I wanted you to be the first to hear about it, Gladys; because it’s all due to you, really, that it came about. If it hadn’t been for you suddenly giving me backword, and going off to Blackpool with Jack Hepworth and his sister, instead of coming to the Isle of Man with me as we’d arranged, I should never have met him. Or if I had, I shouldn’t have—well, never mind; I’ll begin at the beginning.
You know, I always hated Hudley, Gladys. I hated the West Riding altogether; the towns so dark and dreary; the great bocks of dingy mills; the steep, narrow, dirty streets; the foundry furnaces and the mill chimneys; the noisy trams and buzzers; and the great smoke cloud over all. I hated the lorries always thundering about, because they never seemed to carry anything thrilling or romantic, like ivory or apes or peacocks; they always carried something textile. Dirty fleeces; or those yarn tops whose coils look so nice and white but are so greasy to touch; or pieces of cloth, flopping about on their way to the dyers; or something dull like that. I always hated the mills, and made up my mind I’d never have anything to do with them, and so I worked hard at school, and got a scholarship to the technical college, and worked hard there and got very good certificates for shorthand and book-keeping and typing, and meant to go away and work at some interesting, romantic place. And then poor old dad went and asked Mr. Sykes if there was a place for me in the office at Haighroyd Mills, and Mr. Sykes said there was, and I had to go or break dad’s heart, and so of course I went.
But I grew to hate everything to do with cloth more and more, because things were always going wrong. Mr. Robert or Mr. John was always rushing into the office wanting to know where piece 85431 or something was, because some customer wanted it urgently, or the customer himself came on the telephone in a rage; and then someone was always shouting at me: “Bessie! Just ’phone round and see if you can find piece 85431,” and there I was at the house-’phone half the morning, arguing with the foremen of the departments about a missing piece. At first I used to be timid about it, and the piece never turned up because they didn’t bother to look, and Mr. Robert used to fly into a fury and rush off down into the mill and blow up everybody he met till the whole place seethed with irritation—yes, the whole fifteen acres of it. But after a while I hardened my heart and stood no nonsense from any of them; no, not from my father himself in the warehouse, nor that cheeky fellow on the big tentering machine, nor that tiresome, slow man in the press-shop, nor any of them. I knew all their names and how best to stir them up, though I wouldn’t demean myself by knowing any of them personally, except dad, of course. Not that it was much good when I did find the piece Mr. Robert was after; there was usually something wrong with it: the finish wasn’t right, or the length was wrong, or it had got damaged in the weave, or something. Oh, yes, I simply hated everything to do with textiles.
And that was why I was so determined not to go for the Wakes to Douglas or Blackpool, where everybody from Hudley goes; I wanted to go to a nice quiet place where I should meet some fresh people. I wanted to go down south really, but mother wouldn’t let me go alone, and when you said you’d go to Port Erin and showed me those picture postcards—however, you know all about that. And then you gave me backword and we arranged I should go alone and not tell mother.
Well, Port Erin is the loveliest, most romantic place I’ve ever been in. There’s a little bay, sheltered on one side by some low cliffs and on the other by Bradda Head. Bradda Head is simply glorious! At the top it’s all purple heather, with sheep grazing, though the sides are so steep you’d think they’d roll off; then there are huge rugged black rocks going sheer down into the sea, where the seagulls live. Those gulls! I could watch them for hours. They’re always swirling and swooping up and down, except on hot afternoons, when they stand very still and dig into their feathers with their curved beaks. The sea at Port Erin is very, very clear, and beautifully blue; on a sunny morning it sparkles so you can hardly see it for light. The houses are coloured pink and white, the shore is nice firm honey-coloured sand, and there’s a little harbour, with a few fishing-smacks, and lots of little rowing-boats, brown and white, tied to each other in long strings or dotted about the bay.
But the best part of Port Erin is the breakwater. It seems that they built it out at the wrong angle from the land, and the first storm that came, wrecked it. So now it looks like a pier only for a few yards, and then turns into a jumble of concrete blocks, as if a child had upset a box of bricks. There’s all kinds of seaweed—ribbed and flat and curly and some like rope—gently swaying about there in the tide; and there are fat, red anemones, like velvet, and round, prickly sea-urchins, all lovely pinks and purples, clinging to the rocks below, and the water’s so clear that you can see them, oh! ever so far down; and in some of the shallow places there are tiny darting fish and little green crabs and lobsters, all transparent, waving their pretty little feelers. Oh, it’s a lovely place; I used to spend hours there, just looking about and feeling happy, and thinking how different it was from Hudley and how glad I was to be there.
