The Ribbon Weaver

Chapter One



By the time the little row of terraced cottages in Attleborough Road where she lived came into sight, Molly was almost dropping with exhaustion. The added weight of the tapestry bag, and having to battle against the snow following a hard day’s work, had taken their toll on her and she sighed with relief at the sight of her home. But it wasn’t to her own door that she went first but to Bessie Bradley’s.

Without pausing to knock she flung open the door unceremoniously and Bessie, who was kneeling before an old tin bath in front of a roaring fire, turned startled eyes to her. Bessie was in the process of bathing one of her brood who seemed to be dotted everywhere Molly looked.

‘Bessie, come straight away,’ gasped Molly, and Bessie’s mouth dropped open at the bedraggled state of her.

‘Good God, woman, whatever’s wrong wi’ yer? Yer look like the hounds of hell are pantin’ at yer heels.’

‘Just come now.’ With no more words of explanation, Molly disappeared back into the snow, leaving the door swinging wide open to the elements. Already, Bessie was standing and drying her hands on her rough linen apron with a deep frown on her face.

‘Mary, you see to this lot fer me, I’ll be back as soon as I can,’ she told her oldest daughter as she rushed to the door, snatching up her huge old cloak and thrusting her feet into her boots. And with that she slammed it shut behind her and quickly picked her way through the thick white carpet to Molly’s cottage.

Molly was pacing the floor agitatedly when Bessie entered; she turned to her immediately and said, ‘Bessie, I don’t know what to do. There’s a young woman in the doorway of the Parish Church and she’s in a bad way.’

Seeing that her friend was deeply distressed, Bessie patted her arm comfortingly.

‘Calm down now then and tell me slowly what’s happened.’ Then, as the sorry tale was told: ‘Poor soul, happen she’s a street girl fallen on hard times.’

Molly shook her head in quick denial. ‘She weren’t a street girl, Bessie, I’d stake me life on it.’ A picture of the girl’s sweet face flashed before her eyes and again she heard the melodic ring of her voice. ‘There was somethin’ about her – some sort o’ quality that seemed to shine from her, and I’m telling yer, she had the face of an angel.’ She shook her head again. ‘That girl is class, Bessie, believe me. I couldn’t carry her nor do nothing for her, but she needs help – she’s lying there all alone. What are we to do?’

Molly’s eyes filled with tears as she thought of the plight of the poor girl, and in a second, Bessie’s mind was made up. Molly was known as a bit of a loner but she had always been good to the Bradley family, helping them through many a hard time. Now Bessie could finally do something for her in return.

‘Look,’ she said kindly, noting Molly’s pinched face, ‘you’re all in. I’ll go back to the church, see what’s happening, then I’ll run fer the doctor, eh?’

Molly stared at her, gratitude lighting her face. ‘Oh Bessie, you’re a good ’un, but mind yer wrap up warm, it’s bitter out there and no mistake.’

‘Don’t yer go worryin’ about me now. You just make yourself a strong brew and get those wet clothes off, else it’ll be you I’m fetchin’ the doctor to.’ Bessie looked at Molly’s soaking wet skirt and flinched as she saw the blood on it, as well as the melted snow. Even more reason to make haste. ‘I’ll be back before yer know it,’ she promised, and with that she quickly let herself out into the blizzard. Within minutes she was back in her own cottage pulling her shawl over her head. A hundred questions were being flung at her from the children but she didn’t make time to answer them.

‘Now, Mary, you and Toby are in charge till I get back, do yer hear me? Tell yer dad I’ve been called away on an errand fer Molly when he comes in.’

Mary nodded obediently as Bessie left the warmth of the kitchen to begin the journey back to the church. Within minutes she found herself up to her knees in snow, and more than once she lost her footing and almost went headlong, but still she pressed on. If the poor girl was as ill as Molly had said, then every second counted and she didn’t even pause to catch her breath.

Attleborough Road was deserted and the odd cottages that she passed all had their curtains drawn tight against the freezing night. Now and again, the sound of families singing Christmas carols hung on the night air. Normally, Bessie would have found pleasure in the sound, but tonight all she could think of was reaching the church. At last it loomed into sight and for the first time, Bessie slowed her steps. She had never before in her life entered a graveyard at night. She was very superstitious, but after coming this far she didn’t intend to let Molly down.

