Chandlers Green Read online

  About the Book

  The Chandlers had been making candles in Bolton for five hundred years, and had given their name to the village of Chandlers Green. The dynasty, now in decline and ruled by Richard Chandler, is reduced to an unhappy household and a few tenanted properties.

  But Richard continues to behave as though he were lord of the manor. Jean, his wife, is terrified of him; his aunt, Anna Chandler, has moved out of the house and is writing a history of candlemaking; his grown-up children despise him, but fear for their mother if they should leave home. And now Richard’s arch-enemy, Alf Martindale, is planning to move into his village, and Richard knows that the past is catching up with him fast. A crisis forces him to leave his manor for a while, and he has no way of knowing that Jean is arming herself against his return. The past and the present are about to come together in a way that can only end in tragedy . . .

  A magnificent new novel from this powerful bestselling author.

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  About the Author

  Also by Ruth Hamilton

  Copyright

  CHANDLERS GREEN

  Ruth Hamilton

  I dedicate this work to the township of Bolton, chartered in 1253 and celebrating its 750th anniversary in 2003.

  Some facts about the town of which I am inordinately proud to be a daughter:

  1253 – Bolton established by charter as a free borough.

  1256 – Market chartered by Henry III.

  1337 – Flemish yarn makers settled.

  1631 – Population 500.

  1641 – Grammar school founded.

  1643 – Civil War – Bolton besieged with much bloodshed.

  1651 – James, seventh Earl of Derby, beheaded in Churchgate.

  1760 – Arkwright, founder of cotton factory system, kept a barber shop in Bolton.

  1763 – Samuel Crompton, inventor of cotton mule, born in Bolton.

  1763 – Cotton quilting and muslins first made in Bolton.

  1791 – Canal to Bolton opened.

  1828 – Bolton’s first railway.

  1832 – First parliamentary election – population 41,195.

  1901 – Population 168,215.

  2001 – Population 261,037.

  The most beautiful civic buildings oversee an excellent shopping centre. I spend many a day footling about in shops, researching in the library, getting help from the Bolton Evening News offices.

  Countryside surrounding the town remains exquisite. Visitors should go to Hall i’ th’ Wood, where Crompton built his mule. This house, together with Rivington Pike and surrounding lands, was bequeathed to the people of the town by Lord Leverhulme, son of a Bolton trader who, after following his father into business, went on to manufacture Sunlight Soap and many other household brands at Port Sunlight on the Wirral.

  There are parks, wonderful country pubs and restaurants, there is the best jeweller north of Birmingham, there are villages where weavers’ stone cottages stand row upon row with the Pennine foothills visible from their gardens. The Last Drop is a splendid place to the north, where craftsmen show their wares, and a day can be spent at an antique fair or simply wandering through the little lanes.

  Sorry to sound like a travelogue – but I want to share my wonderful town with others. Perhaps I am biased, but it remains the best town I know. I have enormous respect for Liverpool, but my aim is to buy one of those weavers’ cottages as a second home, because I love two places and I want to own a small slice of both.

  Last, never least, I pay homage to the people of Bolton, who fed, educated and clothed me from the civic purse. I can never repay my debt to the town, but I hope the books bring back memories and encourage others to take an interest in this, the largest seat of the Industrial Revolution in the north.

  Ruthie

  Acknowledgements

  I thank:

  My family, as always, including Sam, Fudge, Geri (two labradors and one cat), and Jack and Vera, my noisy cockatiels. These are my constant companions when I write. (See – animals first, as ever). Particular thanks to my son Michael and his partner, Lizzie. These two have borne the brunt of my journey towards correcting diabetes and I could not have managed so well without them. As they venture forward to their own life and their own home, I wish them Godspeed and much happiness together.

  My new editor, Linda Evans – hope she can tolerate me as well as Diane did – and everyone at my publishing house – bless you for putting up with me.

  Angela Kelly of the Bolton Evening News for staunch support and some laughs.

