Calico Road (2 page)

A sudden longing for a deep draught of beer and the warmth of the pub weakened his resolve for a moment and he licked his lips, imagining the taste of it. His friends would be there by now, they’d smile a greeting and . . . He shook his head, mouthing the word no. He wasn’t giving in to it. Not any more.

But it was going to be hard.

Meg caught up with her brother Jack as he was walking home from work. He looked as tired as she felt.

‘Had a hard day?’ she asked, slipping her arm through his.

‘Aye.’

‘Me, too.’

When they got near the house, she grimaced. ‘I hope she’s in a better mood than yesterday.’

He didn’t need to ask who
she
was. ‘You shouldn’t answer her back.’

‘I’ve as much right to talk as she has – an’ I talk a lot more sense, too.’ Meg shoved the door open with a muttered, ‘Here we go.’

It was Friday, one of their two meat days. Not that there was much meat in the stew, but enough to flavour it. When Netta Staley began to dole out the food a few minutes later, she made sure Jack got most of the meat.

He looked down at the plate. ‘What about the others, Mam? They’ve got no meat at all.’

‘There’s not enough to go round today. They’ve got the gravy, haven’t they? There’s many childer don’t get even that.’

‘I’ve told you before: we’ll all share what there is.’ He placed a piece of the stringy meat on Meg’s plate, then gestured to Shad, Ginny and Joe to hold out their plates too.

‘It’s the breadwinner as needs that,’ Netta said shrilly, reaching out to stop him. ‘We can’t afford enough for everyone.’

As he carried on sharing his food, she burst into tears and left the table.

For once he didn’t follow. ‘Eat up, you lot. It’s a shame to let good food go cold.’

Meg cleared her plate quickly. It wasn’t good food, because her mother was an indifferent and careless cook, but she was ravenous so ate without complaint. Luckily for them it wasn’t one of Jack’s nights for going out or their mam would be hitting out at them after he’d left. She seemed to enjoy slapping them or hitting them with her wooden rolling pin. No wonder Shad stayed out whenever he could.

I wish I could leave here, Meg thought as she lay sleepless under the thin blanket, cuddled up against her sister Ginny. If I could, I’d go away tomorrow.

Phoebe Dixon watched her husband choke and gasp his life away. Three days it took from when Hal fell ill, just three days to destroy her life as well as his. She didn’t love him, but he represented the only security she’d ever known and they’d rubbed along together all right.

After she’d laid him out, she found the pot where they kept their savings and counted its meagre contents, much depleted by his long period of ill health, not to mention his spendthrift ways. She had just enough left to pay for a simple funeral. It would leave little for her, but Hal wasn’t going to have a pauper’s funeral, she’d promised him that and she always tried to keep her promises. Mr Pickerling, the Curate, would hold the funeral service. Well, no one expected the Parson to come out to a tiny hamlet like Calico, situated on the edge of the moors miles from anywhere – not for a mere alehouse keeper, or for any other reason if the Parson could help it.

The burial took place on a chilly day, with dark clouds threatening rain and a wind whining fitfully across the moors, sometimes blowing hard so that Phoebe’s dark skirts flapped like crows’ wings and the men had to hold tight to their hats. Some thought it wrong for women to attend funerals. She’d have thought it wrong not to go with Hal on his last journey in Ross Bellvers’ cart.

When the service was over the Curate waited for his fee at the gates of the walled burial ground which stood on a slight rise next to the church. For two centuries the dead of Calico and an occasional beggar or packman who’d died within the parish had been buried here.

Phoebe paid Mr Pickerling, who said apologetically that he was very sorry to trouble her for this money. She smiled and shook her head. They all knew how poor he and his family were on a Curate’s stipend. When he tipped his hat to her before walking off down the hill she stood watching till he was out of sight, not saying anything.

Even after he’d disappeared from view she couldn’t move because now that she’d buried Hal, she didn’t know what to do or where to go. At nearly fifty, with no children or living relatives, she could see nothing ahead of her but the poorhouse.

When Ross took her by the arm and led her back with them she went quietly, too tired to protest. The small group of men came with her into the inn she’d helped run for nearly twenty years. The Packhorse it was called, because once packmen had been its most numerous customers apart from the villagers. It stood on Calico Road itself, as most houses in the village did, and was a rambling old place.

