Mistress of Green Tree Mill

by Mistress of Green Tree Mill (retail) (epub)

  When she went downstairs Charlie and Maggy were loud in their admiration of her. Charlie had never seen his mother in evening dress before and stood with his jaw dropped, gazing at her as if she were a princess.

  ‘Oh Ma, you look awful bonny,’ he said and she bent down to clutch him to her. She loved him devotedly, wild as he was he had no faults in her eyes.

  The jute-men’s club had a hallowed atmosphere, almost like a church. The carpets were deep, the walls were panelled with shining mahogany and the members were attended by smoothly gliding male servants in tailcoats. Tall portraits, all of men, in heavy gilt frames lined the walls, snuff horns made out of sheep’s heads with silver tipped antlers stood on tables beneath them. The chairs were deep and unholstered in leather and the curtains of dark red plush had heavy silken fringes and rope-like ties. But Lizzie was to see little of this for when her carriage rolled up at the front door, a trio of men rushed out to meet her and swept her through the main hall into an anteroom where she stayed until the procession of dignitaries filed in to the large dining room next door. It was obvious that she was being hidden away from the club like a shameful thing.

  The dinner was gargantuan, with salver after salver of extravagantly dressed dishes being presented. Each course was accompanied by a different wine. By the time they reached the dessert and champagne stage, Lizzie’s eyes smarted from the cigar smoke that wreathed above the heads of the other diners and she could not look at another scrap of food. The only woman present, she felt strange, like someone from another world, and as she looked at the men’s faces about her she found that her years of serving customers in the Castle Bar made her able to spot which of her fellow diners had been affected by the wine. She herself had taken care only to sip at each glass set down before her, but some heavier drinkers were filled with bonhomie.

  Others reacted to alcohol in a different way. It made them sensitive, suspicious, pugnacious or argumentative, so she thought it a grave mistake to have the business meeting after the dinner and not before it.

  When the brandy and port began to circulate it soon became evident that the business meeting was only an excuse to cross-examine their enemy.

  One of the Bruntons started it: ‘All of us here have been in the jute business for a long time, Mrs Kinge. We’re friends and we’re anxious to become friends with you as well.’

  She inclined her head in assent but kept her eyes warily on him as he continued, ‘Of course we were surprised when Green Tree was taken over by a woman. It was quite a joke by old Mr Adams to do that – he always was an unusual man.’

  She was conscious of the eyes fixed on her. They were all well-groomed men, some young, some old, and they were appraising her on many different levels. She bristled with resentment at the thought.

  ‘I don’t think Mr Adams intended it as a joke. He knew quite well that I could run the mill.’

  ‘Sooty’ Sutherland turned on her now and there was little courtesy in his voice. ‘I don’t think he’d expect you to cut the throats of his friends, though.’

  She was not going to accept that. ‘If I win orders it’s because I offer a better bargain. People wouldn’t come to me if they were happy with what they were getting from you.’

  A man called Ross who owned Coffin Mill – so named because of its sinister shape – looked angry when he said loudly, ‘We’ve all worked together for years. We’ve divided the business up. You’re spoiling things for everybody. The slump’ll come for you as well and what’ll you do then? I’ll tell you – you’ll go to the wall and none of us’ll help you.’

  Lizzie rounded on him. ‘You’ve organized things to suit yourselves for too long. I know of lots of little businesses that you’ve forced into closure, so don’t talk about helping me. You’d never do that. You fix prices and you fix wages and conditions for your workers. I’m not in your club and I don’t want to be. I can make my own bargains. I’m not afraid to stand alone.’

  Her eyes ran up and down the line of flushed faces at the table. They were against her like a pack of hungry wolves. Only one rumpled man with a mop of curling hair that shone brightly blond in the light of gas chandeliers regarded her with admiration.

  ‘Well done, lassie,’ he said. ‘You’ve got plenty of guts. I hope you make a go of it.’

