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Transworld is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com

First published in Great Britain in 1993 by Bantam Press
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Corgi edition published in 1993
Copyright © Ruth Hamilton 1993

Ruth Hamilton has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781446486191
ISBN 9780552139779

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

For Dorothy Cann (née Hurst)

About the Author

Ruth Hamilton became one of the north-west of England’s most popular writers, her bestselling books include With Love From Ma Maguire, A Crooked Mile and Dorothy’s War. Ruth Hamilton was born in Bolton, which is the setting for many of her novels, and spent most of her life in Lancashire before moving to Liverpool. She died in 2016.

About the Book

At eighteen Jennifer Crawley led a strange and lonely life – her days in the spinning room of the cotton mill, her nights with possessive – and slightly mad – Aunt Mavis. Jenny didn’t even know who her parents were. Aunt Mavis never spoke of them.

Then came the chance to better herself – to work as a servant at Skipton Hall. And there Jenny found a household as dangerous and weird as the one she had left behind. Mrs Sloane, the terrifying housekeeper, was as cruel as she was ugly, taking pleasure in bullying and frightening the young maids. Henry Skipton was an embittered, solitary man who took care never to see his invalid wife. And Eloise Skipton lay bed-ridden, a beautiful woman in a beautiful room, feeding on hatred and plotting vengeance on the man she had married. When she first set eyes on young Jenny, she realised she had found the perfect weapon for revenge.

But Jenny, for the first time in her life, had a friend. Maria Hesketh, a gutsy, talented Liverpudlian, her character as fiery as her hair, was determined that she and Jenny would make something of their lives, would succeed in spite of everything.

Also by Ruth Hamilton

THANKS TO:

Mike Lomas & Steve McMahon (School of Textiles),
and Such Datta (School of Art and Design),
all of the Bolton Institute of H.E.

PART ONE

1920

Chapter One

SHE STEPPED OUT into what was left of the daylight, her eyes narrowing against a sudden shaft of dying sun that pierced the air like a thin blade of steel.

It had been raining, and the brilliance was reflected on roofs, pavements and cobblestones, bouncing in violent flashes from a hundred windows in a mill shed across the way. A brewery horse ambled by, easy now, slower without his load of beer, nostrils flaring as he neared the stable. His ears pricked towards beckoning comfort, and the girl almost envied the animal his safe shelter. There would be oats and bran, sweet hay, perhaps a bucket of mash to take the edge off his enormous hunger. She smiled, approached the giant, running a hand along a quivering chestnut flank as he passed.

With another day of work over, and a night of chores ahead, she bowed her head against the skittish spring breeze, allowing its clean fingers to caress and cool a scalp made sweaty by a thousand movements between whirling cops of cotton. After the heat of the spinning room, even the smoky air of Bolton tasted good and fresh, simply because there was movement in it, a natural flow, not the screaming, deafening motion of machinery.

She wandered down Derby Street, pausing to stare in shop windows, her eyes resting on work shirts, books, sherbet dabs, shoes – anything and everything that was on display. In one window, there were three dummies, a father in dungarees, a mother in a wrap-over cover-all floral-patterned apron, the girl child dressed for school, gymslip and blouse, ribbons in the stringy false hair.

She gazed at this tableau for some time, seeming to soak it up, palms pressed flat against cool glass. That was what it looked like, then. That was family life, everybody smiling and ready for work, fingers stretched wide to express inner joy, feet spread apart to display stability, faces stained tan from walking free in a world that accepted just the normal.

She grinned ruefully, because she knew that the scene was a travesty. There were families in Claughton Street, dozens of them, and not one of them was perfect. Many a time she would sit in her enforced isolation, listening to their quarrels. Yet still she ached for … for what? Something she’d never had, something she was too old to have now?

The Town Hall clock struck the hour, and she quickened her steps. It would be silly to invite trouble, so she forced reluctant feet to travel a path she could have followed blindfolded, a route she had walked too many times to count. They had lived at number seventeen since Jenny’s fourth birthday, moving from the Chorley Old Road area with the sort of anxious swiftness that was so much a part of Auntie Mavis’s nature. There had been many such moves, and most were outside the span of Jenny’s memory, as they had taken place during her babyhood. Now, when she considered their last flitting, she wondered vaguely whether Auntie Mavis might be running from something. Or from somebody? How carefully the woman shut out her neighbours, how completely she dominated Jenny, controlling her movements, narrowing her life. Still, at least they had stopped running now, hadn’t had a change of house for fourteen years. Perhaps Mavis had settled. Or perhaps she really was too ill to face another change of address.

She turned into Claughton Street, noticing immediately that the girls were at play again. It would begin now. Bracing herself, she approached the group, her heart lurching as she heard the familiar skipping song.

This home-made tribute to Hargreaves, inventor of the spinning jenny, was a common enough street-song, but there was another version, one specially created by the Claughton Street girls, a chorus they often used within Jenny’s hearing, employing that cold, clear and judgemental cruelty that seems to be lent to the young until they achieve the age of true reason.