The Curate said the rear part had been built even before Queen Elizabeth sat on the throne of England, built by monks to live in while tending their sheep. If he said so, Phoebe supposed it must be true. All she knew was she never felt comfortable in that part of the inn and avoided it as much as she could.

Back at the inn she found that the neighbouring women had brought in plates of food to hold a burial feast for Hal, which was kind of them. She smiled and nodded to show her appreciation, but couldn’t eat, not a bite. All she could do was sit there and wait, though she wasn’t sure what for.

The group fell quiet when they heard a horse’s hooves. When a gentleman walked into the inn, all finely clad, someone whispered, ‘It’s young Mr Greenhalgh – Mr Jethro,’ and Phoebe’s heart began to thud in her chest. If he came from John Greenhalgh, the owner, he surely brought only bad news.

The newcomer looked round the public room, not appearing to like what he saw. ‘We heard that Dixon had died.’

Heads nodded but no one spoke.

‘Which of you is Mrs Dixon?’

Someone pushed Phoebe forward.

‘We’re sorry to hear about your loss, Mrs Dixon. We’ll give you a week to move your things out.’

Tears came into her eyes. ‘Move out?’ She’d half-expected this, but it still hurt.

He looked at her impatiently. ‘Didn’t I just say so?’

There were mutterings in the silence, not a word clear but the tone angry like the distant buzzing of a fly against a window pane.

She found the courage to ask, ‘Can’t I stay on, sir? You’ll need someone to run the alehouse and I’ve been doing that for the past year while Hal’s been ill. I know the work. I’ve proved I can do it.’

‘Your husband might have been ill, but he was still there. My father doesn’t believe in giving such responsibility to a woman. Besides, what would you do if someone was drunk and causing trouble? A woman on her own couldn’t manage.’

He had raised his voice, though the group was so quiet he needn’t have bothered, and when he stopped one man muttered, ‘Does he think we’re all deaf, then?’ But luckily only the person next to him heard and dug in an elbow, making a shushing sound.

Jethro looked round. ‘Until we find someone to run the Packhorse for us, is there a man in the village who can take over? We’ll pay you, of course.’ When no one spoke, he added, ‘Otherwise we’ll have to close the place down.’

There was silence. People looked questioningly at one another, shaking their heads very slightly as if to decline. But if the Greenhalghs closed this inn, where would folk go for a pot of beer? The Packhorse was the centre of village life, the only place they had to take their ease, because it was too long a walk down the hill to the next village.

As the visitor began to frown and tap his foot impatiently, one man took a sudden decision and stood up. ‘I’ll do it, Mr Greenhalgh.’ He didn’t address him as sir, a word he disliked, because he wasn’t beholden to the Greenhalghs for anything, either his livelihood or his cottage, and glad of it, too.

‘Who are you?’

‘Ross Bellvers, smallholder.’

Jethro studied him for a moment, then nodded. ‘Very well. See that you keep the place clean until we find a new man, and no drinking away the profits. My father will expect a full accounting.’ He turned back to the widow. ‘Mrs Dixon, a word with you in private.’

Phoebe followed him into the living quarters at the rear, noting how his lips curled in disgust at the poverty of the furnishings and the untidiness. She wished then that she’d not let herself go to pieces after Hal died, knew she looked more like a beggar woman than an alehouse keeper’s widow today, and was filled with shame.

He held out a small purse. ‘This is to help you on your way.’

When she didn’t reach out for it, he tossed it on the table, turning to leave then stopping as if on an afterthought to ask, ‘Did your husband ever say anything to you about why he was given the job here?’

She knew what to say to that one. ‘No, sir. Never.’ But of course she knew why Hal had been given this place. Even men as close-mouthed as him talked in their sleep or when they were ill, and wives slowly put the pieces of the puzzle together. She also knew better than to admit anything.

‘And he didn’t leave any papers?’

‘No, sir.’

‘You’re sure of that?’

‘Oh, yes, sir.’

Without another word Greenhalgh walked out of the alehouse and mounted his horse.

Once the hoof beats had faded into the distance, Ross went into the back room and found Phoebe sitting weeping.