  Joanna Frank, my agent.

  Dorothy Ramsden, Barbara Kerks, Tess Scott for research support.

  Readers, you know how grateful I am. Please continue to visit me at www.ruthhamilton.co.uk

  ONE

  The house was white and square, three windows across the top, two at the bottom, a large black door in the centre. Its roof was of grey-purple slate and the whole façade was covered in Virginia creeper, so pretty in the autumn, its leaves russet-coloured as they crisped their way towards the year’s end.

  ‘It’s lovely.’ Leena Martindale stepped back to take in the whole view, her heels suspended over the edge of a narrow pavement. ‘Eeh, I never thought we’d be living in a place like this, Alf. It’s like a dream come true, isn’t it? Tell me I’ll not wake up in a minute, love. Tell me it’s real.’ She would surely come to her full senses any second now, would be back in Emblem Street, mills to the left, mills to the right, chimneys belching into the sky for hours each day.

  ‘It’s real, Leena. God knows we worked long and hard enough for it. We’re as good as any of them round here now, love – even yon pot-bellied bugger up at the grange. Wait till he realizes it’s us, eh? That’ll take the skin off his rice pudding.’ Alf managed, just, not to rub his hands together in glee. He had trounced Chandler for the second time and the feeling was more than good – it was glorious. There would be no beating the first occasion, of course, because that had been a show-stopper … No, no, he must not laugh out loud.

  Leena walked forward and opened the gate. Unused to movement, the black-painted wood creaked, while its hinges screamed for oil as they dropped flakes of rust onto the weed-covered path. ‘It’s not been shifted in a while, this gate,’ she commented as she led her husband towards their new home. She pointed to a gap in the fence. ‘I reckon folk have been coming and going through that hole. Eeh, the whole place looks sad. But I don’t care what state it’s in, Alf. We’re here. We’re up on the moors and no bugger can say different.’ Here, she could get better; here, her lungs would heal, would learn their full capacity all over again, no smoke, no fumes, no specks of scarlet contained within a white handkerchief.

  They had bought the house unseen, had negotiated through agents and solicitors, had mentioned to no-one that they would be moving out of Bolton and up the moorlands to a village so select that it was beyond the reach of most ordinary folk. Aye, well, there’d be a few eyes wiped when the removal van arrived, because Alf and Leena Martindale were not doctors or lawyers, were not any kind of gentry, landed or otherwise; they had made their fortune through collecting rubbish thrown out by rich and poor alike. Alf, the rag
-and-bone man, and Leena, the ex-char, had reached for the stars.

  Proud of what they had achieved, they were nervous nevertheless, because the move felt like the biggest stride since the Eighth Army had hopped across from North Africa … Time froze for several seconds as the pair hovered on the brink of this new horizon, this fresh and much-needed new start.

  ‘They won’t like us,’ said Leena as Alf broke the moment by turning the key in its aged lock. ‘We’ll be like sore thumbs.’

  Alf laughed. ‘He won’t like it and that’s for certain sure. But he can bloody whistle, because we’ve bought outright, our money’s as good as anybody’s and, on top of all that, I can’t wait to see his face when he finds out.’

  This was Richard Chandler’s patch. He acted as lord of the manor, carried on as if he owned everything and everybody for miles around, but he seemed to have forgotten this one empty house at the edge of his principality, the property of an eccentric and housebound spinster who had faded away just weeks earlier. Alf had kept his ear to the ground for ages, had jumped in as soon as the house had become available. And now, here they were, bold as brass and ready to knock the place into shape. ‘Hang on,’ he said.

  Leena giggled like a newly-wed when he lifted her up and carried her over the threshold. After over twenty-five years of marriage, she was not the slender maiden who had stood at the altar of Sts Peter and Paul, was no longer the shy, awkward girl from the bottom of Deane Road. As for Alf, who was nearing fifty, three decades of heavy lifting had taken its toll, so he was glad when Leena was safely deposited in the hall. ‘It smells funny,’ she remarked.