The children hopped in and out of curling ropes, a pair of washing lines expertly twisting in opposing directions. Although these street-urchins were ragged, they understood the concept of play, knew how to compensate for the lack of shop-bought toys. If they could steal no stump of chalk from school, they would scratch a hop-scotch pattern on flags with a chip of fallen roof-slate, or with a crumb of donkey-stone. The rim of a barrel provided a perfect hoop to bowl, while flattened bottle caps served as ‘rollers’ or ‘casters’, depending on the pre-decided nature of their gambling games.

Now, no doubt, two households at a safe distance from Claughton Street would be devoid of support for next Monday’s wash. But the carefree ragamuffins gave no thought to their hapless victims. Play was the thing. Soon, they would be grown, and being grown meant the mill, so they crammed the hours of freedom with simple pleasures, pausing just for meals and, on occasions that were unavoidable, for distasteful pursuits like school and church.

They saw her coming, watched her from the corners of their quick eyes as she stepped carefully over rain-washed cobbles, the pale, blue-grey shawl slipping from a soft, feminine shoulder. She was not like the older mill women; she never wore the shawl over her head, even when the weather performed its Bolton worst. Her neck, long, white and slender, was always on show, almost as if she were aware of its splendid beauty. The face was pretty, wide at the forehead, narrow yet not sharp at the chin. Her eyes, clear, large and bright, matched the freshened sky that showed now in patches between rain-clouds. Blonde hair was scraped back for work, piled into a huge, cotton-flecked bun on top of her head, but the children had caught glimpses of her hair in the mornings, and they knew that the flaxen mass was long enough to sit on.

She hesitated, a clogged foot lifted in mid-stride, dark eyebrows arched as if questioning the group, as if she hoped that they would accept her just this once. The ropes stilled themselves, while the chanting died away. They backed off from her as she resumed her walk, each child muttering, giggling, nudging a close companion. As though prompted by an unseen stage-hand, they began again, whispering at first, then unifying their voices until the song could be heard the length of the street.

They fled, ropes trailing in their wake, arms waving in the air as they whooped in celebration of this small triumph. At the rear of the group, the smallest staggered, chubby legs still curved by infancy. But even she knew the words, the gestures. Just before turning left towards the safety of the back street, the three-year-old shook her fist, spat on the flags, then yelled ‘Creepy Crawley’ across the house fronts. The sounds echoed, as if they had been shouted into a cave. No door opened; once the children had left, the street was deserted.

Jennifer Crawley shook her head slowly, wondering why the young ones felt they had to run like that. She had never slapped them, never chided them for their misdeeds. But they had learned their pattern from older sisters, from girls of Jenny’s age, and the females of her own generation had taunted her mercilessly all through her schooldays. The reason for such treatment sat behind one of these identical doors. Mavis. Auntie Mavis Crawley, who had imprisoned her young charge year after empty year. Jenny had never left the house except for school, shopping or work.

This was a clean street, a decent working-class area with varnished doors and steps that were always well scrubbed. The children in old play clothes had better dresses folded away somewhere; they were not real street tramps. Why then had they not been taught manners?

Her eyes travelled along house fronts, as if they sought the slightest kind response. She was so miserable here, so lonely. If only one of them would talk to her, treat her as normal. Because she was normal. And she mustn’t – indeed she wouldn’t – blame Auntie Mavis for this predicament. Not completely, anyway. Auntie Mavis might be strange, but she couldn’t help it. And Auntie Mavis had always been there, was the only permanent and predictable factor in life. Even work was no escape, because Jenny’s name had been passed around the sheds before she’d arrived to learn the job. So there was just number seventeen, Claughton Street. That was the only place she knew, the sole safety she had discovered in eighteen years. Yes, there was safety in containment. Yet she wanted … what? A husband, babies, her own house? All she knew was that she was changing. Soon, she must begin her life.

She closed the door with a soft click. Auntie Mavis might be asleep, and Jenny had learned, during her lifetime in this house, never to disturb her aunt. She removed her shawl and hung it in its usual place, on a peg attached to the stair door, then she walked through to the scullery in search of food. It was difficult during the week, because she was full-time at Skipton’s, and there wasn’t much chance to shop. If she went for food in the evenings, there was not a lot of choice, particularly when it came to fresh meat and vegetables. But she’d picked up two extra meat and potato pies yesterday dinner time, and she would heat these, serve them with carrot and turnip and the dregs of gravy saved from a meagre weekend joint.

She busied herself peeling until the door opened. ‘So, you’re here, then?’ The voice was scratchy, like a gramophone record that had been worn out with too much playing. Though under-use was more likely to be the excuse for Mavis Crawley’s vocal rust. ‘You know I’m stuck on me own all day, least you could do is give over dawdling, hurry up home and see if I’m all right.’ There was hurt in the tone, a deep and self-righteous hurt that bordered on bitter resentment.

Jenny sighed, trying hard not to move her shoulders. The sigh must not show. None of her inner feelings must show, because Auntie Mavis was Jenny’s one and only piece of security. Though wasn’t it time to …? Oh no, she should not think of abandoning this poor lady. ‘Sorry, Auntie.’ These words were delivered with the usual coating of gratitude and obedience. She was a good girl. She had always been a good girl, could not remember one single episode of naughtiness. For teachers, for her aunt, for the foreman at work, she had been swift to do as she had been bidden. Would it be like this forever?

