The Ribbon Weaver by Rosie Goodwin Page A

she said, and side-by-side they sat together at the table and tucked into a hearty breakfast.
    When they were finished, Molly hurried away to help Bessie tidy up, and once their own table was cleared and the pots washed and dried, Amy went off to church.
    An hour or so later, when Molly returned, the girl was back and had begun sketching. Peeping over her shoulder, Molly gazed at the drawings admiringly.
    ‘Yer know, that dress and hat you designed for Mary is the talk o’ the lane,’ she commented. ‘She almost looked like gentry. I don’t mind bettin’ there ain’t no bride hereabouts worn a dress like that before.’
    Amy grinned.
    ‘Why, even Samuel Forrester himself was impressed,’ Molly went on, still staring at the sketches spread out on the table. There were drawings of hats of all shapes and sizes and Amy had somehow seemed to make them stand out from the paper.
    ‘Yer know, yer should never be sweepin’ floors an’ fetchin’ an’ carryin’ wi’ a talent like this. It’s a crying shame,’ she grumbled, but Amy only grinned.
    ‘It’s early days yet, Gran,’ she told her confidently. ‘Everything comes to those that wait.’ And lowering her head again she returned to her sketching.
    The long dry summer came and went pleasantly enough and so did Christmas. The coalhouse was full, the pantry was full, and with Amy tipping up the seven shillings that she earned each week, she and Molly had more than enough to meet their needs.
    Amy’s wage was in fact meagre compared to those of the women who worked the machines at the factory but for now, she was happy.
    Molly herself was now doing a bit of weaving again, more to pass the lonely hours whilst Amy was at work than anything else. She found that she could only turn out a quarter of the ribbons that she had used to, but nevertheless the pennies in the savings jar were slowly rising again and Molly counted her blessings.
    Mary still came to visit, though not as regularly now that she had her own home to see to, and it was on one of her visits that she had them rolling with laughter as she told them of the new addition at Forrester’s Folly.
    Samuel Forrester’s mother had gone to live there and according to Mary she was a character to be reckoned with.
    ‘I’ll tell yer now, she puts that little madam, Miss Eugenie, in her place and no mistake,’ she laughed. ‘She don’t dare throw no nonsense or tantrums in front o’ her . In fact, everybody watches their Ps and Qs when she’s about.’
    ‘Is she horrible?’ Amy asked, wide-eyed.
    Mary shook her head. ‘Ner, to tell the truth I quite like her. She don’t suffer fools gladly, she says what she thinks but she’s got no airs an’ graces so you allus know where you stand wi’ her.’
    ‘Well, that’s one blessin’ then,’ Molly remarked.
    Mary nodded. ‘From what I’ve heard it’s her that has made the master what he is today. Even now she still talks to him as if he’s a little lad, an’ the funny thing is, when she cracks the whip he bloody jumps.’ She was dabbing at the tears of laughter in her eyes with a large white handkerchief and her amusement was so infectious that soon she had everyone else laughing too.
    ‘I tell yer, the old dear is a tonic,’ she giggled, and as she continued to recount the incidents she had witnessed they were all almost crying with laughter and holding their sides.
    ‘The best thing to come out of her arrivin’ is the fact that I’ve heard rumours that Miss Eugenie is naggin’ young Master Adam to get their own house in London now,’ Mary confided. ‘Up until now they’ve spent their married life livin’ between The Folly an’ the master’s house in London but now she’s champin’ at the bit to own her own place.’
    ‘Do you think Master Adam will buy her one?’ Molly asked.
    Mary shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t doubt it; she usually gets her own way. An’ if you were to ask me, I’d say the sooner the better. Master Adam is all right