Contents
Also by Judith Barrow
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Prologue
PART ONE Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
PART TWO Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
PART THREE Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
PART FOUR Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
ABOUT HONNO
Copyright
Also by Judith Barrow
Pattern of Shadows
Changing Patterns
Living in the Shadows
A HUNDRED TINY THREADS
by Judith Barrow
HONNO MODERN FICTION
For David
Acknowledgements
I would like to express my gratitude to those who helped in the publishing of A Hundred Tiny Threads…
To all the staff at Honno for their individual expertise, advice and help. To Caroline Oakley for her thoughtful and empathetic editing.
Special thanks to Sharon Tregenza and Thorne Moore, dear friends and fellow authors, for their encouragement and enthusiasm for A Hundred Tiny Threads.
And to Janet Thomas, for her support with all my writing down the years.
Lastly, as ever, to my husband, David; always by my side, always believing in me.
Chains do not hold a marriage together. It is threads, hundreds of tiny threads, which sew people together through the years. Simone Signoret.
Prologue
1911
The whistling in his ears faded. He listened to the silence as the seconds passed, measured by the laboured breath from his lungs. Slowly the sounds surrounded him; a hollow drip of water, faint groans, a shifting of props holding up the roof. And then a scream, a yell, echoing along the tunnel.
Despite the pain of the weight on his shoulders, pressing him into the ground, Bill Howarth knew he should stay still. He ran a gritty tongue around his dry mouth and swallowed, trying not to cough.
Instinctively squeezing his eyes tight against the dust, he forced himself to stretch them wide, staring in front of him. Nothing. Blackness.
He could smell the dynamite. Bloody Gibson, bloody know-it-all. He’d hammered the hole in the wrong place, too deep, too wide, used too much charge of explosive, tamped it in with sodding dry coal dust of all things. He’d shown the stupid bugger the cracks on the rock surface, the amount of coal dust on the ground. But oh no, Gibson knew better; he was the Blower.
Bill couldn’t remember what happened immediately following the shock of the blast but, feeling around with one hand, touching sharp edges of rock he realised that the wall had splintered and been crushed inwards, releasing methane, firedamp, from the cavity behind the tunnel wall. He could smell, taste, the explosion that had inevitably happened. He closed his eyes again, felt the tightness in his chest growing, the whole of him trembling. Stay still, stay bloody still, he told himself. The whole bloody area around must be broken, scattered; yards of fractured loose rock, ready to fall on him any second now.
He waited, listening to the wailing of other men. He took in a shuddering breath, glad he wasn’t alone. Shifting slightly, he paused to see if anything moved, tensed to feel what hurt. Nothing, other than a sharp stab of pain in his leg. Tears scalded the back of his eyes; he screwed up his face, forcing them back. Reaching over his shoulder to push the weight off him, he touched a face. Lukewarm, smooth as candle wax. Smoother than it had ever been in life. Gibson, Unmoving, unresponsive. He shoved the man off him, uncaring whatever else was dislodged.
The groans, the cries for help increased. He wondered whether he should add his voice but what was the point? No bugger would hear them, this tunnel was too far away from the upshaft. And too far away from the downshaft to bring in any air from the top. They were sodding goners.
He let his head rest on the hard floor,
For a moment Bill thought about his family; his dad, a man he’d hated, long gone in another accident like this, his stepmother, his stepsister. And, just for a brief moment, he wished he hadn’t quarrelled with them before his shift; had told them, for the first time in his life, that he loved them. Even if he hadn’t meant it; it would have made them think about the shit way they’d treated him as a kid. Despite the pain in his leg, he grinned, his mouth moving against the splinters of coal under his face They were a couple of hard bitches, them two, they’d have jeered him out of the house. Better off as it was, he thought, letting the comfort of the dark wash over him.
PART ONE
Chapter 1
February 1911
Winifred stretched her arms above her head, quickly pulling them back under the covers and drawing her feet up from the icy corners of the bed. Through the thin curtains she could see it was still dark outside. She could smell the acrid smoke from the cinders of the kitchen fire drifting up the stairs; yesterday’s flames struggling under the slack and dust of coal.
‘Get a move on; time to get up.’ Her bedroom door was banged open, her mother’s hair-netted head haloed by the light from the landing. ‘Get up. You know it’s stock-taking day.’
‘I know, I know. I’m up.’ Winifred took a deep breath and flung the covers back. Shivering, she knelt on the bed and pulled her cotton nightdress over her head, tempted to put her clothes on without washing. As every morning over the past weeks, when frost patterns covered the panes of the windows, she’d have to force herself to pour cold water into the bowl and lather up the carbolic soap to rub over her face, under her arms and betwee
n her legs.
