‘What? Lock, stock and barrel?’
The other man nodded, his face serious beneath the sooty mask. ‘All ten wagons… the yard… house and everything.’ He shook head wisely. ‘Ben Saxon’s father started that business years ago. If it’s sold now, it’ll be a household name gone forever. What! Saxon’s coal-merchant’s was delivering round these parts when I were a snotty-nosed kid.’
Adam was thinking ahead. Though he was sorry for the old fellow, he was excited by a certain idea. ‘How much do you reckon he’ll get for it… if he does sell up, I mean?’
The fat fellow shrugged. ‘Who can tell? That big old house is run down, the wagons are past their best, and as for the yard, well, there’s been good yards standing empty round here since afore the war, so folk ain’t likely to be queuing for it.’ His white teeth tore off another chunk of the sandwich. ‘In these bad times, I shouldn’t think the whole lot will fetch more than a couple of thousand pounds.’
‘You’re forgetting the rounds, goodwill and all that. What price there?’ Though two thousand pounds might as well be ten thousand, and every penny of it out of his reach, the germ of an idea was growing in his mind, giving him an urge to satisfy his curiosity.
Following Adam’s train of thought, the fat fellow laughed aloud. ‘Looking to start your own round, eh?’ he teased.
‘Happen.’
‘You must be mad! I said you young ’uns had too much energy for your own good!’
‘It was just a thought.’
‘Have you got a pile of banknotes hidden away?’
‘A few.’
‘Not anything like enough, I’ll bet,’ he chuckled.
‘No,’ Adam confessed. ‘Nowhere near. But I’ve saved most of my wages and I had a fair bit saved before I came here.’ For one precious moment he remembered Rosie, and his heart was full. ‘Saved it for a wedding that never happened,’ he murmured, the memories flooding back to pain him.
His workmate was lost for words. He had seen how Adam’s mood had changed. ‘A wedding, eh?’ he prompted, thinking he might be further enlightened. When Adam kept his own counsel, he quipped good-naturedly, ‘I ain’t never seen a wedding yet that would cost anything like the money you’d need to set up a coal-round.’
‘Start small, grow big,’ Adam said.
‘It ain’t as easy as that. Have you been in business afore?’
‘No. But there’s always a first time. Every successful businessman has to start somewhere.’
‘And how do you reckon you could build up a round from scratch?’
‘I’m not sure yet, but if I made my mind up, I’d give it a damn good try.’
‘Capable of fighting off men who’ve already got a foot in the door, are you? Men who’ll stop at nothing to keep their own patch?’
‘I’d not be much of a man if I let myself be frightened off.’ What had begun as an impossible dream, was now fixed determination. ‘Yes. Given the chance, I reckon I could make it work all right,’ Adam declared boldly.
The fat fellow shook with laughter. ‘Talk about a dog pissing agin the wind!’ he roared. When Adam remained grim-faced, he studied him with new respect. ‘Tell you what,’ he promised in a serious voice, ‘the day you make boss, I’ll be the first to take me hat off to you.’
The two men lapsed into thoughtful mood. The fat fellow regretted the passing of his youth and all that fire in his loins, and Adam couldn’t let go of the idea that he should be looking to start out on his own.
‘Happen there’s no truth in what you heard?’ he suggested. ‘About Ben Saxon selling up. You know how rumours run away with themselves.’
‘Oh, there’s truth in it all right. No rumour starts without cause. Ben Saxon’s ready to sell. That’s the beginning and end of it.’
‘It’s a pity all the same,’ Adam said honestly.
‘Well, the old fella’s had a good run for his money… been in the business nigh on forty years, has old Ben. I expect he’s too long in the tooth now, and what with the young ’uns coming up and snatching the work from under his nose well, it’s dog eat dog, and old Ben ain’t got no teeth left to fight ’em off.’