Mavis climbed on her high horse again, resuming the lofty position she most enjoyed. ‘Eighteen years I’ve devoted to you. I never had a life of me own since Dan left you with me as a foundling babe.’

Jenny turned her head slightly. ‘I know,’ she whispered. Every day the same thing was said; every day she forced herself to listen and to be thankful. Sometimes, forcing herself to be thankful was easy, but occasionally, a seed of doubt and rebellion would plant frail roots in Jenny’s mind. As usual, she killed the growth by swamping it in the thousand items of trivia that occupied her everyday life. ‘Do you want mashed or plain boiled, Auntie Mavis?’ she asked now, the quickening of her own heart ignored once more.

‘I don’t care.’ Mavis Crawley showed little real interest in her food, because she had no sense of smell. Food was something she took just to stay alive, though she did tend to indulge in liquids rather too frequently for Jenny’s liking. A heavy throat-clearing was followed by, ‘I might not live to eat it. Two turns I’ve had today, and nobody here to fend for me. I’ve had to fettle for meself, same as always.’ Jewellery rattled as the head shook. ‘One of these days, I’ll just keel over. I’ll go in a heap, crack me head on the flags, and then where will you be?’ There was a clink as bottle touched glass. ‘Eighteen years,’ she breathed before taking a noisy sip of undiluted gin. ‘What chance was there for me? I ask you, what sort of a life was that for an unmarried woman?’

Jenny turned fully and looked at her aunt. The skin was parchment white, bleached by lack of air and exercise. Three flat, brown inverted question marks lay in an evenly-spaced row on the forehead, while the rest of the hair was encased, as ever, in a gaudy turban. Large, fleshy ear-lobes depended even lower than nature had decreed, weighted by massive earrings that made a metallic noise each time they were disturbed. The rest of the body was completely covered by a long, emerald green robe with flowing sleeves and embroidered gold patterns. She was dressed for work, the only work she had known for many years.

‘Oh,’ said Jenny, her tone tired and resigned. ‘You’re busy tonight. How many?’

‘Just the two, but they pay good money. What’s up? Are you losing your nerve?’ She cackled briefly, displaying a hideous array of black and yellow teeth. ‘At least you get out of the house.’ Her face had settled back into its habitual lines of misery. ‘You’re not stuck inside waiting for visitors. It’s a good job I have my gifts, otherwise I’d see no face but yours. And sometimes, your mouth is in what I’d call a sulk, Jenny Crawley.’

Jenny pushed back her aching shoulders. ‘I’m not sulking, Auntie. Anyway, you could go out. I could take you out. There’s nothing to be afraid of, and I would stay with you all the time. You know I wouldn’t leave you on your own in the street. You need fresh air, you need to get some exercise.’

‘I can’t!’ The petulant stamp of a small foot was muffled by satin slipper meeting cold flag. ‘You know I can’t. It’s me nerves, they won’t let me go out. Next time I leave here, it’ll be feet first in a box. And when I do, make sure I’ve got this best robe on.’ A clawlike hand extended itself, the nails so long that they curled at the ends. ‘I want a good coffin too, nothing shoddy, make sure the handles is solid brass. And put all my trappings in with me. I’m leaving nowt. My talent,’ she picked up her glass and drained it in a single gulp, ‘my special God-given gift goes to no bugger.’

‘Yes, Auntie.’ How could she mention God and then swear in the same breath? ‘Shall I do a pudding? We’ve still some bottled fruit, and I can soon make custard.’

The robe swirled as Mavis Crawley swept out of the small room. ‘No pudding,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘No time. They’re on their way, I can feel it. This will be a good session. We shall get a visitation tonight.’

Jenny scraped and scrubbed, pausing occasionally to gaze out into the darkening yard. No wonder the children sang songs, no wonder they thought she was mad. There had to be a way out of this, but how could she just go, just leave without seeming downright nasty and unappreciative? She was grateful, she really was. Nobody had wanted her, nobody except this strange lady who had, at least, given Jenny a surname to use …

The parlour, an area of not much more than twelve square feet, was its usual sombre self when Jenny entered to do the preparations. There was a circular table in the centre, a dresser between front door and stairs, and several globed paraffin lamps on small tables that squatted around two over-stuffed armchairs. The curtains were brown, of thick, lined velvet, and the mantel cover matched the depressing colour, as did the floor-length tablecloth. Signs of the zodiac were scattered about the walls, framed drawings of a water-carrier and, further on, a strange insect with nasty claws, then twins, scales and all the other paraphernalia that demonstrated her aunt’s weird calling. But it was the scorpion that Jenny hated most. As a child, she had suffered nightmares in which the poisonous beast had always played the chief role. Auntie Mavis used to say that Scorpio was a wicked sign, and that the good people born under it had to fight for their virtue. Of course, Jenny knew now that it was all a charade, though she still shivered whenever she dusted that particular picture.

