100 Tiny Threads Read online

  ‘Yes, and it’s mouldy.’ She peered over Winifred’s shoulder at the closed parlour door. ‘Your mother sold it to me – yesterday.’

  ‘I’m sorry, that’s not possible.’ Winifred shook her head, keeping her voice calm. It wasn’t the first time Mrs Cox had tried to cheat them.

  The woman’s face flushed. ‘I want my money back.’

  ‘I can’t do that, Mrs Cox.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because we haven’t had Lancashire cheese in the shop for a week – we’re waiting for a delivery from Cumpsty’s farm.’

  The woman leaned over the counter and poked a fat finger into Winifred’s shoulder.

  ‘You calling me a liar?’

  ‘Do you know, Mrs Cox, I rather think I am, because last time it was mouldy bread you brought in. That wasn’t even the sort we sell. And I’d thank you to keep your hands to yourself. ’ Winifred re-wrapped the cheese and held it out. ‘Now, I’d like you to leave. And please take your custom elsewhere in future.’

  ‘Well! Well, I’ve never…’ Glaring, the woman grabbed the parcel and pushed her way past Honora, leaving the shop door wide open.

  ‘Ya certainly gave that Mrs Cox her marching orders, Win.’ Honora grinned. ‘I knew ya had it in ya.’

  ‘And now I’m giving you yours,’ Winifred snapped. ‘And close the door behind you.’

  Honora came into the shop the following day, too, just as Winifred was sweeping the floor.

  ‘Half day, today,’ she said. ‘Are ya going out?’

  ‘I’m not. And if I was it would be nothing to do with you.’ Winifred pushed the brush towards the girl’s feet. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’m closing up.’

  Honora stopped by every day for the next week. Winifred knew she couldn’t keep it up much longer. The following Saturday she leaned on the back wall, her arms crossed. ‘I’d thank you not to come into the shop again. There are plenty of shops in Morrisfield where you can buy cakes.’ She swung herself away from the doorframe and went through to the parlour. It wasn’t until she heard the bell above the door sound that she went back behind the counter.

  Winifred was glad the following day was Sunday and the shop would be closed.

  She went to morning chapel alone. The service passed almost without her hearing a word of the sermon and only pretending to sing the hymns.

  The light outside was glaring after the gloom of the chapel. Anxious to get away from the gossiping groups of women, Winifred debated whether to go and visit her grandmother. She hadn’t been since before that awful day in the park. But the old woman would see instantly there was something wrong and, much as she loved Granny Duffy, she couldn’t tell her. How could she? The old woman wouldn’t understand why she’d gone to that meeting in the first place. Would she even know what Suffragettes were?

  So Winifred dismissed the idea and, with a few words of greetings to the women, she left the churchyard and turned onto the lane that led to the moorland. A long walk would give her some time to think.

  The blustery wind and cold air made her face tingle and her eyes water. Leaving behind the roads, she turned onto the narrow track at the base of Errox Hill and picked her way through the stones to the stile. Perched on the top wooden bar she stopped to take off her hat. The cries of moorland sheep were carried towards her; thin mournful bleats. She was surprised they hadn’t been taken down to the farmer’s lower fields; it was way past the time for that. She closed her eyes, tilting back her head, revelling in the quiet. When she opened them she saw rooks swirling overhead like stark black crosses against the pale grey sky.

  There was no-one else around. Winifred was comforted by the quality of aloneness that belonged to this place. It was different from the loneliness she’d carried inside her all her life; she was used to that. Even in school. Especially in school, she corrected herself. She’d never been encouraged to bring any friends home and the other girls soon recognised that there was no reciprocation after she’d been to tea at their house. But whenever she stood on the edge of the moors she’d never had that sickening feeling of isolation, of being an outsider, of not fitting in.

  She’d hoped she’d found a friend in Honora.Obviously that wasn’t going to happen now.

  Slapping her hat against her leg she jumped off the stile. Brooding on a friendship that had barely started was a waste of time. Resenting the control her mother determinedly exerted over her was useless. Mourning the fact that she would probably never have the chance to meet any young men; respectable young men, she added to herself, was useless. Looking up at the summit of the hill, she knew things wouldn’t change unless she made them change. But how?