‘I would have thought there’d be room enough for healthy competition. There’ll always be a demand for fuel.’ Adam roved his eye over the mountainous heaps of coal. Brought from the pits in railway wagons, the coal had first been graded, then tipped into various bays. The highest grade was black and shiny, large jagged chunks that burned slowly and gave out a strong degree of heat; the lowest grade was little more than grey scrapings that congealed in the fire-grate, and turned to ashes quicker than most. The coal was taken to the merchants, who bagged it and took it round the streets to the householders. It was a dirty messy business, but a necessity of life. ‘I’m not arguing that times aren’t hard,’ he admitted, ‘because they are. But when they’ve to tighten their belts, folk will always put heat and food first,’ he observed shrewdly.
‘Aye. That’s true enough. But coal’s expensive, and Liverpool folk are canny. When needs must, they’ll burn anything rather than fork out precious money for a bag of coal. Some of ’em will take the doors off the hinges, or rip up the floorboards. And who’s to blame them, eh? When all’s said and done, the landlord ain’t to know, is he? And anyway, there’s allus plenty of flotsam and timber lying about the docks. Burns well does that… especially if it’s coated with tar.’
* * *
From the window of the shed, the foreman cast a regretful eye over the two men. ‘Which one though?’ he asked the gangly bespectacled fellow seated behind the desk. ‘Now that it’s between these two, which of ’em do we let go?’
‘Last in, first out,’ replied the other man without raising his eyes from his paperwork. ‘That’s the proper way.’
‘Not always the best though. The fat fellow must be knocking on forty.’
‘I’ve known Ted Laing a good many year, and I’ve always found him to be worth two men.’ The boss looked up then, his thin flat face expressionless. ‘Has he slacked off or caused any trouble?’
‘No. But Adam Roach works like a horse, and he’s years younger. That must count for something?’
‘In my experience young men become ambitious, and sooner or later they’ll be looking to move on. Ted Laing has a family. He can’t afford to move anywhere.’ His small eyes drilled into the other man’s face. ‘We’ve four men working these sidings. With work dropping off, we can manage with three. Get rid of Roach.’
The foreman shrugged his shoulders. ‘You’re the boss.’
‘And don’t forget that. You can tell Roach that once work picks up… and it always has… he’s welcome to his job back.’ That said, he returned his attention to the paperwork, leaving the foreman wondering how he might tell Adam that he was to pick up his cards and be on his way.
* * *
Three days later, on Friday afternoon, the men queued for their wages. As always, Adam was the last to finish work. By the time he came to the window, the other men were sauntering off, counting the notes in their wage packets and putting aside the price of a jar of ale before they delivered the money to their wives.
‘Cheer up, mate,’ Adam told the grim-faced foreman, ‘it’s a Friday. You’ve a whole weekend before you.’
‘I’m sorry.’ The foreman regarded him with serious eyes, ‘I’ve been told to let you go.’
‘What do you mean, “let me go”?’ He knew exactly what that meant, but was reluctant to believe it.
The foreman handed him a fat wage-packet. ‘You’ll find your week-in-hand, together with a good bonus in there. You’ve earned it. But the boss says we’ve to cut down on manpower, and you’re it.’ He threw out his arms. ‘If it had been up to me, I’d have kept you on. I’m sorry, mate.’
Adam was momentarily lost for words. Presently he told the other man, ‘As long as it wasn’t my work that was unsatisfactory.’
‘Good God, no!’ The foreman’s relief was obvious. He’d seen some men turn nas
ty when they were handed their cards. And this particular fellow could no doubt flatten him with one blow if he took a mind. ‘You’re one of the best workers we’ve had here,’ he explained. ‘What’s more, the boss says when trade picks up, you can gladly have your job back.’
‘If I want it.’ Adam had other things on his mind; like a coal-round of his very own. ‘First time in my life I’ve ever been given my cards. But who knows? It might be a blessing in disguise.’
The foreman was intrigued, smiling with him. ‘Oh? Got something up your sleeve, have you?’ he queried.
Adam touched his nose with the tip of his finger. ‘Who knows?’ he hinted. ‘I just might come back as a customer.’ With that he stuffed the wage packet in his pocket and went away whistling. At the gate he turned back and surveyed the blackened heaps. ‘See you,’ he called to the foreman, who had followed his progress across the yard.
