that they were lucky they had been torpedoed in the English Channel and not the deep cold water of the North Sea. He’d made light of it and had refused to allow Douglas to ask the captain to recommend him for a medal, though Douglas himself had been awarded a DSO for his part in a later sea battle.

  ‘Begorrah, Danny! Would ye look at this?’ Patrick was saying, turning on the Irish brogue to make them easy and full of laughter. ‘And from a Scotsman, too. Drink up me lad.’

  Douglas smiled and waved a hand to indicate that they were to help themselves. Then he pushed back his dark hair and turned a serious look on them. ‘What’s this I hear,’ he asked, ‘about you selling your business to Miss Shrigley?’

  ‘Would ye listen to the man, Danny?’ Patrick said, flippant but not smiling, not looking at Douglas. ‘Where in the name of God did ye hear such talk?’

  ‘It’s true then?’ Douglas asked. ‘I was told by a slimy alderman. By Cecil Ratcliffe.’

  ‘Cecil Ratcliffe? How does he know?’ Patrick looked him in the eye now, worried.

  ‘These things, these rumours go through the council chambers like, like a dose of salts,’ Douglas answered. ‘And there’s men on the council who talk. If ye’ve anything to hide in this town ye keep your mouth tight shut.’

  ‘Aye. It’s true. But we’re going to sell the houses. We’re going to finish them off, aren’t we Danny lad?’ Patrick turned to his brother. ‘We’ll have ’em done in no time. And the good woman’ll have her money back, with interest.’

  ‘I ken you’ve no head for business, Patrick,’ Douglas said gravely, ‘but you could have said, man. I can arrange a mortgage to pay for my house. Ye could have come to me.’

  ‘Sure and I’ve no wish to trade on your generosity, friend.’ Patrick slapped his hand on
Douglas’s shoulder but again, it seemed to Douglas, without real conviction behind his words or actions. ‘You can talk business. Buy your house from the good woman yourself. Let’s say no more about it.’

  ‘But yon woman – Miss Shrigley? She’s sold her house. She’s sold everything to buy. She’s livin’ in the back streets.’ Douglas looked hard at Patrick, trying to see what might lie behind such foolishness. ‘I didnae think she was an incautious woman. And it’s folly. She should not have done it, Patrick. Not when ye look at it from her side.’

  Patrick had paled but Douglas saw that he was still trying to look confident. ‘She’s got control, Douglas,’ he said evenly. ‘She’s got a business head on her shoulders. I’ve only borrowed from her. She’s prepared to wait. She’ll get her money back and more besides, once the houses are finished and sold.’

  ‘And you’ve had it all drawn up by lawyers, have you?’ Douglas interrupted him. ‘Is it legal, Patrick? You’ve to be so very careful.’

  ‘I don’t want to say more,’ Patrick said. ‘It will all be right when the houses are sold.’

  Douglas knew that Patrick was not a practical man. It was for his brother’s sake that Patrick was setting up as a builder. Danny’s lungs had been damaged by mustard gas and he had to have outdoor work. As soon as Danny was established, settled down, Patrick intended to leave Macclesfield and the building trade.

  Tonight though, it was plain that there was no more to be said. He poured whisky for them all and pulled up the leather armchairs to the fireside. He would have to withhold his fears. They would have a pleasant evening, sharing yarns and whisky, here by the fire. He would keep to himself the disquiet that this whole business was making him feel. But if ever Patrick Kennedy needed his help, he would give it unsparingly.

  Carrie placed the teacups on the table that was cramped under the window of the tiny room. The cottage had only one room and a scullery downstairs and two small bedrooms upstairs. It wasn’t too bad, really, and only temporary, so why Jane was being so miserable she had no idea.

  She let Jane paint and draw to her heart’s content since she’d left school but it didn’t seem to be enough for her. She could not help but worry about her sister who was upstairs changing her clothes.

  Jane looked pale these days. Carrie had paid little attention to Jane over the months – the year and a bit it would be, she supposed, that she and Patrick and been carrying on. Now she was filled with guilt, remembering the promises she’d made to Father about bringing Jane up ‘in the fear of the Lord’.

  She had time to think, to dwell on her guilt, now that she no longer spent her nights in flagrant disobedience of her father’s code of conduct. But, she told herself, she’d have no need to feel either guilt or remorse once the houses were sold and they could come out into the open with it, man and wife. It would shock some folks, especially the ones at the chapel – the chapel founder’s granddaughter marrying a Roman Catholic, but with Patrick beside her she’d look them in the eye and brazen it out.

  And how she wanted that day to come. How she longed for the feel of his arms again. He’d been right about her – she was all senses. And now she missed the smell of him, she even missed the palpitations. She was sick, sick without him. Every day that passed she felt it, a cold, empty sickness that overcame and swamped her as she longed for him.

  It was hard not to see him, not to want him, to pretend that she was still the plain Miss Shrigley the whole town and the chapel still knew her to be, when in her heart and body, in every but the legal sense, she was his. In the eyes of the Lord they were man and wife.

  She’d only seen him once in the fortnight they’d lived here. It had been a glowing mid-September evening, warm and still. He’d met her after choir practice, waited for her round the corner where no one would see them. They had walked up towards the hills, into the forest that bordered the new reservoir.

  Patrick had been in a romantic mood. She’d never seen him behave like that before, holding her hand, putting an arm around her waist, every now and again stopping to kiss her. Then, by the water, in a sunset that was blazing gold and red across the western edge of the lake, he had made love to her. And such sweet love he’d made, tender and lingering.