  The climb to the top was steep and rugged. Many times she was forced to stop to drag in huge gulps of air, and the heels of her boots kept getting tangled in the winter heather. But she was determined.

  It took her half an hour. She thought back to her escapes here as a child; then, unhampered by long dresses, daft boots and heavy coats, she’d done it in fifteen minutes.

  When she eventually hauled herself over the last patch of rough-heathered ground to where the hill flattened out, she leaned forward, hands on knees, breathless and looking towards the huge, flattened rock that dominated the area. It was where she’d often sat in the past, looking down on the village and the surrounding moorlands. She gazed at the skeletal grid works of the pithead at the mine. The windows of the four straight rows of miners’ houses, on the slopes above Stalyholme pit on the edge of Lydcroft, glittered intermittently in the sunshine.

  The wind whipped at her clothes, she felt some of the pins in her hair becoming dislodged and she pressed them back before climbing the rock.

  There was a hollow in the middle of the rock, still filled with rain. Sitting alongside it she dipped her fingers into the cold water sending ripples across the shimmering reflection of the sky.

  Whichever way Winifred twisted her head, she could see for miles; tiny villages huddled in the dips of the moorland, small dark coppices of conifers stood out against paler fields. In the misted distance she could see the tall mill chimneys of Huddersfield, devoid of dark smoke this one day of the week, the stone quarries disfiguring the hillsides.

  Below her the roads of the village were empty. She could just make out a few figures outside the Wagon and Horses public house. Children were playing in a field near one of the outlying farms. Wisps of smoke trickled from the chimneys of some of the terraced houses. She could see the roofs of the houses, their shop on Marshall Road.

  Winifred sighed, reluctantly allowing her thoughts to yet again linger on a tall figure with thick black hair, beguiling dark eyes and an insolent smile, as they had been over the last fortnight. There, she admitted it to herself; she had been quite smitten with Honora’s brother. Pointless feeling like that now, she chided herself; she’d probably never see him again.

  Restless, she stood and climbed off the rock, carefully following the same ledges on the stone. It was as difficult going back down the hill. She picked her way between the rough ground and the hidden stones.

  When she jumped down off the stile, Honora was sitting on a large stone leaning against the wall.

  Winifred sighed. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I followed ya from church.’

  ‘Chapel,’ Winifred corrected.

  ‘Chapel then.’

  Winifred noticed Honora’s slight shrug with irritation, before the girl raised her hand to catch hold of Winifred’s. ‘Come here to me?’ She shuffled along the stone to make room.

  There would always be these differences between the two of them. Perhaps that’s what she liked about Honora; the difference. Maybe she was hoping to find another life besides her own? To see what she was missing?

  Winifred sat down next to her. ‘No talk about Suffragettes,’ she warned.

  ‘Okay. And I am sorry.’ Honora raised her hand again to catch hold of Winifred’s. ‘I shouldn’t have teased like that. But all I wanted was for my new frien
d to meet my favourite brother – my only brother – my only family.’ She laughed. It had a strange note in it, Winifred thought, before Honora added, ‘I’d like to think ya would be my new friend in this begotten country.’

  ‘You’ve got friends in the Suffragettes…’ Winifred stopped; she’d said no talk about those women and yet she was the one to mention them.

  ‘Aw, yeah.’ Honora flapped her hand dismissively. ‘Anna, Dorothy and maybe Mildred. But they’re not like you.’

  ‘What do you mean, not like me?’ Winifred frowned.

  The Irish girl shrugged but didn’t explain. ‘I had true friends back home in Derrymor. Here it’s hard. I get lonely; Conal’s often away in Leeds.’ She turned on a bright smile when she looked at Winifred. ‘Ya did like him, didn’t ya?’

  ‘He was very forward,’ Winifred said, then relented. ‘And very handsome but—’

  She was interrupted by a delighted laugh.

  ‘I knew it; I knew ya’d be besotted—’

  ‘I’m not,’ Winifred protested, ‘I just said he was handsome.’ She joined in with Honora’s laughter. But when they controlled themselves she added, ‘But he is forward.’