She took the crystal from the dresser cupboard, dusted it on her apron, placed it on its mahogany plinth in the middle of the table. Folks’ lives and fortunes were supposed to be visible in the glass orb, but all Jenny had ever seen was a distorted view of her own face. The tarots were in a drawer, while perfumed candles, their wicks already blackened from use, sat on the mantel next to a fat Buddha and a miniature totem. Auntie’s guide was supposed to own this colourful pole, yet Jenny showed little respect for the object as she dumped it next to the cards in Auntie’s place. She was getting just a little bit too old for this, she told herself. At eight or nine years of age, it had all been a game. Now, it was fraud, and she was a part of it. The whole thing was becoming too much for her, yet she could not find her way out of it.

She walked into the kitchen and took the pans from the grate, one filled with potatoes, a second containing carrot and turnip. With a sudden burst of energy for which she could not account, she attacked the vegetables, mashing them to smithereens within seconds. After adding salt and pepper, she distributed the meal on to plates, taking two heated pies from the range oven and pouring on a few spoonfuls of gravy. From the bottom of the stairs she called, ‘Auntie? Your tea’s out.’

‘I am communicating.’ This monotone floated listlessly down the stairs. Jenny shrugged, took up her aunt’s plate, and placed it under a pan lid in the oven. Auntie would be sitting on her bed, legs curled beneath her, eyes staring into a different world, a world that existed only in the poor lady’s twisted mind.

Jenny polished off her meal, filling her empty stomach with the only comfort she knew. The mill was hard, home life was difficult, food helped. With the end of a crusty cob, she mopped up the last vestige of gravy, then took the shovel from its place next to the black-leaded grate. It was such a stupid and dangerous exercise, but she would have to go through with it, or there would be no peace at all in the house.

She stepped carefully up the stairs, carrying in one hand a shovel filled with glowing coals taken from the kitchen, in the other fist trailing her shawl. She had to leave no evidence of herself downstairs, because Auntie must appear to be completely alone. Well, alone apart from the spirits, that was.

In the sparse back bedroom that was her own, Jenny tipped the coals into the tiny fireplace, adding some sticks of wood to produce the necessary smoke. It would be almost seven o’clock now. She needed to go down again, because she had forgotten to light the perfumed candles which were meant to mask the smell of singed kindling. That was for the benefit of the visitors, of course. Auntie wouldn’t know if the house was on fire, not till she actually saw the flames, because even the most pungent of smells failed to register in the insensitive nostrils.

When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she saw that her aunt was already in the parlour, sitting straight as a ramrod at the table, thin hands stretched out on the cloth, the ghastly nails spread wide like ten sharp, yellowing weapons. Jenny closed the curtains, lit the candles, then slipped from the room. Auntie’s meal would be ruined again. There would no doubt be a toast-making session later on, if there was any bread left …

‘Jenny?’ croaked the voice that was preparing to become ethereal. ‘No noise. When you hear me scream “yes” very loud, I want ectoplasm in the fireplace corner. Then wait for “come to us”. When I shout that, get to the front corner. And do it properly this time, they’re paying five bob. For five bob, they want the heavenly bloody choir with harps thrown in.’

Jenny stood on the stairs, a small and very newborn bubble of rebellion forming in her chest. She did not want to take part in these horrible rituals any more. Apart from anything else, it was dangerous, skulking about in Auntie’s bedroom with a bucket full of fire, directing smoke between gaps in floorboards, trying to waft it through the tiny cracks in the parlour ceiling. One of these days, the house would go up with everybody in it – herself, Auntie, and the foolish, misery-swamped people who came for messages from the other side.

‘What?’ The green eyes, stained now with dark shadow, flickered over the girl. ‘What is it? Have you forgot summat?’

Jenny drew herself up to her full five feet and five inches. ‘I … it’s …’

‘Well? Has the cat got thy bloody tongue?’ Angry hands plucked at the tarot pack.

‘It’s wrong.’ Jenny sank slightly, one of her shoulders drooping, while the arm stretched itself across her stomach, as if she were trying to hug and comfort her inner being. She should be stronger, should be able to speak up for herself. But she was afraid, afraid of hurting Auntie Mavis, scared of inviting her wrath. ‘The smoke is wrong,’ she added lamely.

Claws tapped quietly on the velour cloth. Jenny decided there and then that she would never have long nails. They were vile, ugly and threatening, and a person with long nails could never work properly, must always be idle, vain and up to no good. Whatever happened to her, she would definitely make sure her nails were cut neatly, though she wasn’t criticizing Auntie Mavis, wouldn’t dream of doing anything so nasty …

‘Are you listening to me? The spirits do come, they do! Golden Arrow leads them to me – I see them, I breathe them. But these non-believers need convincing. So we give them a bit of smoke – what’s bad about that? We’re only helping them, giving them what they want, some hope, some peace.’

Jenny swallowed loudly, making a nasty, gulping noise. ‘It’s a lie. They told us at school about lies. The vicar came in and said you can act a lie, you don’t have to say it. We are acting lies, Auntie, and you make me do it too.’