  Bruton called the meeting to order and Lizzie, feeling beleaguered, swept out into the hall where her Paisley shawl was handed to her by a club servant. She had hoped to escape without further unpleasantness, but waiting for her at the door was Sooty Sutherland, his face now red and mottled with drink. He held the door handle with one hand and leaned his back against it as he spoke to Lizzie.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re playing at. What’re you trying to prove? The pity of the thing is that you’re a bonny-looking woman. You’re needing a man, that’s what’s wrong with you. You’d be better off in somebody’s bed than sitting in a mill office.’

  As he spoke he stepped forward and put out a hand to stroke down the slope of Lizzie’s white breasts.

  She leapt back. His touch repelled her. Her skin cringed beneath his fingers. He made her feel unclean. Spitting out ‘Take your filthy hands off me!’ she swung back her arm with her fist knuckled like a boxer’s. When it connected with his chin he sank to the carpet on his knees, a look of complete astonishment on his face. Stepping over him, Lizzie disappeared into the darkness of the night, ignoring the line of astonished men at her back.

  * * *

  Next day David Mudie called at his daughter’s office. He was laughing when he stuck his head round her door and said, ‘How’s the prizefighter today then? The whole town’s talking about you felling Sooty in the jute-men’s club.’

  She put down her pen. ‘He asked for it. I should have kicked him in the balls when I was at it.’ She was so angry that she did not try to maintain her normal lady-like demeanour.

  Her father roared with laughter. ‘That’s my Lizzie. I knew that temper of yours was still there inside.’

  ‘Sit down,’ she told him, ‘I need your advice. They’re out to get me now. Will you listen to everything you hear and let me know? You’ve plenty of friends who’ll talk. Just bring everything back, no matter how unimportant it seems.’

  ‘I’ll do that for you,’ he agreed, but his face went solemn as he warned her, They’re hard men. They’ve been up there too long to be taken lightly. They’ve money and power behind them, Lizzie. Watch out.’

  ‘I am watching. I’m watching very hard,’ she said. ‘And Father, there was a man there last night who seemed to be on my side a bit. I wondered who he was.’

  David knew them all. ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘He was sort of stout, with yellowish hair, all tousled and curly. He was about forty, I expect.’

  ‘Oh, that’s Goldie. He’s a character. If anybody would be on your side it would be Goldie.’

  ‘Goldie who? Which mill?’

  ‘Goldie Johanson. His father came from Norway. He hasn’t a mill, he’s a shipbuilder and he has his own shipping line, the biggest in the port. It’s Goldie’s ships that all the jute-men use. It’s his boats that do the Calcutta run. Nobody can build boats like Goldie. They’d have him at the dinner because they all need him, and most of them owe him money.’

  Chapter 18

  The outing to the jute-barons’ dinner, fraught as it proved to be, whetted Lizzie’s appetite for society. To her surprise she found that she had enjoyed dressing up, fussing about her gown, pinning up her mass of hair and putting Mrs Adams’ long diamond earrings in her ears. What was the use of having all these beautiful things if she never displayed them?

  It no longer seemed enough to dress herself in a tailored costume and drive to Green Tree Mill every day. She found herself longing for music and laughter, dancing and gossip. She recalled the pleasure of mingling with happy crowds. ‘I’d like to enjoy myself again,’ she told her mirrored reflection, but the face looked back sadly as if to say: Those days are over.

&nb
sp; She leaned towards it and argued with herself: I’m still a young woman and I’m living like a hermit! but the reflection said: Women don’t go into society alone. They have to have an escort. Is it another husband you want?

  No, no one could take Sam’s place. I just wish he hadn’t died. I want time to turn back. I want to live again.

  In a fury of frustration she lifted a cut-glass bowl off the dressing table and smashed it to the floor.

  ‘It’s so unfair, it’s so unfair,’ she cried aloud, sweeping brushes, combs and powder boxes off the dressing table.

  Maggy tidied up after her as she stormed through her lovely house, leaving chaos in her wake. The maids cowered at her approach; even Charlie and his pet dog Bran kept out of her way.

  In Green Tree the inward fury powered her like a drug. She behaved like a dragon and pursued an economy campaign that affected every employee. No longer was time to be set aside during working hours for cleaning the looms.

