As the bus rolled away, leaving them behind, Paul gazed after them and said,“Never seen the like. Going to be a big do, this.”
With its full load the bus went slowly. Sometimes a hired charabanc overtook them, with flags flying from the windows. Evelyn was not quick enough to read what they said, but Daphne reported excitedly, “Ooh! Workers for something or other! Anti-fascist Federation of-oh, it’s flapping, I can’t see what! Oh, Paul, that one’s got ‘Communist’ on it!”
She turned to Evelyn, wide-eyed. “Is that the sort of thing your Stan’s getting up to these days?” Evelyn shrugged. She didn’t know and she didn’t want to know. Daphne pulled at Paul’s sleeve. “Paul, Evelyn’s Stan might be one o’ them! He’s forever at meetings. ”
“More fool him, then,” Paul said tersely, “and you still newlyweds.”
“He’s one of the regulars,” Evelyn said. “He tires himself out on it.”
“Plain daft if you ask me,” Paul said. “Plain bloody daft.”
Evelyn wasn’t sure if he meant Stan was daft to go to all the meetings, or daft to stay away from her, but she flushed with pleasure.
“It’s that Alan O’Reilly’s doing, really,” she said demurely.
Daphne hooted with scorn.“Ho! I wonder if he’s brought a picnic, your famous Comrade O’Reilly? Bet they won’t! Well, they’re not cadging off us, that’s for sure!”
“No fear!” Paul cried, making them all laugh.
After that they settled down to the bus ride. Paul got into conversation with others on board, chatting about other walking routes and scenic paths that Evelyn had never heard of. She was content to watch out of the window. Trees and buildings looked different on Sundays, especially around Eastertime, cleaner than on weekdays. She had said that to Stan once and he hadn’t had a clue what she was going on about. She was looking out, trying to explain it again to herself but at the same time thinking Paul would understand what she meant. She wouldn’t have to explain it to him. She gave herself a shake. What funny thoughts she was getting, now she was pregnant! Why, Paul was at least eight years younger than she was, just a nice decent lad. She turned her thoughts to Stan and wondered if she would see him later. It seemed unlikely, she’d never find him among so many people. She nearly cried right there and then, and that too must be because she was pregnant. Things could come over her so suddenly these days.
There was a cold wind blowing when they got off the bus, Paul said, on account of Hayfield being that much higher. Evelyn didn’t mind once she had got her jerkin buttoned and a scarf on. Daphne had packed a couple of spare cardigans, at her mother’s insistence. Paul met up with some of his regular walking companions and so they all went along together in a friendly, loose straggle up the main street. There were lots of people, mainly young folk, and a lot more men and boys than women and girls. For a moment Evelyn felt awkward, surrounded by the laughing Daphne and Paul and his band of high-spirited lads. What was she doing here? Maybe Daphne’s mother had only let Daphne go on condition Evelyn went, too. Maybe she thought if there was a respectable married woman in tow, expecting a baby what’s more, it would keep Daphne and Paul from getting too giddy.
Hayfield people stood out at their doors, watching the procession go past. Evelyn couldn’t make out faces but she could tell by the shapes they made, standing tall with their arms folded, filling up their doorways and hardly moving, that they were wary of this invasion of their quiet village.
Just then, somewhere ahead of them, there was a holdup. It was impossible to see what was causing it but the whole procession ground to a halt and then came sounds of a bit of commotion up ahead, snatches of shouting and even some singing. A few people round about them joined in the song. Paul said in a loud growl, glaring round, “Manchester riffraff, Jews and communists. Stirring up the apprentices from Mather & Platt and the other big factories. They’ve been at it for months.”
“Well,” quipped Daphne, “what were you expecting? The Salvation Army?”
This broke the tension and several people laughed along with them. Evelyn began to long to sit down. Policemen were going up and down at the edge of the procession, holding truncheons. But they were addressing the crowds with civility, instructing people to make their way without hurrying up the main street. At the end of the village and once over the river at Bowden Bridge, they were to go as far as the quarry and wait there. A policeman asked Evelyn if she was feeling all right, which she thought very nice of him and, encouraged, she asked if he had seen the Northwest Federation of Free Working Men because she was looking for her husband. The policeman shook his head. He told her there were six hundred people here and more arriving, God only knew where from.