Hopping around after the hurried wash, she dried herself with the threadbare towel before pulling on her knitted vest and long drawers. The corset her mother had bought in Leeds market, the day Winifred turned sixteen, was draped over the back of the chair. Even though it was lighter boned than the one her mother wore, Winifred hated the way it clung from just below her bust to her thighs, restricting her movements.
She sat back on the bed, wrapping the shiny maroon eiderdown around her, and stared towards the window.
She’d heard the knocker-upper man going down the street rattling on the windows with his peashooter ages ago, heard his little Jack Russell’s yelping bark. Now the clatter of clogs and iron-heeled boots passed the house; lines of men making their way to Stalyholme mine.
Winifred glared again at the corset. She wanted to look elegant, she knew it made her look slimmer, especially around the waist and she liked looking good in front of the customers. She sensed the blush start on her throat at the memory of the admiring look she’d had the other day from that lad who lived on Harrison Street. Even so, she couldn’t face the discomfort of working all day in the thing.
She wouldn’t wear it. Instead she put her petticoat on and pushed her arms through the sleeves of her wrap-around house frock, fastened the ties at her side just below her waist. Swinging open the wardrobe door Winifred studied her figure in the mirror. With a bit of luck no one would notice.
Downstairs, her mother was already in the small stockroom of the shop, crashing and banging around. Winifred tried to shut out the shrill tirade.
‘Poor Dad.’ She grimaced. It was always the same on Mondays; he got the brunt of her mother’s discontent.
The grandfather clock in the back parlour sounded out six doleful chimes.
Her mother’s voice rose, along with an increasing slam of cupboard doors and Winifred knew her father was suffering her mother’s temper for longer because she hadn’t gone down yet. Hurriedly fastening up her hair she slipped into the white cotton shop overall and ran downstairs.
‘You took your time.’ Her mother made a great show of carrying a large tray of tins from the cupboard, brushing aside her husband’s attempt to help. ‘I’m not the shop girl here, miss, you are and I expect you to be on time. It’s not my job to do the stocktaking, it’s yours.’
Winifred exchanged a glance with her father. He raised one eyebrow, slightly moving his head. She knew he was asking her not to answer back but she couldn’t resist. ‘I’m here now.’
‘Miss the knocker-upper then?’ Ethel Duffy banged the tray onto the counter before lining up tins of beans onto one of the shelves.
‘No. I heard him.’
‘And that blasted dog of his,’ her mother snapped. ‘Good mind to complain to Blackhurst about it.’
‘You could lose him his job, if you do that. Blackhurst wouldn’t care; there are plenty of other old miners he could get to do it.’ Winifred’s father adjusted his flat cap before wrapping his scarf around his neck.
Even though his tone was mild, Ethel swung around and glared at him. ‘When I want your opinion I’ll give it to you.’ She put her fists on her hips. ‘And why’re you still here? That bread won’t walk from the baker’s on its own.’
Without a word he left the shop. On his way, he touched Winifred’s hand. She returned the gesture, knowing he’d tried to divert her mother’s wrath away from her.
But Ethel hadn’t finished. ‘You going to stand around all day? Counter needs wiping and everything needs to be tallied.’ She tipped her head toward a small book on the counter. ‘Looks like we’re two tins of evaporated milk missing.’
‘I took them to Granny’s.’
‘Well, you haven’t put the money in the till.’ Her mother’s face tightened. ‘And the bacon slicer wants cleaning. I told you that on Saturday night after we shut up.’
‘I did it.’ Winifred peered at the slicer. ‘It’s perfectly clean.’
‘Well, the cake stand’s filthy. I told you about that yesterday but I suppose you were too busy gadding last night to properly clean up.’
‘I only went round to Granny’s after chapel to see if she was all right.’ Winifred saw her mother’s hand twitch; Ethel Duffy hated her mother in law. If Mother hits me again, I swear I’ll hit back, she thought. The small burst of rebellion made her feel better. ‘I’ll get the bowl and a cloth for the counter,’ she said.
‘And go easy on that bicarb, we’re not made of money, my girl.’
Winifred pulled a face behind her mother’s back. In the kitchen she took the kettle off the range and poured the water into the bowl before adding a tablespoon of bicarbonate of soda. Then, with a grin, she tipped in some more and swished it around with her fingers before hurrying back into the shop. With a bit of luck, once she got going, her mother would leave her alone with the stocktaking.
