Cicely and the wife were talking. I read on, but not every word. I kept my eyes half turned away, as if looking at the sun.
There was something about Dyson's husband, how his heart had given out at a young age; something about the boy, who was so quiet where his mother was lively, but still she doted on him: 'No living child was better fed or clothed.' There was another part about the boy's dog, which was quiet too, and didn't need looking after, 'even on railway stations'. It seemed to be good that the dog was quiet, but a worry that the boy was so silent.
It ended: 'To think that in her hour of need she had you. It must be a judgement upon her, but why only God knows.'
There was a looking glass on the opposite side of the carriage: I saw in it a boy smoking a cigar, trying to be something he was not.
'Who on earth is writing to you?' asked the wife.
Cicely answered: 'It's from Mary-Ann Roberts, love, one of the weavers. She saw Jim at the mill yesterday and stayed behind to write a letter. She asked me to give it him. What it's about I don't know, I'm sure.'
'It's just about the smash,' I said.
'What about it?' said Cicely. And I was sure the tears were coming again.
'Oh, nothing to speak of,' I said.
I stood up and pitched the letter through the window, sending my cigar flying after it. The girls looked at me strangely for a moment; then carried on with the chatting. On top of everything, I felt a coward for covering things up.
‹o›--
We climbed out at Hebden Bridge and stood before the notice on the platform: 'for hardcastle crags: an ideal spot for picnic parties'. The sound of our train departing gave way to the clattering of the weir by the station. The town was a little way to the west, with woods coming down to it from the hills on all sides. There were mills at Hebden, but they were small ones: house-sized, family goes, putting out thin trails of smoke instead of black fogs.
As we set off walking, I picked up the wife's basket with the blanket on top. 'This is a rather light picnic,' I said.
'We'll pick up a bite in the town,' she said. 'It's on the way, and there's a Co-operative Stores.'
We crossed the river Calder by a bridge called the Victoria Bridge. We walked in a line, dawdling, Cicely in front twirling her sunshade, calling out that this spot could be just as good as Blackpool, if only there were afternoon dances to be found, and me cursing Mary-Ann Roberts. There was a swan going along underneath us, with cygnets following behind, like a train.
Then the wife caught sight of a baker's van heading into the town, and said we must follow it because it had the words 'hebden bridge co-operative society' on the side. We followed it into Commercial Street, and the wife got excited over the store having a butchery as well as a bakery. It was funny how easily people could enjoy life when they didn't have a death to answer for.
'If they can lay their hands on the coin for that,' she said, 'there must be hundreds of members.'
The wife picked up bottles of cola, Eccles cakes, apples and eggs. But when she came out with our divvy number, the shopkeeper shook his head and said, 'That's a Halifax number.' The wife believed you should be able to use a Halifax divvy number in a Co-op at Hebden Bridge or anywhere else, and told the man so, but he didn't seem bothered either way. Even though he had a butchery and a bakery, he was not go- ahead.
He told Cicely that some of the eggs she was looking over were pre-boiled, all ready for picnicking. Cicely laughed, and said, 'Shall we take them and drop them to test it?' and the man said, 'You can do what you bloody want after you've paid for and taken them away.'
'You've a hope of getting new members if that's how you talk to customers,' said the wife.
'I'll not have people cracking eggs on my floor,' he said.
As we were leaving, though, the shopkeeper walked out from behind his counter and, throwing one of the eggs towards Cicely, shouted, 'Catch!'
Cicely did catch it, going very red in the process. 'Well,' she said, as we walked down the road with our full basket, 'he was all right in the end.'
We walked up to a cluster of finger posts on a pole. They showed the way to Granny Wood, Common Bank Wood, Owler Bank, Wood End, Hardcastle Crags.
'What's at Hardcastle Crags?' asked Cicely, a little anxiously.
'Rocks,' I said.
'Do they do teas?' said Cicely.
'Do who do them?' I asked.
'Lonely spot, is it?'
'Except for the hundreds of trippers,' said the wife.
'It's known as Little Switzerland, or England's Alps,' said the wife. 'I read about it in the library. There's a mill up there that's now a tea room, but was in full cry until only a few years ago, working dozens of little weaving girls half to death.'
'It is very pleasantly situated, though,' I said.
We walked along Lees Road, which was in the valley of Hebden Water, and, after passing Nut Clough Mill, fell in with a line of trippers trooping on one another's heels up to the Crags. Occasionally a gig would come along with some toffs on board, and fairly bulging with up-to-date patent cookers and whatnot.
It was scorching hot, and because of what Cicely had said the day before, I fell to thinking about my good suit, which was probably twenty-eight ounces like my work ones. Well, it was too much. I wore it every single Sunday, but for half the year I'd be far better off without it.
We walked on, and after a mile of hard going Cicely's sunshade had stopped twirling, and she'd fallen behind.
'Clog on!' called the wife, turning and grinning at her.
That's proper Yorkshire, that is!' Cicely called back, but she didn't pick up the pace.
We knew we'd come to Hardcastle Crags when we began to see oak trees on the hillsides. Underneath them, the light and shade was all criss-crossed. There were lots of signs telling you not to use patent cookers, and lots of people using them. Each little group would look up and scowl as you went past, just in case you were thinking of sitting near. It was the valley of a stream that was out of sight below, but noisy with it. We sat down next to a party that was just leaving. They looked well-to-do, and had managed to have a knife-and-fork dinner. They were now cleaning the knives by sticking them straight into the ground and yanking them out again. Cicely was quite hypnotised by this. 'I'll bet it doesn't work with the forks,' she said after a while, as if coming out of a dream. Then, looking all about, she said, 'The forget-me-nots are all on the go.' She sighed, adding, 'Oh, they're so viewsome. They've always been my favourites.'
We stretched out our blankets and ate our dinner, which took about five minutes flat. What I'd have liked was a bottle or two of beer, but instead I said, 'Who'd like to walk a bit further up?'
'What happens up there?' asked Cicely.
'You hit the tree line where all the vegetation gives out.'
'Doesn't sound so exciting,' said Cicely.
A few minutes later, the wife spotted a little sign reading 'flower office', and pointing up. This was a round hut where flowers were explained. It was very close inside and smelt strongly of plants, although there were only pictures of plants on show, with the parts – roots, flowers and stems – shown separately like the parts of a machine. In the middle was a glass case containing books open at certain pages and showing maps of the Crags. Everybody shuffled around in a circle, boots making a din on the floorboards.
There was an old lady standing in the hut. Everybody had to keep dodging around her, but it turned out she was there to be asked questions. A couple of smart sorts came out with a few, speaking the Latin names of the plants for swank.
Cicely asked the old lady: 'Is it allowed to pick any of the flowers round about?'