They got as far as the quarry only just in time to hear the tail end of the speeches and, as Paul called it, “that bloody daft political carry-on.” Most of the speakers and leaders had moved off already and the platform was being dismantled and two or three bands were packing up. Evelyn’s basket was already weighing very heavy on her arm and she didn’t feel much in the way of a walk, but after a breather they pressed on towards the reservoir, following the line of people already heading that way.
The sun came out, and cheering though it was, Evelyn could have done without it. The combination of a cold breeze and the bright light made her eyes water so badly she hardly knew where she was going. But it was lovely being in the country, she told herself. The air smelled sweet and in the fields next to the road there were lambs bleating away and the big ewes were all bunched right up at the wall, watching the people troop past. The big daft things stood like soft grey boulders. Evelyn went up to one and it didn’t budge. As she stared at it, all the while the wind and sunlight were sweeping over it, changing the colours on its back from silver to mucky grey to nearly dark as soot, like a smudge in the middle of a picture. She must have been dawdling, because Daphne called out.
“Come on, Evelyn! You ha’n’t got all day to waste chatting to your cousins!”
Evelyn laughed and called back that Daphne was a cheeky so-and-so. They walked on amid more laughter. Daffodils were out and the wind blew straight down the lane off the hill and tipped the flowers right to the ground, turning their leaves inside out and parting the shiny new grass like a comb.
Soon they left the road and struck out on a level track that led first between fields and then up into the hills. The track wound along beside a wide rushing stream, and as they went closer the hills loomed at them and seemed to close in. After a mile or so the stream and the track diverged. The track swerved deeply and suddenly they came across, around a long curve and nestling into the lower reaches of the hill, the last thing Evelyn had expected to see. It was a large house, built of red brick with a steep slate roof and a grand porch, with all manner of elaborate turrets and tall windows and high gables. A stunted windbreak of trees and clusters of thick evergreen shrubs surrounded it. Though it was too solid to be magical or even romantic, the house had a storybook quality, and though well maintained, it looked shut up and forlorn.
“That’s Overdale,” Paul said a little grimly.“Overdale Lodge. Bloody eyesore.”
“Who lives there?” Evelyn asked.
“Nobody,”Paul said.“Not any more. It was just for shooting parties, for rich folks coming out from Manchester. All that’s long gone now so it’s shut up. It was them Braddocks as had it built, must be nigh on forty, fifty year ago. You know, the family as owns Braddock Mills.”
“Seems a shame, a grand place like that and nobody stopping there no more,” Evelyn murmured.
“Well, times has changed,” Paul grunted.“Built in Braddock Senior’s day, before the War. Godfrey Braddock the son, he owns Braddock Mills now. He’s still rolling in money, I daresay.”
“Eh, it’s grand enough. All right for some,” Daphne said. “Mind you, I wouldn’t fancy it. Bet it’s freezing, imagine trying to heat a place that size!”
“Aye, and it’s a flaming long way to fetch in t’coal!” Evelyn said, laughing.
On they went, up Kinder Bank. The going was steadily uphill and Evelyn got more and more winded. She couldn’t find the breath for walking as well as chatting with her companions, and it was single file in places, anyway. She fell behind and began to feel lonely, walking with her eyes on the fuzzy outlines of their backs, not hearing what they were talking about and too tired to call for them to wait. Most people, including her, stayed on the path, though some were fanning out across the slope, Paul among them. It must have been tougher going up there, off the path. People were using their sticks and trudging along slantwise, bending into the hillside.
There were streams to cross, or the same one several times; several little channels of water ran through the tussocks of moor grass and over the path. Evelyn managed it fine to begin with. She had on her stout shoes, not long resoled, and also, acting on Paul’s advice, she had put on a thick pair of socks. But there was a lot of wet and mud to be gone through, and Evelyn had a sudden memory of her Big Day and her green mock-croc shoes, which she had not thought about for weeks. They were still like new in a box under the bed, as she hadn’t had them on
