Shining Threads (11 page)

The moors were deserted, achingly empty, and the sun had gone completely as the summer’s day began its slide towards twilight. Her boots were really rubbing now as she began the descent
from Edgeclough towards Chapmanstown. Damn it, she would have to stop a minute and take them off. She must have blisters the size of a guinea on her heels. But if she took them off would she be
able to get them on again, she wondered? Well, she’d rest for a moment and then go on. Her mare would have reached home without her by now and Walter would be running round the stable yard
raising the alarm. There’d be a search party out in half an hour and she wanted to be well on her way before she met up with it. How very demeaning to have taken a tumble on this relatively
easy stretch of moorland! Drew and Pearce would crow over it, saying she was not fit to be let out alone, which would bring the whole matter to her mother’s attention. There would be hell to
pay, probably an ultimatum to take Walter with her on future rides or some such nonsense.

They came over the brow of the hill just as she stood up, half a dozen or so of them. The man was of medium height but painfully thin and a washed-out, ferret-faced woman shuffled behind him
pushing a broken-down hand-cart on which rattled and shook a festering pile of what Tessa could only describe as rubbish which threatened to fall off with every turn of the wheels. Slung out behind
was a miscellaneous rabble of children of various ages and sizes, all scratching and picking at themselves, with sore eyes and no teeth to speak of in their wizened, little old men’s faces,
small and stunted with rickety legs and no shoes to their dirty feet.

They all stopped when they saw her, as though she was some mirage shimmering ahead of them, which, in a way, she was. Who would expect to see a girl such as herself alone up here, a girl in a
pure silk shirt, in breeches of the finest quality doeskin and boots of the finest quality leather, all of which would fetch a decent price in any market?

The man’s eyes, which had been vague and empty, sharpened to flint. He did not turn to the tribe behind him, merely put out a hand which said ‘leave this to me, we’ll have us a
grand supper tonight’, and they all stood obediently, well used to taking his orders, it seemed.

‘Good day to yer,’ he said cheerfully, his Irish brogue so thick it was difficult to understand. ‘’Tis a great one, ter be sure.’

‘Indeed,’ she answered guardedly, beginning to walk towards him for he stood on the track down which she must go to reach Crossfold.

‘Could yer spare a copper or two fer a starvin’ family?’ His eyes ran over her like the fleas which so evidently swarmed on himself and his family, to judge by the way they
were scratching, and she dug her fingers into her own suddenly prickling scalp.

‘I don’t carry any money with me,’ she said shortly, wishing to God she’d brought the dogs with her, cursing her own stupidity in leaving them at home. She’d
imagined, as she had always done in the past when she had come across a vagrant or a tramp or one of the itinerant families she met, such as this one, that she had only to touch her heels to her
mare’s flank and she could outrun any man with dubious intentions towards her.

She began to edge past them. The man made no move to stop her, merely watching her with the child-like curiosity of someone set down amongst beings he had never before clapped eyes on, and she
began to breathe a little more easily. The woman even sketched a curtsey, though there was no respect in it, and it was not until she reached the last figure, a weasel-faced, cross-eyed,
runny-nosed lad somewhat bigger than the others, that the whole family moved. The man must have made some signal behind her back and as she passed the boy, trying hard not to look into the
nastiness of his face, his foot shot out and neatly inserted itself between her boots, bringing her down with her face in the dry-baked hardness of the track. They were all over her then, like a
pack of squealing rats, hands and small, filthy feet pressing her down until the man’s voice, harsh and expecting to be obeyed at once, shifted them all.

‘Turn ’er over an’ let’s see what we got,’ he commanded and several pairs of hands obliged until she was glaring up into the dirt-ingrained face, the cunning,
jubilant eyes, the mouth in which there was nothing but blackened stumps, of the head of the family. For several minutes they all laughed and chattered evidently unable to believe their good luck
and though Tessa struggled wildly, threatening them with everything from a flogging to transportation, even the gallows, they took no notice. In her heart where up to now there had been no more
than outrage, alarm began to grow. She had believed that though they might take her boots, her beautifully cut and tailored tweed jacket, she had nothing more to fear than that: they were a family
and therefore, though they might be thieves, would not use violence. But the man and the boy who had tripped her were looking at her in a nasty way, licking their cracked lips, their eyes on her
freely moving, almost exposed breasts which strained through the silk of her shirt. The woman had become uneasy, shifty, watching her menfolk with the resignation of one who has long given up
defiance or argument, and when told would obey without question.