‘To throw me out!’ she sobbed. ‘He brought me in here to toss a purse at me. As if that’d make it all right! I’ve been here over twenty year now, Ross. It’s my
home!
I don’t have anywhere else to go.’

He patted her on the shoulder. ‘That’s a Greenhalgh for you. This is the only time one of them sods has visited Calico for years and . . .’ He stopped, struck by that thought. ‘How’s he to know?’

‘Know what?’

Ross grinned at her. ‘Whether you stay or go. You look a right old mess today, Phoebe love. When you’re back to your old self, he’ll not even recognise you.
If
he ever comes here again, which he likely won’t. We’ll change your name, though, just to make sure.’

She looked at him, hope dawning on her face. ‘What happens when they send someone to take over here?’

‘Depends whether the fellow’s married or not. If he isn’t, you can ask him for a job. After all, you know the trade.’

‘Dare we?’ she whispered, as if afraid to speak out loud.

‘Why not? You can run this place for
me
till the new man arrives, and if nothing else it’ll give you time to make plans. Nay, what are you weeping for, lass?’

‘Because you’re so k-kind.’

‘I’m not
kind!
I’m just being practical. For the sake of the village. What would we do if we didn’t have this place?’

From his tone she might have been accusing him of a crime by calling him kind, and she knew better than to repeat it. Folk in Calico kept their feelings to themselves. Let townfolk gabble on about nothing, people up here knew better. You should only speak when you had summat worth saying – especially when there were strangers around.

And her Hal would have added: Especially when the strangers were Greenhalghs. He’d been afraid of them, no doubt about that, afraid they’d kill him if he didn’t keep his mouth shut.

Jethro rode slowly back down the hill to Backenshaw. He hadn’t enjoyed telling the woman to leave but his father had insisted she must go. And no one dared argue with John Greenhalgh, least of all his son. Perhaps, given the circumstances, it was for the best, but she’d looked so shocked and unhappy when he’d told her.

One day, though, his father would die and then Jethro would make his own rules about how he dealt with his dependants and employees. He’d not treat them softly – he was too much John’s son for that – but sometimes he felt his father was unnecessarily harsh.

With everyone.

His own son included.

2

October

T
oby Fletcher looked up when his workmate tapped him on the shoulder.

‘Bob wants to see you, lad.’

Toby nodded and went to wipe his mucky hands on a piece of cotton waste, then walked across the big workshop into the room Bob called his ‘office’, which was just a corner cut off the main space. They made all sorts of bits and pieces here – furniture, gates and boxes, odds and ends for the house – and they did house repairs as well, for Mr Greenhalgh and for other employers. Toby was one of the more skilled workers, good with his hands and always had been. He knew Bob Taylor valued him as an employee and he respected Bob. This summons would likely be a repair job that needed doing in a hurry.

Bob greeted him with, ‘Young Mr Greenhalgh just sent down word. His father wants to see you.’

‘Then he can go on wanting. I’ve nowt to say to
him
.’

‘Happen he has summat to say to you, though, lad. Word is, the old man’s dying.’

Toby had already turned to leave but spun round to ask angrily, ‘Why should that make a difference to me?’

‘It allus does an’ well you know it. Go an’ see him. Take my advice an’ make your peace with him while you can or you’ll live to regret it.’

For a moment longer Toby tried to hold firm to his refusal then he shrugged and left the office. John Greenhalgh owned half the small town of Backenshaw, nestled in the foothills of the Pennines, and although Toby didn’t work directly for him, even he would hesitate to get on the man’s wrong side.

Within minutes he was striding up the hill to the big house, having washed his hands and face but not bothered to change his clothes. If Old John wanted to see him, he could see him in his working clothes or not at all.

As he drew closer, Toby’s steps slowed down and he sighed. What now? Everyone in the village knew that John was his natural father, but that hadn’t made much difference to his mother’s life – or to his, either. Marjorie Fletcher had come over from Rochdale way when Backenshaw was just a village. There was no sign of a husband but she was carrying a baby in her arms, a strong little fellow nearly a year old. She’d been met and given one of the new two-roomed cottages to live in, on the master’s express orders, which had surprised everyone, but when folk asked her outright if Mr Greenhalgh was the father, she’d refused to discuss it.