  ‘Aye, you’re right there.’ The Irish girl smiled. ‘And he likes ya. He asked me when I was seeing ya again. I haven’t told him ya won’t talk to me.’

  ‘You didn’t play fair—’ It sounded stupid even as she spoke.

  Honora snorted. ‘What’s fair in this life?’ Her mouth turned down, she grimaced. Grabbing Winifred’s hands between hers and holding them to her chest, she said, ‘Be my friend, huh?’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  Honora pushed her face in front of Winifred’s and crossed her eyes. ‘Please?’

  ‘No more tricks, mind.’ Winifred couldn’t help laughing but still said, ‘And I don’t want to see that brother of yours.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll keep Conal away, to be sure.’ Honora nodded, solemn for a moment before grinning. ‘If that’s what ya want…’

  Even the sound of his name conjured up his face, his eyes but Winifred refused to be drawn. ‘I’d better get home,’ she said, standing. She held out her hand and hoisted Honora to her feet.

  They walked along the lane arm in arm.

  ‘I need to talk.’ Honora pulled Winifred to a stop.

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Now don’t ya get cross at me.’

  ‘If it’s about the Suffragettes, Honora, I don’t—’

  ‘Please—’

  ‘I can’t.’ Winifred shook her head. ‘Did you come to look for me just for this?’ She untangled her arm from Honora’s. ‘I’ve told you, I don’t want to know.’ How could she have been such a fool, the girl was trying to manipulate her. ‘I’m going home.’

  ‘No, please…’ Honora stood in front of her, her hands cupping Winifred’s face. ‘We – all women – should stand together to get us our vote. I’ve been talking to Anna and the others; they really want ya to join us. They think someone like ya could help a lot.’

  ‘You said that before. What do you mean; someone like me?’

  ‘I told them about that day in the shop with that woman who tried to cheat you.’

  ‘Mrs Cox?’ Winifred was surprised. ‘That was nothing.’

  ‘It showed me ya can stand up for yourself – for what’s right. And getting the vote is right for us, for all women. I – we – think ya’ll be able to speak for us. Ya know what a lot of people say about us – that we’re just troublemakers. As for the likes of me… Irish trash is a polite term for what some of them say, so it is.’

  Winifred did know what people said, her mother was a prime example. She hesitated.

  ‘Please, Win, join with us. You’re a strong woman; like I said, I saw it that day with that woman. And I could see that the first time I was in the shop, with the leaflet. I watched the way you dealt with some of the women then; ya were…’

  Honora stopped, as if searching for the word. ‘Ya were dignified; ya didn’t let them talk down to ya like some of them tried, just because they were older than you.’ She let her hands fall from Winifred’s face. ‘I want ya to be with us; to have a say in what happens to us. Please…’

  ‘You just don’t give up, do you?’ Winifred began to walk again.

  ‘Is it your ma that’s stopping ya?’ Honora caught up with her. ‘Are ya afraid of her?’

  Those last words stung because Winifred knew they were true. ‘Of course not.’ But she knew she wanted to do something, anything that would get her out of the shop and away from her mother and her sniping. She allowed Honora to link arms with her again. That wasn’t reason enough to join the Suffragettes, she thought. But then she remembered what Honora had told her before about those women in London. She pushed away the apprehension she’d felt at that WSPU meeting in Morrisfield.

  ‘All right,’ she said, at last. ‘I’ll go with you to meet your friends.’ At least if she met the other girls properly, she could question them; find out exactly what was happening. ‘I’m promising nothing other than that. And it’s just the once, mind.’

  Seeing the excitement instantly return to her friend’s face she regretted the words as soon as they were uttered. But there was no taking them back.

  Chapter 8

  April 1911

  ‘Dorothy lives here? Winifred looked in surprise at the large red brick building. ‘In a vicarage?’ For some reason she’d assumed all three of the other girls were as unconventional as Honora.

  ‘What?’ Honora glanced back at her as she led the way along the wide gravelled driveway. ‘Oh, yes. Her father is the vicar there.’ She waved her arm vaguely in the direction of the church on the other side of the line of beech trees at the far end of the garden.