The man did not speak, just lifted his eyes to those of his son and smiled. The boy smiled back at him and when the man, with a curt movement of his head to the woman and the rest of the group
indicated that they were to move on, the gesture saying that he and the lad would be along presently, they obeyed at once.

Tessa began to scream. It was no more than the shrill cry of a rabbit when faced with a stoat, a despairing cry, but the woman turned back, her woman’s sensibility giving her, for a
moment, the pity one female feels for another who is to suffer as perhaps she once had done, as perhaps her own female children had done, despite their age.

‘Get on, woman, ’tis nought ter do wi’ you,’ her husband, if that was what he was to her, said and struck her across the face. For a second, only the boy held Tessa; he
was looking away towards his parents, waiting eagerly for what he was to share with his father, impatient for his mother to be dealt with as he had probably seen her dealt with a hundred times
before.

Tessa was up then, and free of his grasp, pushing him out of her way since she was stronger than he was, bounding in terrifying leaps down and down the steep stretch of moorland, tearing herself
on the spiky gorse, banging her ankles on angry rocks, her breath hot and cutting in her throat and chest, her back cringing away from what was behind her, her flesh flinching, expecting at every
step to feel their hands. There was another wall ahead of her, higher than she was, dangerous with loose stones, crumbling and waiting only for an unwary hand or foot to bring it down. She had her
fingers on the top cam stones, pulling at them to lift herself up and over, but her pursuers were at her back now, their hands reaching for her. She could smell their foul, unwashed bodies, the
stench of the rotting teeth in their opened mouths, then she was carried backwards, flung into the waist-deep fern and bracken and her cry, her feeble cry of anguish, was strangled by a cruel
hand.

The roar of rage could be heard as far away as Edgeclough, or so she believed later. Now she was conscious of nothing but a great, heavy shadow looming over her, of hands which she tried weakly
to resist: then air and space and light, emptiness, no sound but that of men’s voices and men’s bodies blundering away into the distance, becoming fainter and fainter, a blessed
‘nothingness’ which wrapped itself about her peacefully. She dared not look, of course, for fear she had imagined them to be gone and they would be standing over her, grinning,
taunting. She curled herself up, her arms wrapped about her knees, pulling them high to her breasts, her head tucked into her shoulders, prepared to stay there until Drew or Pearce, or even Walter
came for her, but a voice spoke up sharply.

‘Nay, they’ve gone now. You’ve nowt ter be feared of Mr Broadbent’ll mek mincemeat of ’em, tha’ll see.’

She peeped out from beneath her folded arms. A young girl was peering over the wall at her with an expression of disapproval which seemed to ask what else you could expect of a lass who wandered
the hills all by herself, dressed up like she was, and if she had her way, a good thrashing would not go amiss. She was about her own age, a girl whom you’d not recognise tomorrow if you
spoke to her today, so colourless was she. A girl with a pale face, pale eyes and pale scraped-back hair, wearing a clean, drab shawl and a bodice to match. The rest of her Tessa could not see.

‘Are yer ter stay theer all day, then?’ the girl asked tartly.

Tessa stood up slowly, turning anxiously towards the steep incline where, she supposed, the men had gone, then back to the girl.

‘Who was it?’ she quavered, a violent fit of shocked trembling beginning to shake her from head to foot. Even her teeth chattered.

‘Come over’t wall,’ the girl ordered and Tessa obeyed without question. She was wrapped snugly in the girl’s shawl. Her flowing hair was tied back again with the scarf,
the hands which performed the task strangely gentle. She leaned gratefully against a shoulder which was thin but apparently strong and when the girl began to walk in the direction of Edgeclough,
still with her strong young arms about her, Tessa went with her.