Battling up the path past the yew trees, she glanced this way and that at the tilting gravestones. Her heart was beathing wildly but she was almost at the church doorway now. The snowfall had long since filled in Molly’s earlier footsteps and appeared as a fluffy white carpet right up to the steps of the doorway.

‘Hello?’ Bessie called into the blackness. When no one answered, she cautiously stepped inside. Standing for some seconds, her teeth chattering with cold, she peered towards the heavy wooden doors. ‘Hello!’ Again there was no answer. She inched her way in further and further until at last her hand touched the cold brass handle of the door. But there was no one there – no girl, nor anything to suggest that anyone had ever been there.

As Bessie plodded back to the lychgate, she had no idea that her old boots left red footprints in the snow.

Pulling aside the curtains, Molly peered up the lane yet again for a sign of her neighbour. The oil lamp was casting a warm glow about the room and the fire was blazing merrily now, but Molly couldn’t settle, not till Bessie was back with news – and she knew that this could take some time if Bessie had to run for the doctor. But then suddenly the door banged inwards and poor Bessie almost fell into the room. She was white all over, and Molly dragged her to the fireside.

‘That was quick. I didn’t expect you back so soon. How is she? Did yer get the doctor to her?’ Molly bombarded Bessie with questions but the poor woman was so puffed out after her battle with the blizzard that for a few moments she could not answer. Molly pulled off her sodden boots and pressed her into a chair, and as Bessie held her blue feet out to the warmth of the fire, the hem of her skirt began to steam.

It was not until she had taken two great gulps from the mug of scalding hot tea that Molly had placed into her perished hands that she was able to answer. ‘There were no one there,’ she said gravely, looking her neighbour straight in the eye.

Molly’s mouth stretched in disbelief. ‘What do yer mean, woman? O’ course she were there – the poor love were almost at death’s door. What do yer think she did, just got up an’ walked away?’

Bessie shrugged. ‘I’m tellin’ yer, love. There was no one there. As God’s me witness, she were gone.’

Molly couldn’t believe it and began to poke the fire in her agitation. ‘Perhaps someone else found her after I left?’ she suggested hopefully.

‘That is a possibility,’ her weary neighbour admitted. ‘Unless … you imagined it.’

Molly bristled with indignation. ‘I did not imagine it, me gel. I ain’t taken to fancy, as well yer should know.’ Suddenly a thought occurred to her. ‘Her bag!’ she cried. ‘Why, bugger me, I’ve got her bag. Yer know – the one I told yer she insisted I take? Why, I’d forgotten all about it.’

She rushed to the side of the door where she had put down the bag when she first entered the room. Lifting it, she carried it to the hearth and placed it down on the brightly coloured peg rug. ‘There,’ she said triumphantly. ‘Now tell me I imagined it.’

Bessie grinned at her sheepishly. ‘Sorry, duck, but come on then – open it. It might give us some idea as to who she was.’

Molly bent and after fumbling with the catch, she opened the bag. As she peered inside, the colour suddenly drained from her face.

‘What is it, love?’ Bessie’s voice was concerned.

Without answering, Molly reached into the bag and lifted out what appeared at first sight to be a bundle of clothes. Carefully she laid it on the hearth and as she did so, Bessie’s face paled too.

‘Why, God in heaven … It’s a baby.’ Bessie could hardly believe her eyes.

Solemn-faced, Molly nodded. ‘So, the poor love weren’t delirious after all.’ Looking at Bessie with fear shining in her eyes, she whispered, ‘But why is it so quiet?’

Dropping to her knees beside her, Bessie began to unwind the clothes that the baby was wrapped in. The outer layer consisted of a black skirt, worn but neatly wrapped around a tiny pair of bloodstained scissors darned and obviously of a fine quality. Next was a white blouse, with tiny mother-of-pearl button slightly frayed at the cuffs, and lastly a shawl of pure blue silk, the like of which neither woman had ever seen. However, it wasn’t the shawl that held their attention but the tiny child wrapped inside it. It was a little girl and she was beautiful. A mop of tiny auburn curls framed a perfect heart-shaped face with long dark eyelashes that curled on to pale dimpled cheeks. But she was so still and silent that Molly gazed at Bessie in terror.

