Calico Road Read online

  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

  Toby 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.

  Old John had had nothing to do with the two newcomers, not even speaking to Marjorie in the mill. He charged them the same rent as anyone else and left her to cope as best she could. He was, folk sniggered, too busy with his new bride and, ten months later, with his new son, to go after women as he had before.

  Marjorie had continued to work in the new spinning mill Greenhalgh had built. Her hard work earned people’s respect and, though she might have slipped up once, she never associated with a fellow again and was a regular attender at church. But she never talked about her past or her family, not even to Toby.

  As the baby grew into a lad the resemblance to John Greenhalgh showed up so clearly that you couldn’t doubt who’d fathered him – and the resemblance to his half-brother Jethro was remarkable. They could have been twins. So Marjorie explained to Toby that Mr Greenhalgh was his father too, but that he was bastard born and must never speak to the mill owner or expect anything of him.

  Jethro, the legitimate son, was carefully guarded, though from what he needed protecting people never could work out. He went away to a fancy school for the sons of gentlemen when he was ten and he talked differently from the Backenshaw folk because of his lady mother. He kept away from Toby, even crossing the street to avoid him, but that didn’t stop the resemblance between them from continuing to astonish other people.

  Until today’s summons John Greenhalgh had not even nodded to his natural son in the street, but the old man had attended Marjorie’s simple funeral when Toby was eighteen, or at least someone from the big house had turned up in a shiny new carriage, sitting there with the blinds pulled down but not getting out to join the other mourners. Mind you, they could have just sent an empty carriage as a mark of respect. Toby wouldn’t put anything past the tricky old sod in the big house. But at least they’d allowed him to keep the cottage which was the only home he’d ever known.

  When he got to Parkside, the Greenhalghs’ stone-built mansion, the young man hesitated for a moment then walked up to the front door. If Old John wanted to see him, he’d let him into the house this way or Toby wouldn’t go in at all.

  The maid who answered looked down her nose at him till he said who he was, then her frown turned to a more welcoming expression and she gestured him inside.

  ‘They’re expecting you, sir. If you’ll just wait here in the hall for a minute or two, I’ll send word up to the master.’

  She’d called him sir, Toby thought with a wry grimace. Eh, he’d gone up in the world. No one had ever called him that before. Probably wouldn’t again, either. Clutching his hat in his hands he stared round, taking in everything he could because it would likely be the only time he saw the inside of this place. It was just as people had said, a bloody palace. He felt angry at such a display of wealth. It wasn’t right that one man should own so much when others were clemming for lack of food.

  The maid came back. ‘If you’ll follow me, sir, I’ll show you up to the master’s bedroom. Shall I take your hat?’

  ‘Nay, I can carry it mesen, thanks.’

  He trod up the stairs in her wake, amazed by how soft and thick the carpet was – even his clumsy boots made hardly a sound – and how beautiful the woodwork was. It had a patina so fine he’d have liked to stroke the polished surfaces and examine the pieces of furniture he passed to see how they were made.

  She opened a door. ‘Please go in, sir.’

  He paused to take a deep breath and square his shoulders before entering a room so big he was surprised to see it was only a bedroom. He and his mother had shared one only a quarter the size of this for years, dividing it with an old sheet hung over a rope, for modesty’s sake. Since her death that bedroom had been his alone, which was something of a luxury in a village where ten people might have to share a two-roomed cottage.

  When he looked across at the bed he forgot everything else in his shock. It was as if he was seeing the ghost of John Greenhalgh, so thin and white was the man lying there. The resemblance between Toby and his natural father had always been very noticeable, even when the old man was plump with good health. Now, it seemed to shout at him from that thin, pale face.

  John stared back at him, eyes alive with intelligence though the rest of him lay so still you’d almost think he’d died already. His face was grey-white and his lips hardly marked by colour except for a faint bluish tinge.

  ‘Toby Fletcher,’ he said, the first words he’d ever spoken directly to his natural son.

  Toby nodded but said nothing. He stayed where he was, uncertain what was expected of him.

  ‘Come closer to the bed where I can see you properly.’

  He moved forward, trying not to show how the room overwhelmed him, for it made him feel small, he who stood six foot three and was noted for his broad, muscular shoulders.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ John went on in that husky thread of a voice.

  ‘They said you were dying. I’d not have come else.’

  A younger man standing in the shadows to one side of the bed let out an angry choke of sound at this bluntness and took a quick step forward. Without turning his head, John said, ‘You’ll stay silent, Jethro, or leave the room.’

  Breathing heavily, casting a furious glance in Toby’s direction, the man stepped back again.

  His half-brother, Toby thought, surprised by a sudden feeling of amusement. A couple of years younger than him and a couple of inches shorter, but with almost the same face – a damned Greenhalgh face. This family looked down their noses at ordinary folk nowadays, though John’s father had been a handloom weaver and there were whispers that John himself had not made his early money honestly. The mill he’d built had thrived, though, and he’d been a model citizen ever since he opened it. Backenshaw had thrived too, and was now almost big enough to be called a town.

  ‘You’re a Greenhalgh all right,’ John said slowly, each word seeming an effort. He glanced sideways at his son, who was still scowling. ‘No use denying what anyone with eyes can see, Jethro. You and he look so alike and—’ He broke off, coughing feebly and gesturing towards a glass of water.

  A manservant stepped forward to lift him up and help him drink. As he settled back against his pillows John gave Toby a wry smile. ‘I asked you here because I’ve not long left to live. We all come to it. Neither rich nor poor can escape death.’

  ‘It seems to me the rich escape it for longer than the poor do,’ Toby said, remembering another death bed and a woman whose love for him had shone in her eyes until the light went out of them forever.

  John nodded agreement. ‘You’re right. But for all our money, we still come to it in the end. My money couldn’t save my wife when she fell ill.’ He paused to gather his breath. ‘I brought you here because – I find I cannot die in peace unless I do something for you, Toby Fletcher. You are, after all, my son.’

  Another mutter from behind him and Jethro scowled across the room at Toby, who scowled right back, before turning to his father and saying sharply, ‘I need nowt from you. I can make my own way in the world. The only time I’ve wanted owt from you was when my mother lay dying. I knocked on that big front door of yours to seek help for her and got turned away.’ He’d been distraught at the thought of losing her. Eh, to think she’d been gone eight years! But there wasn’t a day passed that he didn’t remember her fondly.

  ‘I was in London, didn’t find out about Marjorie until it was too late to help her. I’m sorry about that. I did attend the funeral.’