Twisted Strands (47 page)
Authors: Margaret Dickinson
Bridie climbed down and stood watching whilst he turned the motor around and drove off down the street. And if I’m not much mistaken, she was thinking as she waved him off, Auntie Evie
might be giving you a bit of good news too very soon.
Smiling to herself, she opened the gate and stepped into the yard.
‘I’ve been a bloody fool. Can you forgive me?’
Bridie wound her arms around Andrew’s neck and smiled impishly up at him. ‘I’ll think about it.’
‘So, when are we going to be married?’
‘Well!’ she exclaimed and stood back. ‘If that isn’t the most unromantic proposal a girl ever had.’
‘Oh, Bridie, I’m sorry.’ He ran his hand nervously through his hair.
Bridie chuckled and hugged him. ‘I’m only teasing you. Of course, we’ll be married as soon as possible. If only to stop the gossips,’ she joked.
‘Who do I ask for permission? Your grandfather?’
Her smile faded and she straightened up. Sadly she said, ‘I wish it was. Oh, how I wish it was. But he still doesn’t want anything to do with me, does he?’ She sighed.
‘My own father won’t acknowledge me and nor will my grandfather.’
Andrew touched her cheek and said softly, ‘I’ll make it up to you, darling Bridie.’
She held his hand to her cheek. ‘I know you will . . .’ she hesitated.
‘But it’s not the same for you, is it, love?’
Tears were close as she shook her head and whispered. ‘I’m sorry, but no, it isn’t. It isn’t my father so much. Now I’ve met him and see him for what he really is,
well, he’s smashed those particular dreams, but – but – it’s grandfather I really care about now. If only . . .’
‘Maybe in time, he’ll come around.’
‘Maybe,’ she said, but the doubt was evident in her tone.
‘I tried,’ Andrew told her later the following day.
‘What did he say?’
Andrew bit his lip, reluctant to tell her but Bridie was insistent.
‘He – he said the same old thing. That he has no granddaughter.’
There was a lump in her throat as she whispered, ‘I expected as much.’ But still, deep inside her, there was a little spark of hope that refused to die completely.
Over the weeks that followed she planned her wedding.
‘I shall come,’ her great-grandmother said. ‘Ne’er mind what Harry ses, I’ll be there, Bridie. Someone’ll have to take me across to the chapel in a bath
chair, but I’ll be there.’
‘I’m counting on it, Great-Gran.’
‘Who are you asking to give you away?’
‘I – I haven’t asked anyone yet. But I suppose it’ll have to be Josh, because Uncle Richard is to be Andrew’s best man.’
‘You’re still hoping that old fool will come round, aren’t you? Well, don’t waste yer life wishing, love.’
Bridie turned away. She knew her great-grandmother was right. They were all right. And yet . . .
It was three weeks before the day of her wedding, when Bridie was passing the door of her grandfather’s cottage as she returned from the village shop, that she heard a
huge crash from inside and the smashing of crockery. At once she dumped her bags on the ground and opened the door to find Harry struggling to get up from the floor. She hurried to his side to help
him.
‘Grandfather, what happened? Are you hurt?’
His trembling hands reached out in front of him to grasp hold of something – anything.
‘Sit down in the chair,’ she ordered.
He shuffled backwards, allowing her to guide him now. Then, fumbling, he found her arms and grasped them so strongly that she almost cried out in pain. ‘Bridie . . .’ he gasped,
clinging to her like a drowning man. ‘Bridie – I can’t see. I can’t see anything.’
She stared at him for a moment, but already she could see that his eyes, though wide open, were seeing nothing. He was staring ahead, but he was unable to focus. He could not see her. He could
not see anything.
She wriggled from his grasp and then took hold of his hands in hers. ‘It’s all right, Grandfather. I’ll get the doctor. Maybe it’s only temporary. You’ll be all
right . . .’
He shook his head. ‘No, no, I won’t. My sight’s been getting worse and now it’s gone altogether.’ Tears were now pouring from his sightless eyes, down his wrinkled
cheeks and into his beard. ‘I’m blind, Bridie, I’m blind.’
She put her arms around the big man and held him close, whilst he laid his head against her breast and wept.