‘Is … is she dead?’

Pulling herself together with a great effort, Bessie took control of the situation. ‘Right – get me some warm water,’ she ordered briskly, and without a murmur Molly scuttled away to do as she was bid. She felt sick inside, for the sight of that little innocent had reawakened memories that she had thought were long gone.

In her mind’s eyes she saw again three tiny graves all lying side by side in the churchyard – the graves of her own three stillborn babies – and the heartbreak of losing them one after the other all those years ago swept through her afresh. She and Wilf had lived in Atherstone, a neighbouring town, back then. Molly had not met and wed him until she was in her thirties, and they had dreamed of having a large family. But each pregnancy had resulted in a stillbirth, and even now never a day went by when she did not mourn her lost girls. Still, her consolation had been her beloved husband. It was he who had found the cottage she was living in now shortly after the birth of their third daughter, and they had moved here and lived happily ever since until his premature death.

‘Please, God, don’t let this little one go the same way as my babies,’ Molly prayed silently as she stared down at the tiny form, and she went on praying as Bessie began to rub and coax life into the tiny infant. Once the water was ready, Bessie washed the little body inch by inch, forever rubbing and moving the little limbs to bring her back to life. But her efforts appeared to be all in vain, for the child remained motionless.

Molly’s heart ached as she looked on helplessly. ‘It’s no good, Bessie.’ Her voice was loaded with sadness as she reached out to still her neighbour’s arm. Slowly, Bessie sat back on her heels to wipe the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand.

They gazed on the infant in silence for some moments, each lost in their own thoughts, until Bessie suddenly gasped and reached out to clutch Molly’s arm.

‘I’m sure I saw her fingers move just then … Yes, yes, I did. Look, she’s alive!’

Without waiting for encouragement, Bessie immediately renewed her efforts, rubbing and moving the little limbs methodically. Suddenly the baby’s eyes flew open and a thin wail pierced the air. Both women whooped with delight and by the time Molly had bent to lift the child into her arms, her lusty cries were echoing from the rafters.

‘By God, Bessie, it’s a miracle. Nothin’ short of a miracle.’ Molly laughed through her tears as Bessie looked on, beaming in agreement.

‘Aye, it is that, but I reckon the next thing we need to do is feed the little mite. By, them cries are enough to waken the dead.’

Hastily she stood and dropped into the comfortable old rocking chair that stood at the side of the fire. Then, after fumbling with the buttons on her blouse, she pushed aside her warm woollen undershirt and bared her swollen breast.

‘Here, give her to me,’ she ordered, and within seconds the baby’s cries stopped as if by magic as she fastened on to Bessie’s nipple. As she sucked greedily, Bessie and Molly grinned at each other.

Bessie’s own two-month-old baby, Beatrice, was tucked up in her crib fast asleep in Bessie’s cottage, her little stomach full of her mother’s milk. But it was obvious from the hungry slurping of this child that there was more than enough in Bessie’s generous breasts to satisfy her too. After what seemed an age she gave a big hiccup of contentment and her lashes fluttered down on to her cheeks as she fell fast asleep in Bessie’s arms.

‘That’s done the trick,’ Bessie grinned. ‘Now I’d best get round home and sort out some of our Beatrice’s clothes fer her to use till yer decide what you’re going to do wi’ her.’ As she spoke, she laid the baby in the corner of the old settee against a cushion.

‘Right, Molly, now you sort out a nice deep drawer fer her to sleep in. Line it wi’ a shawl or sommat nice an’ soft, an’ I’ll be back in a minute.’ And then she was gone, leaving Molly to do as she was told. After that she planned to soak the baby’s wrappings in a bucket and then wash them through the next day, so they were as good as new. For they, too, belonged to the babe, since they had come from her mother.

Almost an hour later the two women sat tired but contented, in front of the fire, each gazing down on the baby as she slept soundly in one of Molly’s deep dresser drawers.

‘She’s got the face of a little angel,’ Bessie commented.