Chapter 2
Winifred looked over her shoulder at the half-open door to the parlour when she saw Honora O’Reilly crossing the road to the shop. It was only a week since she’d been in with that leaflet; trying to persuade Winifred that there was more to life than working in the shop and going to chapel on Sundays. That there was more to life than waiting for a man to make her his wife. Her mother had overheard and gone mad afterwards.
Winifred secretly admired Honora’s lack of care over her appearance. Self-conscious of her overall, she quickly took it off and pushed it under the counter, re-pinning and patting the swirl of hair at the nape of her neck. Silently mocking herself that it mattered, she still didn’t want to look dowdy in front of the Irish girl who’d casually told her she earned her money by painting and had the freedom to live as she wanted, wear what she wanted.
When the door opened, the cold air curled around Winifred’s ankles.
‘Did ya look at the leaflet?’ The girl spoke without preamble. She wore her hair loose and now pushed a lock of it away from her face with impatience. There were splashes of blue and red paint on the skin on her hands; her nails were engrained with colour. The smell of the turpentine on her clothes wafted towards Winifred.
‘No.’ She glanced again behind her.
‘Why not?’ The girl’s Irish lilt held a surprised tone.
‘I haven’t had time.’ Winifred felt her cheeks grow hot; she’d hidden the paper in her room. Her mother would have been furious if she’d seen it. ‘And I don’t know why you gave the leaflet to me in the first place. Now, what is it you want today?’
‘Hmm, a cake I think.’
‘Which one?’ Winifred looked towards the cake stand. Get the girl served and out of the shop, she thought, before Mother comes through. When Honora had first come into the shop last week, Ethel had looked askance at the carelessness of her hair and the colourful, unrestricting dress she wore. In a sibilant whisper to Winifred she’d pronounced her a loose woman; one that no respectable person would associate with. But Honora’s casual attitude had fascinated Winifred. ‘Which one?’ she repeated, watching the girl stare absently around the shop.
‘I’m looking.’ Honora glanced at the cakes, then quickly directed her gaze to Winifred again.
‘I don’t understand why ya haven’t read the leaflet. Don’t ya want to see what’s in the real world,’ she challenged. ‘What really matters?’
‘What does really matter?’ It was as though she couldn’t help herself. What was it Honora saw that she didn’t?
‘That it’s men that rule us?’
‘Rubbish.’ Winifred thought about her mother and the way she reigned over the household. ‘There’s no man rules my life.’
Yet, not for the first time, Winifred wondered fleetingly what was really behind her mother’s bitterness… why she had to have so much control over everything. It had always been the same; even as a child she remembered the way her father measured his words. She didn’t think she’d ever heard him lose his temper. Only once had she known him defy her mother and that was when he’d insisted on helping Winifred to read and writ
e and do her sums before she even started at the local school at the age of five. He only won his argument by pointing out she would be needed in the shop when she was older.
He’d had no say though when, as an eight year old, her mother put Winifred behind the shop counter each afternoon after she came home from school.
So she said again. ‘No man rules my life.’
Honora tossed her hair back, oblivious to Winifred’s words. ‘As women, we should have a say in who rules the world we live in. We should have a vote.’
‘I don’t see how that will ever happen.’ Winifred slowly shook her head
‘When’s ya half day?’ Honora cocked her head on one side.
The change of subject surprised Winifred. ‘Wednesdays. Why?’
‘So ya can’t get out today then?’
‘If could I wanted to.’
‘So?’ Honora tilted her head.
Winifred took a step backwards and, pretending to be rearranging the tins of baked beans and canned vegetables, peeped through the door to the parlour to see where her mother was. She hoped Honora couldn’t hear the apprehension in her voice. ‘And go where?’ she whispered.
A shrug. Honora didn’t bother to lower her voice. ‘There’s something I want to show ya.’
Winifred took in a long breath, apprehension mingled with unfamiliar excitement; she never went anywhere on her own. Not like this girl was suggesting anyway. ‘I don’t know if I want to go out today, it’s cold.’ She knew her mother would try to stop her.
Honora pulled a face. She studied the cakes on the stand. ‘I’ll have one of those.’ She pointed at an iced bun. ‘Don’t bother wrapping it; I’ll eat it here in the shop, while ya go and ask for permission.’ She grinned.
Irritated, Winifred snapped open a small white bag and dropped the cake in it. ‘I don’t need permission.’ Even so, after she’d handed it to Honora, she said, ‘but you can’t eat in here. Go and wait outside.’
‘Outside? Bejaysus, Win girl.’
‘I’ll be five minutes. Tops.’
‘No longer,’ Honora warned, ‘Like ya said it’s pure bloody cold out there.’
Winifred winced, hoped her mother wasn’t in the kitchen; hadn’t heard the swear word.