Three weeks later Bridie stood in the spare bedroom of her great-grandmother’s cottage before the speckled mirror and stared at the stranger reflected there.
Behind her, Eveleen, her voice choked with emotion, said, ‘You look beautiful, Bridie. The most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen.’
‘I wish Grandfather could see me today,’ Bridie murmured.
Eveleen smiled, determined not to let her brood. Not today of all days. ‘Come along. It’s time you were going. Andrew’s waiting for you. And Richard’s with him.
They’ve all gone across to the chapel. Even your great-grandmother, riding like a queen in her bath chair. They’re all waiting for you – Gran, Josh, Mrs Turner, even Mr Stokes.
They’re all there, all except . . .’ They exchanged a look and then Eveleen added, ‘But I’ll be there to help you. I’ll be just behind you.’
Bridie nodded, unable to speak for the lump in her throat, willing herself not to cry as she carefully descended the stairs.
As she stepped out of the cottage, she stopped and gave a little gasp of surprise when she saw the man waiting at the end of the pathway; a tall, broad-shouldered man, resplendent in a morning
suit, his face turned towards them.
Bridie glanced at her aunt, the question she dare not voice aloud written in her wide eyes. Eveleen was smiling, tears in her own eyes as she said, ‘Yes, my darling, he’s waiting for
you, too.’
Bridie, her knees trembling, walked towards him, the beautiful white lace train of her wedding dress trailing behind her, her trembling fingers clutching the bouquet she carried. As she reached
him, she put her hand on his arm and whispered softly, ‘Here I am.’ And in a voice that was a little unsteady from the joy in her heart she asked, ‘Are you ready to give me
away?’
‘I’m ready,’ Harry Singleton said, his voice husky with emotion. ‘I’m ready – Granddaughter.’
Born in Gainsborough, Lincolnshire, Margaret Dickinson moved to the coast at the age of seven and so began her love for the sea and the Lincolnshire landscape.
Her ambition to be a writer began early and she had her first novel published at the age of twenty-five. This was followed by twenty-one further titles, including her most recent novel,
Sing
As We Go
.
Twisted Strands
continues the story begun in
Tangled Threads
.
Margaret Dickinson is married with two grown-up daughters.
Praise for Margaret Dickinson and
Tangled Threads
:
‘This tightly plotted story of seriously entangled lives at the start of the 20th century is told with her usual page-turning compulsiveness’
Skegness
Standard
A
LSO BY
M
ARGARET
D
ICKINSON
Plough the Furrow
Sow the Seed
Reap the Harvest
The Miller’s Daughter
Chaff Upon the Wind
The Fisher Lass
The Tulip Girl
The River Folk
Tangled Threads
Red Sky in the Morning
Without Sin
Pauper’s Gold
Wish Me Luck
Sing As We Go
This book is a work of fiction and is entirely a product of the author’s imagination. All the characters are fictitious and any similarity to real
persons is purely coincidental.
With great affection and deep admiration this book is dedicated to my uncle, Brian Copley, who enlisted in 1914 at the age of sixteen in the 8th Battalion
Sherwood Foresters, (Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire Regiment) and served throughout the war.
Thankfully, he survived the trenches to live a long and happy life and it has been a privilege to share his memories and experiences through his personal
diaries of the time.
The area to the west of Grantham around Barrowby and Casthorpe, the village of Ruddington and, of course, Nottingham are once more the places of inspiration for the settings in
this novel, although the story and all the characters are entirely fictitious. The siting of a factory and warehouse on Canal Street in Nottingham and the homes of all the characters within the
city are also my own invention.
I am deeply grateful to Jack Smirfitt and all his colleagues at the Ruddington Framework Knitters’ Museum for valuable information and advice. I also wish to thank Peter Mee, a former
twisthand in the lace industry, who so kindly and generously shared his knowledge and experience with me.
My grateful thanks to all the staff of Skegness Library for their interest, encouragement and wonderful help with all my bizarre questions!
My love and thanks as always to my family and friends for their unfailing support.
First published 2003 by Pan Books
This electronic edition published 2010 by Pan Books
an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited
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ISBN 978-0-330-52716-3 PDF
ISBN 978-0-330-52695-1 EPUB
Copyright © Margaret Dickinson 2003
The right of Margaret Dickinson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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