Molly nodded. ‘Just as her mother had.’

They sat in companionable silence for some minutes until Bessie asked, ‘Is there anythin’ else in the bag, Molly?’

Drawing it on to her lap, Molly delved into its depths.

‘I don’t think so,’ she mumbled, but then her fingers closed around something tucked deep in a corner. ‘Hold on, there is somethin’ in here.’

As she withdrew a small black velvet box, Bessie leaned forward to stare at it with interest. ‘What’s in it?’ she asked curiously.

Molly shrugged. ‘We’ll soon find out, won’t we?’ So saying, she fumbled with a tiny clasp. As the lid sprang back, both women’s mouths gaped with amazement at its contents. Nestling on a bed of silk was a beautiful golden locket attached to an ornate gold chain. A large emerald was set into its centre that sparkled and reflected the light of the fire.

‘Well, stone the crows. It must be worth a king’s ransom.’ Bessie had never in her life seen anything like it. ‘Look inside it,’ she urged impatiently, and as Molly carefully opened it, two tiny portraits were revealed. On one side was a picture of a fair-haired young man with a kindly face, and on the other was a portrait of a strikingly attractive girl whom Molly instantly recognised as the young woman in the church doorway.

‘That’s her,’ she exclaimed. ‘The girl who was in trouble. I told yer she was beautiful, didn’t I?’

‘I won’t argue with that,’ Bessie agreed. ‘Problem is, it don’t tell us who she is, does it?’

Molly sighed as she shook her head.

‘One thing’s for sure, if you sold it you’d be set up for years,’ Bessie commented.

Molly bristled at the very idea. ‘This belongs to the little ’un, it’s not mine to sell. It may be all she’ll ever have of her mother.’ Again they lapsed into silence until after some minutes Bessie dared to ask the question that was on both their minds.

‘What yer goin’ to do wi’ her, Molly? Are yer goin’ to keep her?’

Molly shrugged. ‘Everything’s happened so fast, I ain’t had time to think, but happen we’ll hear what’s become of her mother.’

‘That may well be, but what if we don’t? Will yer keep her then?’

‘How can I?’ Molly’s voice was sad. ‘I’m no spring chicken, Bessie. What would happen to her while I was at work? An’ I do have to work, yer know. There’s no one to keep me.’

‘Well, there’s an easy way round that, woman. I could have her in the day for yer. Or there’s another option: that loom upstairs is standing idle. Yer could always work from home again if yer decided that yer did want to keep her.’

Molly pondered on her words. The only other alternative for the poor little mite that she could think of was the workhouse, and the very thought of leaving her there made her shudder.

‘In the meantime yer should think of giving her a name. We’ve got to call her somethin’, haven’t we?’ Bessie went on.

Again Molly thought of her own three stillborn daughters and the names she had once so lovingly chosen for them.

‘We’ll call her Amy Elizabeth Hannah,’ she said softly.

Bessie grinned. ‘By, that sounds posh,’ she giggled. ‘All o’ my brood have but one name each.’

‘But where would we tell everyone she came from?’ mused Molly as her thoughts raced on ahead, and again both women lapsed into silence.

‘I know,’ said Bessie eventually. ‘We could say she was yer daughter’s child. That she lived away an’ died giving birth. That she were a young widow, and you’ve taken your granddaughter in.’

Molly thought about it. ‘I suppose that does sound believable,’ she admitted, ‘’cos by the time Wilf an’ I got this cottage we were of an age that we could have had a daughter that had moved away to live. But that’s only to be considered if we can’t find her mother.’

Bessie nodded. ‘Of course,’ she agreed. ‘I’d help yer all I could and it would be our secret, just yours and mine. No one else need ever know any different.’

Molly balked at the thought of the lies she would have to tell. But then the other option, the workhouse, was just too terrible to even contemplate. It was a dark forbidding place that the people of the town avoided whenever possible, and it was a well-known fact that many of the infants who were placed in there never came out again.

This had turned out to be a strange Christmas Eve and no mistake, both women thought as they sipped at their tea and sat admiring Amy Elizabeth Hannah who was sleeping peacefully in her makeshift crib.