Mavis Crawley jumped up from her chair. ‘You ungrateful little bitch. How many years have I clothed and fed you? Have I ever asked for thanks?’

Jenny blinked away the wet in her eyes. The word ‘grateful’ kept popping up all the time. It should be entered in the dictionary with an initial capital, just to remind everyone of its importance. ‘Dan did it,’ she said softly, wishing immediately that she had kept her mouth closed and her thoughts to herself.

‘Eh?’ The monosyllable was dragged out into a long, slow exhalation. ‘What was that?’

‘Uncle Dan. He brought money every month, saved up out of his wages.’ And most of it, Jenny knew, had gone down Auntie Mavis’s throat, swilled nightly from an outdoor-licence jug or from a gin bottle. She raised her eyes slowly. ‘I know you gave me a home when my … mother didn’t want me. But Uncle Dan paid for me, I know he did.’ Emboldened for the first time ever, and not understanding why, the girl took another step into the parlour. ‘Auntie, I don’t want to do the smoke any more.’ She was glad that she’d grown too old to make the noises, voices of dead children whose mothers used to sit in this very room hanging with hope on to every last hopeless word. It had been a cruel sham, was still cruel, even without the voices, and Jenny’s heart felt like bleeding for the bereaved people who came to spend time and money here.

Mavis Crawley quickly covered the space between them, lifting her arm as if to strike. But there was something in the girl’s face, an expression that stayed the raised hand before it could achieve its target. ‘I shall put you out on the street,’ she muttered, her decaying teeth clenched in anger. ‘With your blinking stupid mother, where you belong.’

There followed a short, hollow silence. Never before had Auntie Mavis mentioned Jenny’s mother, even though she had been closely questioned while the child was growing.

‘I don’t know.’ Mavis’s knees were trembling. Dan had warned her often enough, ‘You tell that child anything and I’ll put her somewhere else, then see where you’ll get your gin money.’

‘My mother,’ Jenny insisted. ‘I know I’ve got one – everybody has a mother. Where can I find her?’

‘She’s dead,’ snapped Mavis. ‘Now, stop your stupid mitherings and get up them stairs. We’ve folk coming, so get yourself shaped before they—’

‘Where did she die?’ interrupted Jenny. ‘And how? You’ve got to tell me, you’ve got to!’

Mavis grimaced, her mouth forming an inverted crescent. ‘I don’t know everything, do I? Even with my gifts, there’s some doors closed. I just know she’s dead. I looked at you one day, and I said to meself, “This child’s an orphan.” Her’s been gone a good few years, so there’s no use fretting yourself into stewed tripe.’

Jenny fixed her gaze on the crystal. ‘Call her up,’ she said. ‘Do what you do for other people. If it works for them, it’ll work for me and all.’

Jenny inclined her head, knowing that it did not work at all. Ever. ‘Am I your family?’

Jenny nodded again, colour arriving along the fine, high bones of her cheeks. ‘Then you were related to my mother. Does this mean you’re my real auntie?’

Mavis was plainly floundering. Her eyes travelled frantically from clock to door, back to clock again. ‘They’ll be here any second. Be a good lass, go up and do the ectoplasm. Just this one last time, Jenny.’ She was wheedling now. ‘I’ll not ask you again. From now on, you don’t have to do anything. We can talk any time. Just do this one little thing for me, Jenny, you know I’m not a well woman.’

Jenny reached out and touched a thin, stiff shoulder. ‘It’ll soon be time for me to leave here, Auntie Mavis. I don’t belong with you, don’t belong with anybody.’ She breathed deeply, seeking some confidence. ‘I must start making my own road.’ Perhaps this veiled threat would force Auntie to speak about Jenny’s past.

Mavis allowed her chin to drop. ‘Eh? Leave me on me own and me not able to put a foot across the doorstep? How shall I manage? Who’ll get me errands? Who’ll …?’

A knocking at the door stilled her tongue. She stood, a look of pleading in her narrowed, greedy eyes, until the girl turned and began to ascend the stairs.

In her room, Jenny filled the bucket with fire, creeping softly across the small landing to the front of the house. Noiselessly, she rolled back the rugs in both corners, her mind empty even though her ears waited for the signal. When it came, she used the old bellows to puff smoke through the floor, moving across to the diagonally opposite corner as soon as the ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ had died down. Her second task completed, she righted the rugs, then tiptoed back to her own room, resting the dangerously hot bucket on the six tiles that fronted the fireplace. No wonder the kiddies called her names – the whole street knew about Mavis Crawley and her visitors from both worlds.

She straightened, sighed, then stretched out on her bed. In half an hour, she would be summoned downstairs, then, once the coast had been judged clear, she would be sent to the outdoor for brown ale. This was all because her mother had abandoned her. If her mother had loved her, she might have had brothers and sisters, someone to talk to, a life like everybody else’s. Well, she intended to ask some very searching questions tonight. She would get the courage from somewhere, or she would pretend to have it, pretend to be braver than she really was.

