The Bobbin Girls (30 page)

Their hilarity was interrupted by the arrival of Mrs Milburn, Hollinthwaite’s housekeeper, in a fine lather of excitement that she barely managed to contain as she purchased a slab of Fairy household soap and some dolly-blue for her next washday. Her lips were clamped tightly together, her movements quick and angry as she slapped down halfpennies and pennies on the shiny mahogany counter top. Alena, watching her behaviour with close attention, could finally bear the suspense no longer. ‘What is it, Mrs Milburn? Are you quite well?’

‘If I am, it’s a wonder, what with all the comings and goings I’ve had to put up with lately. It wasn’t like this when Mrs Hollinthwaite was at home. Her dinner parties were allus elegant, polite affairs, not raucous gatherings of noisy men.’

‘Oh, dear.’ Alena and Sandra exchanged barely suppressed grins, struggling not to dissolve into giggles yet again. ‘What has he done now?’ Knowing that there was nothing Mrs Milburn liked better than to gossip about her employer, for all she might maintain otherwise.

‘He’s only gone and decided to turn the whole area into forest.’

‘The whole area pretty well is forest already, Mrs Milburn.’ Alena tactfully reminded her.

‘Not conifer forest, it isn’t. We have beautiful woodland here where once the King himself could come to hunt deer and have sport if he’d a mind to. We’ve grown fine, regal hardwood in this valley for centuries. Wonderful beech and oak that James Hollinthwaite means to cut down, though what right he thinks he has to do such a terrible thing.’ Mrs Milburn plonked her basket down on a nearby bentwood chair and leaned across the counter, propping her capacious bosom comfortably upon its polished surface as she punctuated every word with the stab of one finger. ‘He means to plant up every acre he owns in this valley, and then on Longmire, Thwaite Head, Rusland Heights and Finsthwaite Heights, with Sitka spruce and larch. What he doesn’t own already, he means to buy.’ She jerked her head in a fierce nod. ‘Now what do you think of that?’

Sandra and Alena didn’t know what to think. Mrs Milburn was known for her tendency to exaggerate and both girls guessed even the greedy James Hollinthwaite would have difficulty in purchasing every acre of land he wanted. But they considered this piece of new information with some alarm, for all they both had enough worries of their own.

Alena remembered Mickey saying something about the Forestry Commission planting conifers in Ennerdale, and how he felt that kind of intense forestry threatened his own greatly loved and, in his opinion, more natural coppicing industry. How the smallness of the area could be thrown out of balance by these great towering trees better suited to Scandinavian mountains than cloaking the miniature mountains and fells of the English Lake District.

Choke this whole valley to death it will,’ Mrs Milburn was saving. ‘We don’t want great dark plantations here. This isn’t the place for giant Christmas trees.’

Both girls were struck speechless, unsure how to respond, but equally disturbed by the pictures she was painting. ‘He wouldn’t do that, surely?’

‘Wouldn’t he just, if it made him a deal of brass.’

And they all realised that this must be true. James Hollinthwaite had never considered anybody but himself in his entire life. Why would he change now?

It was a week later, and Dolly had decided she’d grown tired of marriage. Respectability was not all it was cracked up to be, so far as she was concerned. Tom was a bore. They lived such separate lives these days, you’d never think they were man and wife.

Every evening she made supper which he ate, usually in silence, and then either he went out to the pub, or she put on her glad rags as he called them, and went out to enjoy herself. They both usually ended up at The Golden Stag, for where else was there for a bit of fun in this village? But, as with their journeys to and from work and the nights in the big wide bed, each completely ignored the other.

Tonight he’d insisted on eating early since he was going out, first to a meeting with his brothers and then on to The Stag, and Dolly certainly had no intention of sitting in waiting for him, it being a Saturday.

She spent an hour getting ready, aware of his surreptitious gaze as she rested each foot on the arm of his chair while she rolled on her stockings. She positively drenched herself in Essence of Violets, then pulled on her underwear with languorous care. Tom kept the newspaper sturdily before him throughout this performance, but Dolly sensed his attention by the way his hands clenched, or the number of times he moved his chair and fidgeted. He did glance at her once, his face scarlet with anger, then snatched up the paper, ripped over a page and turned away.
 

