Mistress of Green Tree Mill

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

  Charlie’s letters to his mother were nearly all postcards with printed messages that had to be ticked off – ‘I am well,’ or ‘I am wounded’. At least there wasn’t a line that said ‘I am dead’.

  Twice during rest breaks behind the lines, he sent longer letters which she read over and over again, trying to work out if there were any hidden meanings in what he said but, mindful of her anxieties, he always wrote cheerfully.

  He told her about Pennie, his friend, and about riding a bicycle between posts. He didn’t tell about the carnage that was around him all the time, about the mud that sucked boots off the feet or the lice that infested his body and had to be deterred – never routed, nothing did that – with paraffin. He didn’t tell her about the men who broke down in raving madness or refused to go into battle and were shot in front of their friends by the sergeants.

  He didn’t tell her that war was a cruel farce, a horrible game played by idiot generals. Instead he told her that the men said it would be all over by next spring and that he was well. He also wrote to his mother about an old peasant woman who had blessed him and presented him with a rosary which he carried everywhere like a talisman. ‘It’s my good luck mascot. It’s keeping me safe,’ he wrote.

  She clutched at the thought of the rosary and prayed with increased fervour when she paid her visit to the Steeple Church every Sunday. She paid for a permanent pew and had a brass plate engraved with her name nailed on its end. There she knelt praying for Charlie. Don’t take my son too, she begged with her head in one of her many beautiful hats bent over in supplication beneath the huge stained-glass window that poured a fountain of colour over the black-clad congregation.

  The newspaper lists of wounded grew longer by the day and many people could be seen in the streets wearing black armbands for lost relatives. Lizzie herself wore an armband for a little while when the news arrived that Robert had been killed.

  Just don’t take Charlie, don’t take Charlie, she pleaded again with God. Every Sunday she made generous offerings to the plate, she entertained the minister to tea and in her prayers she assured the deity that she had repented of her anger against him for taking away her mother and Sam. Her calmness and control at George’s funeral had been remarked on, but everyone knew that if Charlie was to be killed, there was no predicting how she would behave.

  * * *

  The battle of the Somme began on 3 July 1916. In the early dawn, wave after wave of men went over the trench tops to be met by a wall of machine-gun fire from the waiting Germans lined up against them. Many of the advancing soldiers were shot dead within seconds of emerging from the redoubts.

  Charlie and Pennie stood waiting with their bicycles and when they saw the field of death spreading before their eyes, they turned and shook hands. Even Pennie looked solemn. With them was a tall, beak-nosed Indian whose name translated as Roaring Wind. They shook hands with him too and then the three of them shared the last of the rum in Charlie’s hip flask – a silver one sent to him by his mother as a Christmas present.

  Later that morning Pennie was killed as he pedalled frantically along a lane pitted with huge craters.

  The next day Roaring Wind too died, shot through the head by a German sniper.

  On the third day, Charlie Kinge received a shot through the back. As he felt it ripping its way through his ribs into his lungs, his first emotion was one of relief. The end he dreaded had come at last.

  He threw down his bike and crawled to a shell hole where he lay alongside a stinking corpse and watched the rats scavenging about among the bodies until he became unconscious.

  Two days later Lizzie picked up her evening newspaper on the corner of the Hilltown as usual but did not open it because, on her way home, she was taking Mr Bateson to his house on Magdalen Green.

  They talked as usual of business till, beaming at her, he said, ‘The mill’s never been so busy. Mr Adams would be proud of you. You’ve made a great business out of Green Tree. It’s got a new lease of life.’

  ‘You helped,’ she told him, for he had stood by her during the hard early years when others drifted away.

  ‘I remember the first day we saw you. The managers couldn’t believe a woman was taking over. They thought you’d sell out in six months. Some of them even took wagers on it.’

  ‘Well, they lost their money. I hope you didn’t bet against me,’ said Lizzie grimly.

  ‘Not me,’ said old Bateson, ‘I bet on you. I liked the look in your eye.’