‘Tha’ve nobbut thissen ter blame, tha’ knows,’ the girl said crossly, just as though Tessa had become involved in a minor tumble brought on by her own foolishness, as in
a way she had. ‘Theer’s nowt in’t world’d make me cross them moors on me own. Mr Broadbent lives up near me so me an’ ’im always walk together, but if
’e’s on different shift I wait while Aggie or Rose is ready. I used ter walk wi’ me Mam but she . . . well . . .’ She shook her small head fiercely, not prepared to reveal
anything more of herself to a stranger, it seemed. She continued to scold Tessa in the sharp voice of one who is used to being in command of others, taking no ‘lip’ but at the same time
patting her shoulder awkwardly, giving her time to pull herself together, soothing her, not with obvious sympathy but with her own sensible belief that there was no use in crying over spilt milk so
best get on with mopping it up.

They came to a small house in a row of similar houses: all neat and tidy, decent, with a bit of garden in front, the windows polished and the steps donkey-stoned. There was an air of spartan
cleanliness about the one her rescuer entered. It smelled of carbolic and beeswax. The hearth was freshly brushed, the brick floor freshly swept, the table all set out with decent crockery, and
floating out to greet them the smell of something cooking on the sparse fire. At the table sat four children. They all turned expectantly as Tessa’s friend opened, then shut the door firmly
behind her, the gesture saying quite clearly that what was done inside these four walls was no one’s business but
theirs
.

‘This ’ere young lady ’ad an accident so put kettle on’t fire, our Nelly,’ she said brusquely. Tessa found herself placed with little ceremony in the rocking chair
by the fire, a cushion at her back, a buffet at her feet and all done with the minimum of fuss and no regard at all for her higher station in life. She might have been a casual acquaintance,
perhaps another mill-hand, but made
comfy
just the same.

She still shivered and shook and when the tea was put in her hand she could scarcely hold it. She was settling into a badly shocked state now and the girl looked anxiously at her and kept going
to the window to stare out into the darkening street.

‘Get on wi’ thy tea, our Polly,’ she said to one little girl who was inclined to stare in awe at Tessa.

‘Are tha not ’avin’ any, our Annie?’ the third girl asked. ‘I put a bit o’ scrag end in wi’t carrots. Do thi good,’ she added with the same
business-like air of their Annie.

‘Aye, but I’ll wait while Mr Broadbent gets ’ere, Gracie.’

‘Where is ’e then, Annie?’

‘Never you mind. Get yer tea down yer. There’s many a lass’d be glad o’ that, so shut thi trap and gerron wi’ it.’

When the knock on the door sounded she was there to answer it at once, apparently having seen the caller come up the garden path. She flung it open with evident relief and the enormous man who
entered smiled at her for a moment, telling her, since she was really no more than a child herself, that everything was as it should be. He turned instantly to Tessa, squatting down on his haunches
before her.

‘Lass,’ he said softly. They all gathered round, the scrag end forgotten in the wonder of the moment: Annie, the one who had brought her home, their Nelly who had made the tea,
Polly, whose endeavours with the scrag end were being so ungraciously ignored, Gracie and a boy who looked to be a year or two younger than Annie. Their expressions were solemn, their faces as
plain as their older sister’s, but sharply intelligent.

‘Are you . . . did they . . . hurt you, lass?’ the man asked, putting up a hand to smooth back her tangled hair and was relieved when she did not shrink away from him, though she did
not answer.

‘Are you all right, Tessa?’ he went on and at the sound of her name she turned and a faint semblance of sense began to show in her empty grey eyes, the first Annie had seen since she
had ordered her to climb over the wall.

‘Yes, thank you,’ she said politely.

‘They . . . they didn’t touch you?’

‘No . . . only . . .’

‘Only what, Tessa?’

‘They knocked me down.’

‘They’ll not do it again, my lass.’

‘Oh . . . ?’

‘They’ll be half-way to Leeds by now, I shouldn’t wonder. I gave them a helping hand, like. But if they’ve hurt you in any way I’ll fetch them right back and hand
them over to the constable,’ – but not before I’ve given them summat they’ll not forget in a hurry, his bleak expression said.

‘Oh, no, don’t bring them back.’

‘No, that’s what I thought.’

He stood up then and looked about him, so tall and broad he seemed to fill the scrupulously polished kitchen from wall to wall. He said a word or two to the boy who nodded his head in
understanding and after flinging a cap on his pale hair, left the cottage at once.