It was there I met him. I had scrambled out to one of the blocks and was sitting there, looking about and thinking, like I said, when suddenly I heard a voice saying: “Excuse me.”
I looked round, and there was a young man in a rowing boat, quite near my rock. He looked a nice, decent sort of fellow, not the kind who go about picking up strange girls, but all the same I gave him rather a haughty stare, being alone.
“Get in,” he said, and drew his boat up close to me.
I thought this was rude, so I scrambled up, meaning to go back to land and leave him, when I saw that I was quite cut off by the tide. Between my rock and the next there was a stretch of deep water, full of floating seaweed, with no safe footholds to be seen, and as I stood gazing the water swirled …
I felt so dizzy and queer, I gave a scream; and of course I slipped, and my arms and legs flew in all directions, you know how they do, and there was an awful moment when I didn’t know whether I was in the sea or out, and suddenly I found myself in the boat, quite safe except for bruises on my arm where he’d clutched me, and he was looking at me in a concerned way, and some people on the land were shouting and laughing. I felt ashamed of myself for being so silly and causing such a fuss, and I hoped he wouldn’t put me ashore where all the people were; and without my saying a word he understood, and turned the boat round very cleverly, and rowed away down the middle of the bay.
Well, it’s no use going into what I said to him and what he said to me. Not that he said much; looking back, I see it was me did all the talking. You either like a person or you don’t, and you can never make somebody else understand why. He was tall, and broad, and strong, and dark, and rather dreamy, quiet and serious, you know, not always making silly jokes like fellows in the West Riding; he could row and swim and walk, champion, and we liked the same things, always.
It was the Wednesday of Wakes week I met him, and after that we were together all the time. We rowed all round Bradda Head and into the caves, that afternoon, and I said it was grand, and very different from Hudley, and he said there were caves like that in Cornwall, and I thought how grand it would be to live in Cornwall. Next day it was rough in the morning and we stood on the breakwater and watched the waves; how huge they were, and green, and my word, the white spray! You don’t see anything like that in Hudley. In the afternoon, as it was too rough for boating, we went for a walk; there were little white cottages, and fuchsias by the door, and fields of golden barley all rustling, and poppies, and cliffs, and an old castle; and I said how different it was from Hudley, and how I liked it. The next day it was calm and fine again, and we rowed out to the Calf of Man! Yes, we did really, and it was lovely. Heather and rocks and a wide, clear sky. Very different from Hudley, as I said. That night we went down to the breakwater together, and the moon was out; everything was black and silver, very lovely and romantic, and I couldn’t bear to think that next day I had to go back to Hudley, and never see him again. He’d never asked my name, and so I didn’t like to ask his; to myself I called him Gerald, because that was always my favourite name for a man, so refined and romantic. But if you don’t know a person’s real name, you never see them again, do you? So it was rather sadly that I said, as we were walking back:
“I’m going home tomorrow.”
And he said: “So am I.”
So then I felt a little better, because, though I didn’t know where he lived, I thought it quite likely he might be crossing to Liverpool, and we should do so much travelling together.
And so it turned out. We both caught the early morning train—you’ve no idea how those little Manx trains go pottering along between the fuchsias, Gladys; but I didn’t care how long it pottered, the longer the better while I was with him. At Douglas it was all so exciting, with the crowds and the steamers with their coloured funnels, and Gerald was splendid; we got on the boat in no time, and he found good places on the deck, not on the smoky side. It was a lovely crossing; the sun shone, and the sky and the sea were very blue. All too soon for me seagulls screamed and flew about, showing that land was near; and then we sighted it, and then we passed the Mersey lightship, with that dismal clanking bell, and crossed the bar into the river, and the water lost its beautiful blue colour and turned yellow, and then the landing stage appeared. I was so miserable I could have cried; here we were going to part in a few minutes, and he’d never asked my name! The ship turned round and backed into its berth, and those big ropes were thrown ashore and drawn tight, and the gangways rattled down, and everybody made a rush for the shore. Gerald picked up my suitcase as well as his own, and said:
“Take my arm.”
