Dying in the Wool (46 page)

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I stood by Joshua Braithwaite’s grave one Sunday in August, with Gregory Grainger who had come north to give a fund-raising talk about the planned opening of the Maudsley. Along with Sykes, we had called for Beatrice and Frederick Horrocks.

On the way over, Beatrice thanked me for finding out that the cottage in Robin Hood’s Bay had been in Agnes’ name and would come to Frederick, along with a small legacy – a codicil to Braithwaite’s will.

Gregory and I went to pay our respects at the memorial to the firemen who lost their lives in the explosion.

As we walked back through the cemetery, Gregory said, ‘I know you’ll probably say no, but I hope you’ll say yes.’

‘You’re not still wanting me to intercede with Josephine Tuffnell?’

‘That didn’t work out. And to be honest, it was never really on the cards. If you’d given me even one nod of encouragement I wouldn’t have mentioned Josephine Tuffnell.’ His hand brushed mine.

‘To what will I say no?’

‘I’ve leave due. Would you like to motor up to the Lake District with me?’

I wanted to say yes. My body said yes, and that took me by surprise because it was the first time in a long while I had thought I might truly come back to life.

Gregory took both my hands in his and we smiled. ‘Well then, what do you say, Kate?’

‘I can’t.’

He sighed his disappointment. ‘May I ask why not?’

‘It’s too complicated.’

‘If it’s because …’

I put my finger to his lips. ‘Don’t. Best not.’ On such moments, lives turn.

There would be too much between us when I looked at him. If only he had managed to hold onto Joshua
Braithwaite at Milton House, the man might have lived and so might Paul and Lizzie Kellett.

On the morning of the Kelletts’ funeral, when I had inexpertly tried to console Evelyn for her loss of Gregory and had tried to suggest Neville was much more the man for her, she had said that it just was not possible. Now, of course, I knew why. They would look at each other and see blood.

If I looked at Gregory, I would see Tabitha’s misery, Kellett’s scalded body, Mrs Kellett’s bird-like hands and wrinkled stockings. I would see an exhausted, undefeated Joshua Braithwaite running across the skyline of the fells. Attractive as Gregory could be, there was too much deceit between us, too many ghosts.

One piece of news did cheer me at the end of that summer. I came second in the All British Photographic Competition, with a stunningly sharp photograph of Mrs Sugden by her dung heap, alongside a gnome-like old chap who had come to shovel the manure into a rusty wheel-barrow for his allotment. I called my photograph “Muck Shovelling”.

My research began with a visit to Armley Mills Museum, Leeds. Staff there and at Bradford Industrial Museum were most helpful. Eugene Nicholson, Curator of the Industrial Museum, guided me through archive material and publications. Former overlookers Mark Astley, once of Salts Mill, and Greg Kotovs, patiently answered questions about processes and machinery.

Mark Keighley, author of
Wool City
, shed light on wool production and manufacture.

Through the Society of Dyers and Colourists, in whose offices my sister Pat once worked, I was advised by Mr J M Crabtree, creator of the fastest black dye in England, and Andrew Filarowski, Technical Director. Dr Ian Holme, textile chemist and colourist, kindly supplied copies of his relevant publications.

Retired police officer Ralph Lindley, and Mary Lindley, helped bring to life the workings of law and order in a Yorkshire village. Sylvia Gill, whose family worked in the mills, offered sterling support.

The Low Moor explosion of Monday 21 August 1916 took place just a few miles from where I once lived. This tragic event has been documented by Ronald Blackwell and The Bradford Antiquary.

Thanks to my steadfast agent Judith Murdoch for her encouragement, and to Emma Beswetherick and Donna Condon of Piatkus who made the editing process a great pleasure.

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