She stared out of the upper half of the window, her ears registering street-sounds. Someone shouted ‘ta-ra’, a door banged, children laughed, a dog barked. They were all so friendly, all so interested in the folk next door. Her eyes closed. No-one here wanted to know the Crawleys, mostly because of the spiritualist church Auntie used to attend before going funny with her nerves. And she’d dragged Jenny along to the services too, forcing her to listen while that queer, pale man delivered messages from the dead. It was daft, all of it. There was nothing holy about the pale pastor, because he used to put his hand up Jenny’s skirt whenever he managed to get her alone, and proper vicars didn’t do that sort of thing.

The front door slammed. Jenny rose and picked up the long-handled pincers, tipping the contents of the bucket back into the fire. That was the only good thing about one of Auntie’s sessions – Jenny got a small fire in her room. Auntie’s fireplace was boarded up because it had a bad draught, so Jenny always had the bonus of being slightly warmer after a seance.

She replaced the pincers, stood up and smoothed her skirt. ‘Coming,’ she called. Things were going to change tonight. Whatever she needed to do, she would find out about her mother.

In the parlour, Auntie was putting away the tarot cards and the crystal. She cast a sly, sideways glance in Jenny’s direction. ‘You did a good job there, love. Happen I should start splitting the money with you. Would half a crown suit?’

Jenny sniffed. She didn’t want the coin, didn’t want to touch the silver disc that had been left on the table for her. ‘I’ve got my spends, ta,’ she said.

‘We’ll go into partnership.’ The drawer was closed, and Mavis stood fingering a seven-branch candelabra that sat in the centre of the dresser. ‘Fifty-fifty?’

‘Nay, I can’t say fairer than that, Jenny. I mean, I do most of the grafting, so you should be happy taking half the earnings. Come on, don’t start sulking again.’

‘But you take all of my wages Auntie. I only get a shilling a week back. So I’d be happier just keeping a bit more of my wages.’ She inhaled sharply. ‘And anyway, I don’t want any of their money.’

Mavis Crawley stood rigidly still, her hands resting for support on the rim of the mahogany dresser. She was angry, yet she struggled not to show it. The girl had grown up all of a sudden, had started to think for herself. There was no point in alienating her altogether. ‘I don’t want you to leave me, Jenny.’ She bit hard on her tongue, forcing back the rage. After all, hadn’t she sacrificed everything for this illegitimate brat? ‘I don’t think I could manage here on me own. You know how ill I am.’

‘Why?’ The older woman spun round, her eyes gleaming in the shallow light cast by the twin candles across the room. ‘Why will you have to go?’

‘Who?’ snarled the slight, tense woman. ‘Who’s been looking at you?’ Yes, she had dreaded this day, because the girl was beautiful, lovelier even than her wayward mother had been. ‘Have you been carrying on with some daft lad? Is there goings-on in that bloody mill? Because if there is, you can sack yourself tonight, no need to give your notice.’

Jenny was suddenly too tired for anything but the truth. Dressing things up took energy, the sort of strength that was not available, even to a healthy young woman, after a shift at a cotton mule. ‘I shall meet nobody while I live here,’ she said softly. ‘Everybody reckons this is a queer house, and nobody will talk to me. They think I’m a spiritualist too, and I’m not. I don’t believe in it.’

Mavis Crawley slapped a hand against her bosom, going through the motions of a near-faint as she folded herself neatly into a chair. ‘You’ve seen,’ she gasped. ‘And you’ve heard …’

‘I’ve seen Jimmy Sharples running up our stairs. I’ve heard him rattling chains for threepence. That’s why the neighbours laugh, because Jimmy Sharples won’t keep his mouth shut, not for a threepenny bit. Auntie, it’s all a fake. I know you believe in some of it, but I don’t.’ She licked her drying lips. ‘And it’s sinful, making folk pay to get messages from their dead relatives. It’s time I left here.’

The dresser clock chimed the quarter hour. Mavis Crawley sat, face in hands, earrings jangling as she waved her head from side to side. Jenny had always been placid, almost slow, and Mavis had believed that her own old age would be comfortable in such kindly and biddable company. ‘You’ll not go,’ she said finally, poking her head upward in a gesture of defiance. ‘Dan won’t let you.’

‘Has he? I’ve never known him say above two words to you, and one of them was “ta-ra”.’

Jenny closed her mouth and kept her counsel. The meetings had been a secret, something they’d pledged under a tree in Queen’s Park years ago. Dan had said that Mavis would likely be hurt by their trysts, so Jenny had never told about the quiet walks, moments stolen from Jenny’s shopping time. It was true that he didn’t talk much, but at least he had made time for a lonely girl, time that must have been precious to him, for he got few days off from his job as butler in the Skiptons’ big house on the moors.

Jenny lifted a shoulder. ‘I’ll get a room. I might go away from Bolton altogether, find a living-in job down London way. I can cook and clean and sew.’ Yes, a fresh start would be lovely, somewhere far from here, a new place where no-one would know about Auntie Mavis and her spirits.

‘You’ll have to make it right with Dan first.’ She shifted in the chair, all ambition to look frail and ill seeming to disappear as the prospect of isolation filled her mind. ‘And who’ll look after me when you’ve buggered off to London?’