‘Aye. Best of luck, mate,’ he returned. Then he went inside to tell the boss, ‘In my opinion you’ve let the best man go.’
‘You’re not paid to have opinions,’ snarled the thin-faced misery, rising from his seat. Going to the coat stand, he grabbed the black bowler hat and rammed it on his head. ‘I suppose I can leave you to lock up, can I?’ he said sarcastically. Without waiting for an answer, he went outside and cranked his little black car until it spluttered into life. Clambering inside, he fussed and fidgeted, before being carried away in a series of jerks and spurts as the vehicle negotiated the many hollows and mounds that littered the unmade road. They got as far as the gate before the car coughed and died, reviving only when its ungrateful owner got out and gave it another cranking, swearing and moaning the whole time.
‘Serves you right!’ The foreman kept out of sight in case he should be called on to exert himself. ‘It’d do you good to catch a tram… or even walk home like the men who sweat for you.’ He was still rankled about having to give a good man his cards. Still and all, he felt in his bones that: ‘We ain’t seen the last of Adam Roach. Not by a long chalk.’
Chapter Six
Dell Place was a miserable little dead end near the Liverpool docks. The houses were terraced and the landlords, greedy to cash in on the shortage of living accommodation in this area, had divided the houses into rooms and the rooms into cubicles, where often a whole family would reside in poverty.
Here, the stench of fish from the docks permeated the air, and the many sounds kept a body from sleeping: drunken sailors released from months at sea and let loose to fill their bellies with booze; street women making love against the walls with men hungry after being deprived for too long. Vicious dogs roamed the neighbourhood, and men fought each other with knives and fists. There were robbers and scoundrels and people who would steal the shirt from your back. But, amid all this, the ordinary law-abiding folk eked out a living where they could; good Godfearing neighbours who helped each other when times were hard.
Adam lived at number two, in a dingy room at the top of two flights of stairs. From his window he could see the cobbled streets below, and if he raised his eyes he could make out ships anchored in the docks, their tall masts and chimneys creating a unique skyline. In this neighbourhood life went on twenty-four hours a day, a throbbing pulsing ebb that flowed from the docks and swamped everything around. He didn’t mind it here. He would mind it even less if he lived on Albert Street. That was where Ben Saxon lived.
‘Happen he’ll sell the furniture with the house,’ Adam mused aloud. He stared round the room, a tiny place with a single iron bed up in one corner, a sink in the other, a small table and two chairs, a crotchety old settee with the stuffing hanging out, and a faded rug covering the floorboards in the centre of the room. ‘Anything would be an improvement on this lot!’
Since coming in from work, he had sat by the table with a mug of strong tea, his wages spilled out before him, and his heart filled with regret. ‘What made you do it, Rosie?’ he murmured, gazing at the one picture he had of her.
Held with great tenderness, the picture lay in his palm. So many times he had meant to throw it away, but couldn’t bring himself to do it; not even when he reminded himself that she now belonged to someone else. ‘I love you so much, sweetheart… always will. We could have been so happy, you and me.’ Big brown eyes smiled back at him, and it was more than he could bear.
Going to the wash-basin, he began to shave. With the lather thick and rich on his face, he studied himself in the discoloured mirror. ‘Don’t kid yourself, Roach,’ he chided softly. ‘Rosie made her choice, and it wasn’t you. So you might as well get on with your life. There’s no future in being head over heels in love with a woman when she prefers your best mate.’
But he was head over heels in love, and for too long all his thoughts, all his plans, had revolved around Rosie. He couldn’t altogether blame her. He hadn’t written, so what was she to think? Even then she might have come to him, but his pride got in the way. He deeply regretted that. Some time ago he had even gone back to Blackburn, only to learn that Rosie and Doug were wed. It had taken him a long time to come to terms with that. Yet every day was like a new penance, and in spite of everything, it was hard to see a future without her.
He shaved, stripped and washed all over. In no time at all he was ready for out. In his blue cord trousers and open-necked dark shirt, he was incredibly handsome. His thick black hair shone like new coal, and his dark eyes sparkled with the confidence of a man with a plan. A plan to set him on a new path.