  When she reached home she was relaxed and smiling, cheered by Mr Bateson’s approbation. There were few people left who could boost her confidence any longer and it was good to realize that her achievements had not gone unremarked. Lexie was sitting beside the drawing room fire and Lizzie joined her. Almost immediately the tea tray was carried in, and she opened the paper, turning automatically to the back page. The first name her eye fell on was that of William Pennie. He was listed among the dead.

  A cold hand gripped her heart as she read down the list again. William Pennie of the 16th Battalion, Canadian Scottish. Slowly she turned over to the front page and there was a report of a terrible battle. Near the end came two lines that seemed to be printed in heavier ink: ‘It is reported that the Canadian Army has sustained terrible losses. Some battalions have been completely wiped out.’

  Controlling her voice with an effort, she folded the paper and told Lexie, ‘I’m not going to read those awful lists any more. I want you to look at them first and – and – if there’s anything I should know then you can tell me.’

  The girl stared back at her, horrified. She knew what Lizzie meant. ‘I couldn’t!’ she protested.

  ‘Then get Maggy to tell me. But please read the lists first. I feel sick with fear every time I open the newspaper now.’

  A week later, on a Friday morning, a telegram was delivered at Tay Lodge. Maggy carried it unopened to Green Tree Mill, half walking and half running, her heart in her mouth all the way. She would entrust no one else with the task of handing it to Lizzie.

  Charlie’s mother said nothing when the envelope was passed over her desk. Like someone in a dream she read it, then laid the sheet down on the desk top before she said in a gasping way, ‘He’s been wounded. He’s being invalided back to England.’

  The two women stared at each other for a few moments and then Lizzie left her chair to rush at Maggy, who held her arms open to receive her. They clung together weeping and saying in unison, ‘Thank God! Thank God he’s not dead.’

  The next problem was to find news of her son. It seemed impossible to contact anyone with up-to-date information and as the days passed without further word, she became frantic. She had no idea how ill he was or even if he had survived the journey out of France.

  ‘Where are the military hospitals in England?’ she asked at every recruiting office in the town, but no one knew.

  She approached all her friends and the friends of friends, pleading for contacts. Eventually she asked Goldie if he had any idea of how she could find out about Charlie and he telegraphed an old friend at the War Office. Next day came a reply saying that Charlie Kinge was a patient in a hospital at Hastings. He was in a serious condition but had improved since he arrived. Visits from relatives were not encouraged but instructions had been sent to the Chief Medical Officer of the hospital to keep the soldier’s mother informed about his progress.

  This was a rare privilege and though Lizzie was preparing to travel south to visit her son, Goldie managed to restrain her with counsels of common sense.

  ‘There’s nothing you can do just now. They don’t want people visiting. They’re working flat out down there with all the casualties from the Somme. The best thing is to stay here till Charlie is convalescing. Then he’ll be given leave and you can bring him home.’

  She wrote to her son; she sent him flowers and fruit; she went to church and prayed, and her anxiety lifted a lot. Charlie was in England. He wasn’t in the trenches. He’d received his ticket to Blighty.
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  The news that came back about him was cautious. His wound was healing slowly, he was still very ill. It was not thought advisable for his mother to visit him.

  The night she received that news, she was visited by the wife of her half brother Davie. They had never met before and she was surprised when she discovered the identity of her caller, a pale, thin girl who looked like one of the hundreds of pale, thin girls who crowded into Dundee’s mills every day. It was obvious that this girl was distressed, however, and it was hard for her to speak because her voice was quavering with tears.

  ‘It’s about my Davie. I got the telegram today. He was killed at a place called Arras. I thought you ought to know and he’d want his wee sister to know as well.’

  The bleakness of this message devastated Lizzie and she took the girl’s cold hand. ‘Oh, you poor lassie. You shouldn’t have bothered to come and tell me. If I’d known I’d have come to you.’

  ‘I wanted to talk to somebody about it. I’ve no family here. I’m from Glasgow, you see. You’re his sisters… I’ve nobody else. I’ve not even a bairn.’