She stood before the mirror wearing only a pink brassiere, French knickers and her stockings and suspenders while she slapped pancake stick on to her face, pressing it in with a damp sponge. The tension in the small living room was so strong she almost forgot to breathe. She rubbed rouge into her cheeks and, pouting her lips with conscious seductiveness, applied the most vivid red lipstick she could find. With anyone else the result might have been catastrophic, but whether it was Dolly’s skill or because make-up actually enhanced her natural prettiness, by the time she’d pencilled her eyebrows, blackened her lashes with a dab of Vaseline and soot, and pinned up her thick brown hair, she looked every hit as glamorous as one of the screen-goddesses she worshipped so ardently.

Dolly stepped into her dress, fastened it slowly, button by button, then with feigned innocence, one hand resting on the provocative thrust of one hip, gave him a smile. ‘Wouldn’t you say I look a real corker?’

Tom cast her a contemptuous glance, taking in the voluptuous curves of her figure, the new red dress and high-heeled shoes which suited her so well, and must have cost a pretty penny.

‘Where did you get the money for those?’

Dolly merely shrugged, telling him it was really none of his business, and he’d no right to be so disapproving since he’d shown no interest in her for ages. There was no doubt at all in her mind that marrying Tom Townsen had been a terrible mistake. Now he was accusing her of letting other men buy her drinks.

‘You never offer, so why shouldn’t I accept?’

‘Because you’re my wife. It only makes you look cheap.’

‘Oh, that’s it, is it? You don’t want to be seen out with me, your own wife, but neither can I go out with anyone else. What am I supposed to do, twiddle my thumbs here all night?’

‘You could come to this meeting with me.’

‘Why the hell should I?’

‘There’s something up, something to do with James Hollinthwaite. Harry wants to tell us all about it.’

Dolly examined her lips in the mirror and dabbed at a smudge with the tip of her little finger. ‘I’ve told you, I’ve made other plans.’ Then she collected her smart new coat, but didn’t put it on until she got outside the door so that he could get a good view of her silk-stockinged legs. Tom watched her go with burning eyes.

It was quiet that night in The Stag with the place half empty. So quiet in fact that Dolly almost wished she’d gone to Harry’s daft meeting. She found it hard to imagine what could be so important as to empty the pub. There was hardly anybody there at all that she knew, apart from a few old men, and she certainly had no wish to sit with them.

Then, as luck would have it, she saw James Hollinthwaite come in. He bought a whisky and took it to the table by the window. Dolly considered him. He was old enough to be her father, but then she didn’t have a father, and he wasn’t bad looking for his age. And certainly very rich. A fact no girl should ignore, particularly one in her situation with a useless husband and no reason to stay married.

She finished her glass of stout, said her goodnights to Jack Turner, then slid off the bar stool and made her way to the door ‘accidentally’ knocking against James’s elbow as she passed. Most of his whisky spilled all over the table and dripped on to the slate floor. Dolly put her hands to her pretty pink cheeks, dark eyes wide with dismay. ‘Oh, what have I done? Let me buy you another.’

Being a gentleman he wouldn’t hear of such a thing. And since she was so very distressed and all alone because her husband really had very little time to spare for her these days, he bought her a small port as well as another whisky for himself, inviting her to keep him company while they drank it. It was quite by the way that the conversation turned to his son, and a great surprise to Dolly that he hadn’t heard Robert had been visited by Alena.

Oh, dear,’ said Dolly, putting the tip of one finger to her scarlet mouth and biting it with her pretty white teeth. ‘She’ll kill me when she finds out I’ve told on her.’

James Hollinthwaite covered her hand with his own and gave it a reassuring squeeze. ‘Don’t worry, my dear. She won’t hear it from me. Do you think your husband would mind if I bought you another?’