He gathered up his money. With the back week and the bonus it amounted to forty-one pounds. Together with the rest of his money, which was in the bank – representing the major part of his wages while he was in the forces, and the main bulk of his earnings since – the grand total came to two hundred and twenty pounds. ‘It might have been enough to pay for a wedding and a down payment on a house in Rosamund Street.’ He hadn’t forgotten how Rosie had always wanted a house on Rosamund Street. ‘But I can’t see it putting me in with the big boys.’ His strong features broke into a smile. ‘Still, it’s a nice little pile all the same. With a bit of luck, it might be enough to get me started.’
After taking out eight shillings for the rent and five for a night out, he carefully replaced his wages behind the loose brick in the chimney-breast. First thing Monday morning, with the exception of a few shillings to feed himself, the money would go into the bank with the rest of his savings.
Winding his way round a warring couple and pausing to play hopscotch with a group of giggling children, Adam came out of Dell Place and into Fish Street. From there he went along Merseyside and down towards Albert Street. He had an idea in mind, and wouldn’t enjoy a pint until he’d put the idea to a certain Mr Saxon. The nearer he came to Albert Street, the better he felt and the merrier he whistled. ‘Steady as you go, Roach,’ he warned himself as he approached the house. ‘You’re still not certain the old fella means to sell up. What’s more, you’re a stranger to him and may not be welcome.’
Albert Street was a long winding row of narrow terraced houses. Like every other street of its kind, it had a life of its own. From one house could be heard the voices of a man and his woman having a raging argument; four doors away, a middle-aged mother sat on a chair, her withered breast hanging over a stark white blouse and a tiny infant sucking contentedly at the nipple. Some way off two dogs were fighting over a bone, while nearby a group of children played five-stones on the cobbles.
Ben Saxon’s house straddled the corner. It was a big old Victorian building with a multitude of windows and a wonderful carving over the porch. But it was past its prime; the window-frames were rotting and the whole place appeared to be sagging in the middle. Through the wooden gates at the side, Adam could see the yard with its many bays, still half-filled with coal. At the far end, an old grey gelding peered out from his stables, sad-eyed and lonely.
Having come along the length of Albert Street and now standing before Ben Saxon’s house, Adam thought of all kinds of reasons why he should turn
tail and head for the pub. ‘Happen it is all a rumour,’ he told himself. ‘Happen he’ll run me up the road with a shovel… and so he should, you cheeky bugger!’ His courage almost deserted him when a white head appeared at the window, narrowed eyes regarding him with hostility. But, no. He had come this far, and he might as well see it through.
Adam had his arm raised ready to knock on the door when it was flung open and a little wizened figure thrust itself at him. ‘What do you want here?’ it demanded, small dark eyes staring him up and down.
Being on the bottom step, with the little man peering down on him, Adam felt at a disadvantage. More than that, he was aware that a group of youths had gathered at the sight of a stranger down their street. One of them was standing nearby with one foot on the kerb. ‘Anything wrong, old man?’ he asked, addressing Ben Saxon.
The old fellow shook his fist. ‘Bugger off,’ he snapped.
The young man laughed. ‘Threatening me, are you, Grandad?’ He leered at the others who sensed a rumpus brewing. ‘Hear that, did you?’ the scruffy youth asked. ‘The miserable old sod don’t like me taking an interest.’
The other youths grinned and began to close ranks. ‘I’d call that real ungrateful,’ said a large red-faced lad. ‘Especially when there’s a stranger standing on his step. I mean… how are we to know he ain’t here to cause trouble?’ He stared at Adam whose expression hardened when the lout asked, ‘What have you to say to that, Mister?’
Turning to face him, Adam smiled. ‘What would you like me to say?’ Bracing himself, he remained ready and confident.
The lout laughed aloud. ‘See what I mean? This bugger’s a troublemaker if ever I saw one!’ he told the others. Glaring at the old man, he warned, ‘You should know better than hobnobbing with troublemakers. Round here, we like to keep ourselves to ourselves.’ Returning his attention to Adam, he suggested slyly, ‘I reckon you’d best be on your way.’
More Than Riches Page 9