  Lexie came in as Lizzie was pouring the girl a brandy and when she heard the terrible news she gasped out, ‘Oh, no, not Davie. I loved Davie. He was just like my dad.’

  Soon Lexie and Davie’s widow were clinging together and sharing their grief. Lizzie felt shut out as she watched them. For the past few years there had been little contact between her and Jessie’s sons but it was Davie who had brought her Sam – her most vivid memory of Davie was of the day he fell into the dock. Her soul was burdened by the thought that the war which was making her rich was robbing her in another way. It was taking away her family. ‘But not Charlie, not Charlie,’ she implored silently.

  Chapter 24

  The melancholy that gripped Lizzie after she heard about Davie’s death could only be routed by work. Because of her concentration on detail – for there was not a thing about her business that she did not know – Green Tree Mill was the most efficient in Dundee. The jute it produced was famous for its quality and when Mrs Kinge gave a delivery date, it was always kept.

  At home she worried about Charlie and mourned for her half brother but as soon as she drove through her mill gates, she was caught up in the world of commerce. Her mind was fully engaged and she did not spare a moment to think about anything except jute.

  To cope with the huge volume of business she increased her work force and decided to send out a trio of enthusiastic young men to Calcutta to deal direct with hemp growers on her behalf.

  Her work schedule was punishing and she could never have sustained it without the devoted attention of Maggy and the servants in Tay Lodge. Maggy was so worried about the demands that Lizzie was making on herself that she even insisted on kneeling on the floor and buttoning her boots for her. Sometimes, as she did this, she saw a sceptical look in Lexie’s eye but ignored it and hoped that the girl would not tell Rosie.

  On the evening of Lexie’s fourteenth birthday, the sisters met in the hall of Tay Lodge and Lexie asked, ‘Can I speak to you please? It’s important.’

  Lizzie, who was pale after a day at the mill, heard urgency in the girl’s voice. She leaned on the handle of the drawing room door and said, ‘Of course. Let’s sit in here. I’m very tired.’

  The girl seemed ill at ease. It was obviously difficult for her to start. ‘It’s – er – it’s my birthday today. I’m fourteen.’

  Lizzie nodded. ‘I know.’ In fact she had forgotten and was wondering about a suitable gift. I’ll give her five sovereigns, she thought.

  Lexie flushed. ‘It’s not that. I’m hot hinting. It’s just – I want to leave school.’

  The last words came out in a torrent.

  Lizzie laughed. ‘Of course you don’t. You’re feeling grown-up all of a sudden. I felt the same when I was fourteen.’

  ‘When did you leave school?’

  ‘As a matter of fact I wasn’t much older than you are now, but I wasn’t a scholar like you. It was my ambition to work in a hat shop.’

  She laughed again and Lexie’s eyes showed her surprise at this confidence from the business-obsessed Lizzie. She pressed on with her plea, however. ‘No, it’s true. I want to leave school. It costs you a lot of money every year for the fees.’

  Lizzie closed her eyes. ‘The fees are nothing. I want you to go to university and be a credit to me.’

  The girl was adamant, however. ‘I don’t want to go to university. I want to leave school. Please, Lizzie.’

  This was serious. ‘What have you in mind? Is there something else you want to do?’

  Lexie rose and walked to the window. Her voice sounded remote as it came over her shoulder: ‘I want to get a job in the mill with Bertha.’

  There was shock and amazement in Lizzie’s voice. ‘Work in a mill? Which one?’

  ‘Bertha’s in Brunton’s Mill. I could get in there. The wages are good because of the war, and they’re needing people. I could start training as a weaver.’

  There was a return of the old Lizzie now. Tiredness forgotten, she rapped out, ‘You’ll do nothing of the sort. I’m not having my sister working in anybody’s mill. Not even in my own. You don’t need to work if you don’t want to but if you must, you should choose something ladylike.’

  ‘Like a hat shop?’ asked Lexie, turning to stare with hostility at her sister.