Tom was too engrossed in the meeting to care. Outraged by the prospect of their valley being swamped by conifers, all in the name of progress, the kitchen of number 14, Birkwith Row, had never been so full of folk. Fierce argument raged back and forth while Lizzie tried to keep everyone’s mug topped up with tea.

Sandra listened with pride as Harry warned them all of the unsightly square blocks of uniform dark green trees that had already blighted Ennerdale; of the severe unnatural edges of the plantations; the gloomy black interiors, and how the countryside lost all the usual elements of the changing seasons. No rich colours, no berries and therefore fewer birds, not even any bluebells come spring as there’d be far less sunlight on the forest floor.

‘You can’t halt progress,’ Bill Lindale placidly pointed out. ‘1f done sympathetically, I dare say the trees have a sort of beauty of their own.’

Harry thumped the kitchen table. ‘They do heck as like. The Commission has made damn’ few concessions. They march ahead regardless, planting when and where they like.’

‘They’ve agreed not to touch the upper part of Kentmere, and 440 acres in Eskdale.’

‘Aye, if the public purse will make recompense for the favour of not planting land that was probably unplantable in any case since it’s too flaming steep. He thumped the table with increased fervour, making it quiver. ‘No wonder greedy landowners like Hollinthwaite follow suit. Who knows where it could end? Every inch of the mountains could be smothered in spruce.’

He was becoming so upset that Sandra went to stand by
^-
his side and rest a hand upon his shoulder.

Alena said, ‘So what do we do about it?’

‘What can we do?’ Bill Lindale asked.

‘Fight, of course,’ said Harry. ‘We can’t let him win.’

‘We could get up a petition?’ Sandra suggested. ‘Send a deputation?’

‘Aye, we could,’ Harry agreed, grinning at her with pride. ‘So, are you with me or not?’

‘So long as it’s done in a proper manner,’ said the more cautious Bill. ‘I’m with you if everyone else is.’

And the shouts of the men packed into the small kitchen echoed their approval.

Chapter Sixteen

It was, without doubt a beautiful valley. A wilderness not quite tamed by man in which could be found prime sessile oak, lime, ash, alder - in fact as many as twenty different species of tree, including the famous beeches. Here too was the breeding ground for some of the finest free-ranging red deer in the land who came each autumn at rutting time. The more sedentary roe moved quietly through the forest, secure in the peace of the place. Otters bathed in the river, buzzards soared in the thermals over the fells, and badgers and red squirrels had their own secret places in the woods.

Surely a valley worth fighting for?

Harry led the deputation to present their case. They marched up the long drive to Ellersgarth Hall and offered up a list of names protesting against the plan. Many of the men with him were Hollinthwaite’s own mill workers, a fact not missed by James.

Alena and Sandra hovered on the fringes of the group. Mrs Rigg, Maggie Sutton, old Edith, Lizzie and some of the other women were present, looking uncomfortable and out of place amidst the heaving mass of male bodies. Even Dolly was there, for once, standing beside Tom.

James stood on his doorstep and answered their criticisms by claiming that the scheme would bring more jobs to the area, for their own sons as well as his. He denied he meant to cut down perfectly sound trees. ‘No more than is necessary.’

‘And how many would that be?’ Harry yelled.

‘Aye, go on, tell us,’ put in Tom. Dolly tugged at his sleeve, warning him not to get involved. He shrugged her off.

‘Some space must be cleared where trees are mature.’

‘So they can be sold for a profit, eh?’ The mood was growing ugly.
 

‘Trees are meant to be felled.’

‘Not ad hoc, Mr Hollinthwaite,’ Bill Lindale politely pointed out. ‘What worries us is how this type of forestry blankets out everything else. It’s not really suited to our land and climate, let alone our small valley here.’

James held on to his patience while coldly pointing out that nothing they could say or do would change his mind. He had every right to plant as many of his own acres as he wished. ‘If there’s ever another war,’ he warned ‘they’ll need all my current crops of larch for lining trenches, building gun emplacements and such like, not oak for sailing ships. Those days are gone. I shall need to replant.’