I took it; and we got off the boat splendidly and caught a bus.
I was in such a fluster, catching this bus, that I never thought to wonder whether he really needed to go to Exchange Station or was coming for my sake; but when we were inside the station, and saw one of those big indicators, saying: MANCHESTER, ROCHDALE, TODMORDEN, HUDLEY, my heart sank again. But he went straight ahead to the platform, and found a seat for me, although the train was crammed.
“No change at Manchester,” he said.
“You don’t go as far as Manchester?” I said, polite like.
He said never a word, only looked at me; then got into the compartment himself.
I felt a bit worried; surely he didn’t think I meant to ask him to come with me! But no, I thought, looking at him again, he isn’t that kind of man at all.
Well, we reached Manchester, and he didn’t stir; and we went all through Lancashire, and he didn’t stir; and we ran through the Summit tunnel, and still he didn’t stir; and then we came out into Yorkshire, and there he still was.
By this time I was so miserable I could hardly hold up my head. I felt most uncomfortable about him being there, and yet I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving him at Hudley. And we drew nearer and nearer; and there were the same old hills all bundled up together, and the same narrow, winding valleys, and the dark stone walls and the scrubby trees all beaten one way by the wind, and the dirty white hens, and the mill chimneys growing thicker and thicker as we went on. And then at last Hudley Bank came in sight, and the train crossed the viaduct and puffed up the cutting, and ran past the weaving sheds and drew up in Hudley station.
I opened the door myself and jumped out quickly, for I felt I couldn’t bear the parting, and wanted to get it over as soon as I could. So I put on a bright smile and swung round, ready to take my case and say good-bye and thank you. And there he was, standing beside me on the platform, with our two cases at his feet.
“What are you getting out here for?” I asked. I spoke pretty sharply, for I wasn’t standing any nonsense, you know. And he said—what do you think he said?—he said:
“I live here.”
“You live here! In Hudley!” I said.
“Aye,” he said. “I work at Sykes’s, same as you do. I didn’t pick out till this morning that you didn’t know me; I owned you soon as ever I heard your voice. I’m Albert Cockroft, you know,” he said, “from the pressing.”
Albert Cockroft! The slow man in the press-shop! And such a West Riding name! I could have cried.
“I’m sorry you don’t like Hudley, Bessie,” he went on, very serious, “for I reckon I shall always have to live here.”
Well! I don’t know how to explain it, Gladys, but somehow suddenly everything seemed different. Of course Hudley is dirty, and smoky, and ugly, and lots of things it shouldn’t be; oh! there’s lots of things wrong with Hudley. But somehow all of a sudden I didn’t want to run away from it any more; I felt as though I loved it somehow. I wanted to stay in it and do things for it; I wanted to change it, I wanted to make it grand. So I said:
“Don’t talk so soft, Albert Cockroft,” I said.
You know, Gladys, I never use those Yorkshire expressions, I don’t like them; but I felt I had to be Yorkshire just that once. It was now or never with Albert, and I meant it to be now. So I said: “Don’t talk so soft, Albert Cockroft,” I said. “Don’t you know a joke when you see one? What’s wrong with Hudley, anyway?” I said. “Doesn’t it make the finest cloth in the world?”
“So they say,” said Albert, but he still seemed down.
“Well, then!” I said. “And you help to make it, don’t you?”
You never saw such a change in a man’s face, never.
“If that’s how you look at it, Bessie,” he said, “I shan’t be sorry I took you off that rock.”
“That’s how I look at it, Albert Cockroft,” I said.
Well, he didn’t say anything, but he just looked at me, and I looked at him, and it was all settled between us, and I knew we should be wed.
And then he picked up our two cases, and we got out of the station, and began to walk up the hill. I looked across the valley and picked out Sykes’s chimney, and there was a thin wisp of smoke just beginning to curl up out of it; and I knew the boiler tenterer had got back from his Wakes, and was starting up his fires ready for Monday morning. And do you know, Gladys, when I saw that smoke, I felt that happy, tears came into my eyes. It seemed so exciting somehow, so romantic …