  ‘Yes, like a hat shop if that’s what you want, though you could do better. Why a weaver? Why a mill girl? What would people say?’

  ‘I won’t say who I am. I’ll use a different name. They needn’t know I’m your sister.’

  ‘Everyone knows that already. That hair of yours doesn’t go unnoticed. What are you trying to do to me?’

  Lexie’s face was determined. ‘I want to be free. I want to be my own mistress. I don’t want to be Lizzie Kinge’s little sister all my life. I want to be with my own people. Smart society doesn’t suit me. Some people live off the labour of people like Bertha and Rosie, and it makes me very angry.’

  Lizzie was angry too. ‘It’s Rosie Davidson that’s behind this, isn’t it? She’s been filling your head with rubbish. First the suffragettes and now this. Don’t believe all she tells you. I’m only too eager to help George’s family. She and Bertha don’t need to work in the mills but she won’t take a penny from me. I’ve offered and it’s been thrown back at me.’

  This was no surprise to Lexie. ‘Rosie won’t take anybody’s money. Her brother Johnny in America keeps asking her and Bertha to go out there to him but she won’t. He owns a great big chain of newspapers and he’s very rich but Rosie says she’d rather stay in Dundee and work in the mill like she’s always done. She’s afraid that Johnny’s wife would patronize her and she certainly thinks you do that, so she won’t take any help from you either.’

  ‘I don’t patronize Rosie. I’ve never done that. You don’t think I do, surely?’

  There was a pause while Lexie looked away. Then she said, ‘I’m sorry, Lizzie. I think you would if you had the chance. I want to live my own life. You might not like the way I do that. It would be better if we didn’t live together any longer.’

  The argument was becoming acrimonious now and Lizzie decided the time had come to call a halt to it. She stood up abruptly and said, ‘And where will you go? If you think I’d allow you to go to live in the slums you’re very much mistaken. My brother died of consumption because he lived in the Vaults. You’re just a child and you’re legally in my care till you’re sixteen, so you’ll stay here and go to school whether you like it or not.’

  * * *

  That night she lay awake and worried about Lexie. Had she been too hard on the girl? Was she resentful because Lexie was a walking reminder of the daughter who was never born to Sam and herself?

  If you’d lived, Sam, I’d have had more children. We’d have moved to a larger house and I’d have baked cakes and given tea parties, she addressed his memory in her mind.

  Instead of being a contente
d wife, however, fate had made her the only woman mill owner in Dundee, a huge success in business and rich, richer than she had ever imagined in her wildest dreams. Her personal fortune was so big that she could buy anything she wanted – anything, it seemed, but peace of mind, because her private worries waited to step on to centre stage as soon as she left the mill.

  She lay open-eyed as the thought struck her that perhaps leading a domestic life might not have been very interesting. If she was honest she had to admit that widowhood had given her an opportunity to prove herself in a way that she could never have done if Sam had stayed alive.

  The widowed Mrs Kinge had found out how much respect money could buy. People turned to stare after her in the street; floorwalkers broke into a run, so keen were they to welcome her when she stepped into their stores. Charitable societies and associations wrote to her every day requesting a donation or the privilege of being able to put her name on their list of patrons. Gilt-edged invitations to all manner of social events were lined along her drawing room mantelpiece but she did not go out very much these days. Alex was married and she disliked being part of a threesome – the odd one out was not a role she enjoyed.

  Finally she fell asleep thinking about Charlie, and when she woke his name came first into her mind. All worries about Lexie were driven away because on her tea tray was a letter from Hastings.

  When he first went into hospital his letters were dictated to a nurse or hospital worker and were of necessity short, but within the past few weeks he had improved. His life was not in danger. There was no fear of amputation, blindness, lung damage or any of the other spectres that haunted her midnight thoughts.

  The letter she held in her hand that bright morning was the first he had addressed himself and her heart rose, but when she tore it open the words contained nothing of his voice. It was a different Charlie who wrote to her. In spite of the official reassurances she had been given, she knew that something was seriously wrong with her son.