  This necessary operation had to be carried out in the workers’ lunch hours, she decreed.

  The foremen protested. ‘But the stoor’ll get into folk’s food. A lot of the women eat at their looms.’

  Lizzie was adamant. ‘The looms have to be cleaned or else we’ll have a fire, but we mustn’t waste time doing it. This is how they do it in the big mills. They don’t stop looms and machines during working hours. They clean them when they’re stopped anyway. If the women don’t like it they can find jobs somewhere else.’

  In the beginning she had many supporters among the women who worked for her but her increasingly hard attitude alienated quite a few. They were disappointed in her. ‘She’s just as bad as a’ the ithers,’ they said among themselves.

  When gossip about her bad temper reached her father, he was concerned, for he had a good idea what ailed his raging daughter.

  ‘You should go out more. You’ve not been to the theatre since Sam died,’ he told her one day when he called in at her office with little Lexie in tow.

  Lizzie leaned her elbows on the desk top and glared at him. ‘I’m not like you, Father. I haven’t time to go jaunting to theatres.’

  He shifted in his chair and protested, ‘Come now, Lizzie, that’s not fair. I don’t go out so much these days. Anyway I’m worried about you. You need some amusement in your life.’

  ‘And how do you suggest I find it? It’s different for men, you know. When they’re widowed, it’s expected that they go out alone. But women can’t. Besides, I don’t want to!’

  It was a lie and they both knew it.

  ‘I’ve been thinking that you used to like playing cards. You enjoyed a hand of whist and you were good at it. Perhaps we could arrange a game once a week.’

  She had enjoyed playing cards. She and Sam often used to have a game with her father and Chrissy on winter evenings and her heart ached at the memory of their laughter and enjoyment.

  ‘Two people can’t play whist on their own,’ she said bitterly reflecting that both their partners were dead.

  ‘Georgie plays a good game and so does his Rosie,’ said her father, but Lizzie bristled.

  ‘You’re not seriously suggesting that I entertain Maggy’s sister in my house, are you?’

  ‘She’s not a bad lassie,’ said David.

  ‘She’s a slut,’ said Lizzie, remembering Rosie screeching with laughter at the jokes of the salacious old comedian on the last night she’d gone to the theatre with Sam. Any memory of that time was pure pain to her.

  ‘Och no, that’s a bit strong,’ protested her father. Then he added, ‘We don’t need to play at Tay Lodge. We could play in my place.’

  ‘I am not playing cards with Rosie Davidson anywhere. I’d enjoy a game but I’d like to play with people of my own class,’ she told him in a stern tone.

  Lexie, sitting on the carpet at Lizzie’s feet, looked up with surprise on her freckled face, and her half sister shot her a quelling glance.

  ‘If I can find people to play with us, will you come?’ persisted her father. She nodded. ‘Yes, I’d like that.’

  Softened by his obvious concern, she looked at the old man and his little girl. They were inseparable and heaven alone knew where he took the child every day.

  ‘How old are you now?’ she asked Lexie.

  ‘I’m five next month.’

  ‘Which school is she going to?’ Lizzie asked her father.

  ‘I’ve not decided yet.’ In fact David was reluctant to lose his youngest child to the schoolroom. Robert and Davie saw little of him because they were intent on their own lives. His brother the antique dealer had died the previous month and though Lizzie had been unaffected by the death because she had never been close to her uncle, she knew her father missed him. Lexie was now his most constant companion.

  ‘She’ll have to go to school, Father. You should send her to the Harris like my Charlie.’

  Charlie, nine years old now, was a pupil at Harris Academy only a short distance from his home on the Perth Road. There he was a source of frustration to his teachers who found him quick and intelligent but totally uninterested in learning anything with the strange exception of Latin at which he excelled.

  ‘Would you like to go to the Harris?’ Lizzie asked Lexie, who nodded. She hero-worshipped Charlie and thought nothing could be better than going to school with him.

  ‘Lizzie, I can’t afford the Harris,’ said David shamefacedly.