  ‘Aye, that’s what the surveyor said.’ Alf regained his breath after a few seconds. ‘Give yourself no more second helpings of black pudding in future, lass – I’ve lifted four-poster bedsteads lighter than you.’ He inhaled. ‘Dry rot,’ was the pronouncement. ‘Don’t worry, it’s all in hand.’ This place would be like a little palace once the rough edges had been knocked off. Alf would make it shine, he would, bugger the cost.

  At each side of the hall, a door led to twin rooms, both square, both with nice old fireplaces that screamed for a good scrubbing. Behind the room on the left there was another square area, probably the dining room, and on the opposite side a large kitchen led to a back garden of mammoth proportions. ‘The jungle was thrown in with the price,’ said Alf. ‘It’ll take an army to shift that lot. Poor old girl depended on her neighbours towards the end, and they couldn’t look after her and the garden too. We’ll need farm machinery to get through the weeds – we could well find half a dozen bloody lions living out there.’

  But Leena was already designing her kitchen, was planning on moving the sink, arranging cupboards and shelves, was wondering whether to have a table and chairs near the window. Aye, once the garden was tidied, there’d be a cracking view from the kitchen – it would be like eating out on the lawn. French windows, perhaps? There was no house behind, just miles of open land, no-one to overlook the cottage. Cottage? Compared to their current home, this was a mansion. She gulped. It was all going to be so different, so splendid. She could see it as it would be after the work was finished, a small mansion, four bedrooms, a proper bathroom, lawns, flower beds.

  ‘Mice,’ announced Alf. ‘I can smell ’em.’

  ‘At least there’s gas and electric now.’ Leena was thinking about new pots and pans, nice bright curtains and a great big cooker. ‘I could grow my own herbs.’ Oh, she would get used to this place, all right. She pictured herself baking, crusty loaves set out on cooling racks, meat-and-potato pies, fancy cakes for the weekends. They could have family and friends round, give them a lovely treat for Christmas, carols by the fire, mince pies, a drop of port. Any minute now, she would die of happiness, because her heart was fit to burst.

  They went back to the hall, ascended the stairs gingerly, aware that dry rot might cause the steps to give way at any second. They found four bedrooms and a bathroom that seemed not to have been cleaned for about half a century. The lavatory was a disgrace, filthy enough to make anyone gag, but Alf and Leena took it in their stride – as dealers in scrap and dirt, they were inured to the seamier side of life.

  ‘It’s just what I’ve always wanted.’

  Alf agreed. ‘Worth all the scrimping and saving, eh? But I still think we should keep it to ourselves. With all that wants doing, we’ll not see this straight till Christmas – even then, we’ll be lucky. Aye, we shall do it in style, love, no cutting corners. I’ve at least fifteen years’ work left in me, so we’ll not go short. And when them policies come in, there’ll be enough for a grand retirement.’

  Leena’s eyes pricked. They’d never been deprived and their children had been adequately provided for, but there was no comparison between Claughton Cottage and the poky little house in Emblem Street, the place that had been their home since just before the war. So, they had reached their goal. The kids were grown and educated, the worst was behind them, the best was here. What was more, this place had come cheap and, once done up, would be a fine legacy for Marie and Colin.

  Alf was measuring a wall. He had seen some wardrobes in a house that wanted clearing, big, solid items with fancy handles and mirrored doors. Was there space for a four-poster? ‘Yon little bedroom should do for your sewing,’ he told her. He was proud of his wife; she did dressmaking, embroidery, water-colours and fancy knitting. Not many men from the bottom end could boast a wife as talented as his Leena was.

  ‘Well, what I thought was—’ Leena’s words froze in her throat. ‘Did you hear that?’ she whispered.

  ‘I did.’ They both crept to the door. Alf put a finger to his lips. ‘Shh,’ he whispered.

  A voice floated up the stairwell; Leena and Alf stood listening at the bedroom door.