The girl’s head dropped. ‘I don’t know.’ There was a guilty edge to her tone.

‘I can’t go out. I shall have nowt to eat, nobody to fetch the doctor if I turn bad ways. What sort of thanks is this after eighteen years of bloody slavery?’ She snorted and turned to address the Buddha. ‘See?’ she said shrilly. ‘There’s nobody as ungrateful as kiddies. You bring them up, you fettle and worry, then they go off chasing rainbows.’

Jenny studied her feet, her eyes fixed rigidly to the carpet slippers she was forced to wear while creeping about upstairs. ‘You’ll have to learn to go out again, Auntie Mavis. You’re only about fifty, aren’t you? Mrs Higginbottom still goes out, and she’s well past seventy. I keep telling you there’s no reason to be scared of the streets. And I can’t … well … I just can’t do it any more.’

‘I do everything, Auntie. I work in the mill, and I clean the house. Then there’s the shopping and the washing.’ She shook her head. How many times lately had she come close to falling asleep over a hot flat-iron at midnight? ‘I do the meals when I come in, and then—’

‘What do you think I did for years, eh? Who got up in the night to give you a bottle, change your nappy, fetch the doctor, boil steam kettles for your croup? Where was your real mam when the kids split your head open with stones?’

Jenny stood perfectly still, hands dangling loosely by her sides. If it hadn’t been for Auntie Mavis’s peculiarities, the street would not have turned, would not have thrown stones. She had been singled out from infancy, a freak, a monster, just another of Mavis Crawley’s familiars. Yes, and they’d killed the cat, hadn’t they? Poor little Blackie, strangled and suspended from a lamp because his mistress was an oddity. The notice under his body had read ‘WICHES CAT’. They couldn’t spell, but the meaning had been plain enough.

‘I gave up any chance of marriage because of you.’ Mavis was screaming now. ‘I had men after me, men of substance, fellows who would have given an arm and a leg for a wife like me.’ She puffed out her non-existent chest. ‘But I took you in, girl. When Dan found you and brought you here, I opened my door. And how do you repay me? By threatening to leave me after you’ve worn me out.’

Jenny lifted her eyes and looked directly at the only family she had ever known. ‘Auntie,’ she whispered. ‘It’s the gin that’s worn you out, not me.’ Never, for as long as she could sensibly remember, had this aunt of hers been fully sober. It was always ‘a drop for my nerves’ or ‘a spoonful for this cough’. And on the worst days, there had been no speech at all, just a crumpled heap on a chair, a cold and empty grate, a hollow stomach, lessons at school floating over her head because she had been starved of food and warmth.

‘You … you stupid little tart!’ Mavis shot from her chair, propelled by temper and an indignation she felt to be righteous. ‘How dare you say that to me? You’re your mother all over again, just a jumped-up heap of slag with a pretty face and no bloody brain.’ Thin lips curled back from the mouldering incisors. ‘She earned her money on her back, you know. Finished up on the dock road in Liverpool, dropping her knickers every time a ship came in. She was a whore, your mam, a cheap, dirty …’ Her words faded, while a look that was akin to terror invaded her pallid features. ‘I didn’t mean … I only … I can’t be by myself.’

Jenny, shaken by the change in tone, stared incredulously at the trembling woman, noticing that the green eyes were fixed on the kitchen doorway. Slowly, Jenny turned her head. ‘Oh,’ she gulped. ‘Uncle Dan.’

He stood stock still, a hand resting on the doorknob, his face twisting with emotions Jenny could not begin to define.

He lifted the black bowler from his head, holding it close to his chest as if he were attending a funeral. Without taking his eyes off Mavis, he said, ‘Pack your things, Jenny.’

Mavis shot forward. ‘You can’t. You can’t take her. I’m still not right from the winter.’

He looked her up and down. ‘You’re not right from 1895,’ he said scathingly. ‘You weren’t right when yon feller chucked you over, and thank Christ the poor bugger came to his senses in time. You were at it then with your potions, weren’t you? Making dolls and sticking pins in. You’re not a spiritualist, Mavis. They’re decent folk, some of them. You’re evil, that’s what, and I should never have left this child with you. But beggars can’t be choosers, and there was nowhere else to turn. Well, I can see to her now.’

‘You can’t!’ She leapt across the room, talons flailing uselessly an inch away from the man’s broad chest. ‘You’re me own flesh and blood, Dan, you’re me brother, so you can’t do this to me. She’s all I’ve got. There’s nobbut her to see to me, to—’

‘To fetch and carry for you,’ he said quietly. ‘This has been my fault. I always knew you weren’t right in the head, ever since we were children. But it’s done now. All I can manage is to take her from this house and try to make up for what she’s been through.’

Jenny sank on to the broad arm of an easy chair. ‘Where am I to go?’ she asked.

‘With me.’ His voice was gruff. ‘I’ve got my own flat now, three rooms at the top of the house. I shall make it right with the master. You can stop with me from now on.’

Jenny tugged at a ringlet that had escaped capture, a slender lock that dangled from her left temple. ‘I don’t know,’ she said cautiously. ‘How would I get to my work from up there?’