  Winifred stopped to stare at the building with its tall steeple and arched mullioned windows, so different, so ornate, from the small chapel she’d gone to all her life.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been in a C of E Church,’ she said.

  ‘What? Oh, come on with ya.’ Honora ran back and grabbed Winifred’s arm. ‘Come on.’

  Honora had wasted no time setting up the meeting for the following Wednesday; half-day closing for the shop.

  Surprisingly, Ethel hadn’t asked any questions, though when Winifred was leaving she’d tightened her lips and turned away, refusing to say goodbye. The sense of freedom in Winifred, helped by the enthusiastic chatter of Honora, increased with each mile as the tram neared Morrisfield, despite her reservations since she’d read the report of some Suffragettes setting fire to post boxes in Huddersfield in her father’s Morrisfield Observer.

  Sitting in the lounge of the vicarage with the other girls was exhilarating even though their assumption that Winifred was fully committed to joining the Suffragettes made her nervous.

  Mildred, at twenty-two, and three years older than Winifred, took on the role of spokeswoman.

  ‘We have to make the Government more aware of us. We’re willing to go to prison; to fight for our right to vote and those men in Parliament need to realise that.’ She looked around at the others girls for agreement. They nodded vigorously. ‘We’ve needed someone like you to help us to do that.’ She adjusted her wire-rimmed spectacles and looked in earnest at Winifred. ‘Although we go to all the meetings and Dorothy here has been on marches in Huddersfield and Manchester…’ Dorothy gave Winifred a shy smile. ‘None of us feel able to give the kind of speeches that will rouse other women.’

  Winifred doubted that; she found Mildred quite imposing, and quite capable of holding the attention of an audience with her fervour. ‘I don’t really see what I can do that you aren’t doing.’ She shuffled uncomfortably in the wide leather armchair.

  ‘As I’ve just said…’ Mildred pursed her lips in an impatient gesture. ‘We don’t feel we can speak at meetings; not from the platforms anyway.’ She stared at Honora who shrugged. ‘Honora said you were the one woman we’ve been looking for.’ She smiled. ‘And she was right, Winifred.
I think she was right.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Winifred glanced out of the large window; daffodils, dotted around the grounds of the vicarage, moved slightly in the air. It was a sunny day and she wished she could be outside. The room was musty and smelt of mildew. There was a patch of damp in the corner, half hidden by the heavy brocade curtains. ‘I haven’t ever spoken in public. I don’t know enough about all this.’ She held out her arms and spread her fingers.

  ‘Do you believe that we women are part of society?’ Mildred asked.

  ‘Of course,’ Winifred clasped her hands together, uncomfortable at being the centre of attention. ‘But—’

  ‘But what?’ Mildred frowned.

  ‘Well, I don’t see how we can make them change.’

  ‘We have to believe we can, Winifred.’ Anna clenched her fists on her knees. ‘It’s all so wrong. Women have every right to say what happens to them. And, until we get the vote, they won’t.’

  ‘I understand that.’ Winifred hesitated. ‘And Honora has told me that there are dreadful things done to the women who have protested.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Mildred grimaced. ‘But we can’t let that stop us. We must not let imprisonment – or the torture – deter women from demanding the vote.’

  ‘All you need to know, to understand, is that this government is not a democracy. The richest men are governing, ruling, women. And surely you can see that’s not right.’ Mildred produced a pile of papers from behind her on her chair. ‘Read these, you’ll soon see what we mean.’

  Winifred was relieved when the lounge door suddenly opened and a small woman with grey hair backed into the room, carrying a tray of teacups and a fruitcake on a plate.

  ‘Thank you, Mother.’ Dorothy rose to help her. ‘I’ll take it.’

  The woman smiled. ‘Father says to make sure you take Winifred to meet him afterwards.’ She turned to her. ‘He’s very proud of our daughter. He’s proud of you all,’ she said. ‘He also says he hopes you enjoy the cake; he thinks it’s one of his best recipes.’ She laughed. ‘He does love to bake,’ she said to Winifred in a confidential tone.