  ‘I’ve keys to most houses,’ said the man. ‘Of course, my family can trace its ancestry back to the fourteenth century – we believe that our name was taken from the original art of candle-making, just as Thatchers and Masons got theirs from other crafts. We owned the whole village for hundreds of years. The houses were tenanted, but my father and I sold many of them off – we are firm believers in owner-occupation. One has to move with the times, you see.’

  Leena and Alf looked at each other. The enemy was below, was making the noises of battle, would have to be routed, yet Alf was suddenly apprehensive.

  ‘Are these floors safe?’ asked a female. ‘It seems to have been rather neglected.’

  ‘Miss Forrester was not able to look after herself for many years,’ the man explained. ‘She became very frail and we had to make sure that the whole village pulled its weight in caring for her. There is great camaraderie in Chandlers Green.’

  Alf had taken enough and temper began to rise to the surface, bringing with it the pride he had learnt in the army, the pride that had defeated the man who was currently invading his property. Much as he would have preferred his entrance into Chandlers Green to be unannounced, Alf realized that the pair downstairs would want to see the upper floor, too, and that he and Leena would be discovered very shortly. ‘Who’s there?’ he shouted, motioning his wife to remain where she was. He moved to the top of the stairs.

  Richard Chandler arrived in the hall. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I asked first,’ answered Alf. ‘What are you doing in my house?’

  ‘Your house?’ The big man’s face took on a purplish hue.

  ‘Bought and paid for through Sykes and Moorhead,’ answered Alf. ‘In cash, deeds in a bank vault, all done, dusted and tied up in pretty red ribbon, Dickie. All right? Is that enough information, or do you want to know what I had for my breakfast?’ Mortgage-free, the proud owner of Claughton Cottage bestrode the landing, sturdy legs set wide, arms folding themselves in a gesture of triumph, eyes goading the interloper to make further comment.

  Chandler’s eyes narrowed. There was something familiar about the intruder’s face, yet he could not quite manage to place him. ‘I tend to vet the purchasers of property hereabouts
,’ he blustered. ‘I had no idea that anyone had looked at this house—’

  ‘Aye, well, you’d have to be up very early in the morning to beat me to it, Dickie Chandler. You don’t remember me, do you? Fusiliers, saved your life, then you tried to get me court-martialled on a trumped-up charge that was overturned? Come on, lad, think back. You left the regiment with your head bowed, didn’t you, eh? And I was the one who got the medals.’ Momentarily ashamed, Alf wished that he had not bragged about his decorations, but the words were out, had reached the ears of his foe.

  Richard Chandler staggered back, his involuntary progress impeded only by a noisy collision with the closed front door.

  ‘Don’t be banging into any of Miss Forrester’s effects,’ said Alf calmly, ‘only her nephew sold it all, lock, stock and pepper pot. I shall be having the place gutted, of course. Chandlers Green isn’t what it was, is it? Never thought I’d see the day when a lowlife like me could buy into it.’ Go on, he urged inwardly, do us all a favour and have the bloody stroke you deserve, you bad bastard.

  Richard Chandler was having trouble with his breathing. His companion, clearly disturbed and embarrassed by the exchange, walked into one of the living rooms and closed the door. Leena, also a reluctant ear-witness, tried not to breathe at all as she stayed well out of view. This was the last thing she had anticipated; oh, it would have happened eventually, but she had wanted the house right and occupied first. This way, she felt that Alf was at a disadvantage, because the house was like the wreck of the Hesperus and neither Martindale had got dressed up to visit this dilapidated place.

  Good God. Chandler righted himself with difficulty. Here stood his Nemesis, Sergeant Alfred Martindale, the man who had stolen everything from him, who had left him bloody, bowed and disgraced in the eyes of his fellow officers – how the hell had the man managed this coup? ‘Sykes and Moorhead should have kept me advised in the matter,’ he said. ‘I am always informed about what is to happen in this village.’