  Afterwards he knelt beside her, unpinned her hair and began to comb it where it lay across her shoulders, while he sang to her. And she hadn’t known he could sing. He had a warm, deep voice, rich and lilting and he’d sung Scottish songs of love.

  ‘Oh, my love is like a red, red rose, that’s newly sprung in June,’ he’d sung. Tears had come to her eyes then, and she’d never been one for tears. He’d turned her round, still singing to her, touched her face gently to wipe her tears, and sung, ‘Ye banks and braes o’ bonny Doon, how can ye bloom sae fresh and fair,’ and she hadn’t heard it before, not right to the end. She’d asked him to repeat the second verse for her, as she couldn’t understand the broad Scots. He’d sung it again. Beautiful, and sad it had been.

  ‘Oft have I roved by bonny Doon,’ he’d begun, holding her hands and looking deep into her eyes. ‘To see the rose and woodbine twine; And many a bird sang o’ its love, and fondly so did I o’ mine. Wi’ lightsome heart I pulled a rose, full sweet upon its thorny tree! And my false lover stole my rose, but ah! he left the thorn wi’ me.’

  The tears had rolled unchecked down her cheeks when he finished and held her gently in his arms. ‘I love you, my darling girl,’ he said. ‘I want you with me.’

  ‘I love you, too, Patrick,’ she answered in a wave of feeling for him, for herself, for this night. ‘I love you so much.’

  It was true. She loved him. Without him, living apart from him, her life was unreal. She only came to life in his presence. She knew now what he’d meant about opening the Gates of Morning. She wanted to do it, wanted to go out into the honest open daylight. She was ready.

  He’d pulled a red rosebud for her, too, on the way back, from a garden full of them. She’d pressed it inside her Bible.

  Since that night he had been working hard, building until there was no light left, getting the houses done. And Patrick said he’d better not come to the house at night, for it would be impossible to keep their love affair secret if he came to see her here.

  Carrie brought her thoughts back to the present as she heard Jane’s footfall on the narrow, corkscrew stairs. Jane came into the room and sat by the fire, rubbing her hands together as if she were frozen.

  ‘What’s matter?’ Carrie asked. ‘What’s up, Jane? You’ve a face like a wet weekend . . .’

  Jane turned a worried face on to her and Carrie felt her annoyance dissolve. The poor girl didn’t like living here. She looked at her sister who seemed so child-like, so tiny and pretty and so . . . so lost. ‘It won’t be for long, love,’ she said. ‘As soon as they’ve sold the first two houses we’ll have our money back and we can move into the next one. We’ll be living in a nice place, Jane.’

  ‘Oh, Carrie,’ Jane said in a small voice. ‘I’m so unhappy.’ She put her hands over her face. ‘I want to tell you something. And I can’t . . .’

  ‘You don’t like it here, do you love?’ Carrie asked. ‘Is it the neighbours, or what? One or two are all right. You must ignore the others. I never have truck with neighbours, love.’

  ‘It’s not here, Carrie. It’s not here that’s making me sad.’ She was trying not to cry, looking at Carrie as if pleading with her to understand. As if she wanted Carrie to see what it was that was troubling her. ‘It’s, oh, it’s . . . everything’s different. I wish we were back in the square.’

  Carrie touched Jane on the shoulder tenderly. ‘Come on, love. Dry your eyes.’

  She passed a white linen napkin to her sister. She’d brought all the good stuff with her. She couldn’t abide nasty things; thick cups, cheap cloth. She poured the tea from her silver teapot into the fine china cups and put the milk and sugar in for Jane, a lot of sugar for Jane. ‘Here. Drink this. You’ll feel better.’

  Ja
ne took the cup and began to sip. Jane had lovely manners, Carrie thought indulgently. Carrie liked to see Jane acting like a lady. She had better start taking more care of her sister.

  ‘Have you finished your elocution lessons, love?’ she said. ‘Is it the end of term? I thought you always went, regular, on Wednesdays. It’s two o’clock.’

  ‘I’m going, Carrie. I’ll drink my tea and put my things on,’ Jane said, a pale smile breaking through at last. She looked so pretty when she smiled. ‘I’ll be late back. I’ve to rehearse for the speech-giving tonight.’ Jane handed the half-empty cup back to her, ‘What are you doing this afternoon?’

  ‘I’m going to wash my hair,’ Carrie said. ‘I’ll boil the water on the gas and shut the back door. Then I’ll sit by the fire till it’s dry.’

  Outside, in the yard she shared with the other six houses on her side of the entry, Carrie kept a water butt. She liked to use rainwater for her hair and green, soft soap. She didn’t like the feel of tap water. It made the hair feel sticky, wouldn’t rinse the soap off properly.

  She saw Jane off to elocution; watched her walk along the street, a heavy bagful of books on her arm; head held high, not even seeing the women who stopped their gossiping to look at her as she passed. She wasn’t a bit stuck-up, not Jane. She just didn’t seem to notice her surroundings; she seemed to have her head in the clouds. Jane’s little outburst was out of character.

  Carrie watched her turn the corner on to the steps that led up to the market place. Jane looked well in the blue coat and matching hat that Carrie had bought for her. She liked the shorter skirts on Jane. Jane had been to a barber’s and had her hair cropped. Carrie smiled, remembering how she’d been outraged at first, then had come grudgingly to admit that the new style suited her sister even though it made her look more grown-up.

  She waved to Mrs Gallimore who was six months gone with another baby, went back inside and tidied away Jane’s teacup. She hadn’t wanted tea herself. Since she’d come here she couldn’t abide tea. Maybe the water was different in Churchwall Street. She only drank milk at the moment.