  ‘If you lived a quieter life and got rid of that gig that’s sitting outside you’d be able to afford the Harris,’ scolded his eldest daughter, but seeing his downcast face, she relented and added, ‘If Lexie wants to go, I’ll pay the bill. Go round there now and put her name down.’

  Lexie jumped up on her skinny legs and held out a hand to her father. ‘Yes, let’s go, David! We can go to the Harris on our way to the artist’s studio,’ she cried in delight. It annoyed Lizzie how the child called her father by his first name. David never reprimanded her for it and Lizzie’s own protests had absolutely no effect, but now she was too interested in the second part of what Lexie said to lecture her on disrespect.

  ‘Which artist’s studio? You’re not buying pictures, are you?’ She looked accusingly at her father who seemed suddenly very eager to make his escape.

  Lexie was dancing around him, tugging at his hand, ‘David’s having his picture painted. It’s awful like him!’ she cried.

  Lizzie could hardly believe her ears. ‘You can’t afford the Harris for your bairn and you’re having your portrait painted!’

  He soothed her. ‘It’s not what it sounds like, Lizzie. It’s a group portrait. There’s about a dozen of us in it.’

  She was implacable. ‘Who’s paying for it?’

  ‘We’re all paying a share but it’s hardly anything.’

  ‘Who’s in it with you?’

  ‘Well, there’s the Keiller brothers and one of the Bruntons and that chap with the big art collection in Broughty Ferry, some of the Cairds and Goldie Johanson and Mr Fleming…’

  His list included the names of the most prominent and richest men in Dundee.

  ‘What are you doing in a picture with all of them?’ asked his sceptical daughter.

  He bridled. ‘They’re my friends. They wanted me in the picture.’

  It was true. He had named the men with whom he spent his days. Lizzie was slightly mollified by the thought of her father’s exclusive connections, but one problem still bothered her.

  ‘They must’ve engaged a good artist. They’re not the sort to let any unknown paint them. Who’s doing it?’

  ‘It’s a fellow called Graham from Edinburgh. An RSA. He’s painted a couple of our lord provosts already. He’s doing all of us in a hunting party at Stobhall. It’s coming up grand.’

  Lizzie persisted. ‘And he won’t be cheap. How much is it costing you?’

  ‘My share is twenty pounds.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘It’s forty pounds.’

  ‘And how are you going to
find that? Young Davie’s got a lock on the Castle Bar money box, they tell me.’

  As she looked at him, she wished she’d left well alone. He was growing old and there was no call to taunt him. He’d been a good father to her. She could not remember him ever doing an unkind thing. He’d always been as careless about money as a child. His pleasure was in society and his friends, and she felt ashamed of her scolding.

  ‘When your portrait’s finished I’ll pay your share, Father. You can have it for a birthday present,’ she told him.

  * * *

  David went ahead and planned the card evening, though he kept it a secret from George and Rosie. In their place he found two more acceptable players, the black-clad widow of his late brother, Lizzie’s Aunt Jemima, and Alex Henderson, a man both highly respectable and rich.

  David’s more rackety friends considered Alex Henderson a bit of a jessie, but they could not fault his business acumen. When he was in his twenties he’d taken over his late father’s two grocery shops and within ten years had built an empire of six large provision stores in Dundee. His chief establishment was in the High Street, a magnificent emporium full of cheeses, hams, black-japanned tea boxes, chests of coffee beans, stone jars of pickles, sacks of sugar, bottles of jam, boxes of crystallized fruit, casks of sherry imported direct from Spain and a cellar of crusted port. It catered to the best families in town.

  The shop had A. Henderson inscribed above the door in flowing gold script on a dark green background and its two large windows were lettered in gilt with advertisements for Rowntree’s Cocoa and Lindsay & Low’s Chocolates. Orders were delivered to customers by a squad of little message boys, some carrying baskets on their heads and others pushing hand carts. Alex knew all his customers personally and his old-fashioned, almost feminine, manners endeared him to rich old ladies who would never dream of dealing with anyone else.