Dan shrugged. ‘The master owns yon mill, so happen he’ll fetch you down.’ He smiled encouragingly when he noticed her frantic expression. ‘Nay, lass. There’s a job for you, making beds, dusting and the like. You’ll not live in my rooms, they’ll give you one of your own over the new wing.’

Dan fixed his sister with an iron stare. She had been pathetic and pleased when Dan had brought the baby Jenny to her. There had been no real chance of marriage for Mavis, and the foundling child had filled her empty days. ‘And what’s she been till now? A lady of bloody leisure? She’ll get paid and she’ll keep her wages. There’ll be no drunks hanging on her pinny, nobody telling her lies about her mam.’

‘Then how did she get herself pregnant?’ The earrings were on double time now, swinging back and forth as her head bobbed like a cork on a choppy sea. ‘Her must have been a slut to get herself in that state. Then leaving the kiddy up at the hall, running off as if the devil was on her tail. What sort of a bloody housekeeper was she?’

‘The sort I offered to marry.’ These words arrived thin, forced between clenched teeth. ‘But she was supposed to go home, back to Ireland. Her mam came down from Chorley, went mad at the idea of Oonagh taking up with a Protestant, so the girl was packed off in disgrace.’

Mavis fought a lewd giggle. ‘Aye, as far as Liverpool. Then her mother was all over the place knocking on doors and looking for her. Your fancy Oonagh never left the docks, Dan. The sailors all knew her, the lads from round here. Oonagh Murphy was a by-word in her time, I can tell you.’

‘Well, I never heard a word against her, so you’re the bloody oracle, as per usual.’ Dan’s laboured breathing filled the room, then he moved his head, as if remembering the girl on the chair. ‘Get your stuff together,’ he said.

She sat frozen to the spot, her eyes round and glazed with shock. ‘Oonagh,’ she said at last. ‘My mother’s name was Oonagh.’

His expression softened. He was a handsome man, well over six feet tall, and every bit of him that showed was brown. Skin, hair and eyes gave off varying shades of the one colour, while his features were even and strong. He was a solid man, Jenny thought irrelevantly. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she managed in a voice unlike her own. ‘Auntie needs me. There’s work – what’ll happen if I just don’t turn up? And who’s this woman that’s supposed to be my mother?’

Mavis grinned, her expression cold and mischievous. ‘Happen you’re looking for a wife?’ she asked. ‘Somebody as’ll see to your old age? Aye, is that why Oonagh dumped her with you? So’s she’d grow up and wed a chap old enough to be her grandad?’

He shrugged lightly. ‘I’m nobbut forty-four, Mavis. And the rest is none of your flaming business.’

Jenny’s fingers tightened until her fists were two tense balls of fear. Did she want to go and live at … what was the name of the place? Skipton Hall, that was it, named after the big mill family. Did she want to go up there among strangers? But wouldn’t strangers be better, better than …? She looked with pity on the shrivelled figure of her aunt. Alone, the woman would never cope.

Her eyes wandered to the tall, masculine figure that seemed to swamp the room, so huge he looked in this small space. She loved him, had always loved him, but she didn’t want to marry him. Tears of confusion and frustration veiled the scene, casting a mist over her vision and her thinking. They were waiting. Both adults were waiting for her to make a move. ‘I’m still not sure,’ she said.

Mavis tried not to broaden her grim smile. ‘There,’ she said, a hint of satisfaction colouring the words. ‘Her knows where her’s best off.’ She spoke to Jenny now. ‘I’ll try and fettle a bit better, lass. Happen you could take me out tomorrow, just as far as Noble Street. One step at a time, eh?’

Dan Crawley placed his bowler on the dresser. ‘If you’ve a fancy for Noble Street, Mavis, you’d best get yourself gone. This lass is taking you nowhere.’ He nodded slowly, as if he were suddenly endowed with great wisdom. ‘I shall find her mother.’ Before Mavis could comment, he continued, ‘Aye, I’ve heard the tales, the ones you likely made up to suit yourself. I’ve even been to Liverpool to search for her, but there was never a sign.’

‘Happen there was a ship in,’ snapped Mavis. ‘You’d have needed to go below decks to find the bunks.’

He planted his feet well apart, hands clasped behind his back where they could do no mischief to this hateful sister of his. ‘Oonagh Murphy was a decent girl,’ he said quietly. ‘Tales have a habit of getting embroidered, like that daft frock you’re wearing. There’s no record of her at the bridewells, no knowledge of her in the dock road pubs. She’s not in Liverpool, and I don’t know whether she ever was.’ He sighed, the great chest expanding against the good cloth of his coat. ‘If that lass had been up Lancashire way, I would have found her.’

‘A name’s easy changed,’ barked the tiny woman. ‘And it’s best changed if you’re going to make brass with a mattress strapped to your back.’

SPINNING JENNY

Ruth Hamilton

Contents

For Dorothy Cann (née Hurst)

About the Author

About the Book

Also by Ruth Hamilton

THANKS TO:

PART ONE

1920

Chapter One