‘Perhaps that’s just as well,’ she said, smiling back. And she made up her mind that she must do something to help him if she could, for she had never seen a melancholy before and she found it very upsetting.
Over in the Strand, Nan Easter was examining the books. In three days the affairs of the firm had snarled into a parlous muddle. Papers hadn’t been delivered, bills weren’t paid, business meetings had been missed, several of the regional managers had written wondering if the December meeting would be cancelled.
‘It’s just as well I’m back,’ she said to her clerk. ‘There’s a deal of work needs doing. Tell ‘em the quarterly meeting stands. And fetch me Mr John’s folder, the green one labelled “Deliveries”.’
But she’d only been studying it for ten minutes or so, when Matilda arrived, wearing black silk and a strained expression.
‘I saw your carriage as I was passing,’ she said, settling herself beside the fire. ‘I’m so glad you’re in today. A terrible business, my dear. Terrible. Billy is devastated.’
Nan left the problems on her desk and joined her daughter-in-law by the fire, for it was plain that this was no mere courtesy call. And sure enough after a few minutes Matilda came to the point. ‘Have you considered a replacement?’ she asked, her face more strained than ever.
She’s going to suggest young Edward, Nan thought, and began to marshal her arguments against him, too young, not sufficiently interested in the firm, still too much of a spendthrift.
‘Billy is quite out of the question,’ Matilda said. ‘His health is very poor, you know. Worse than we tell you. Oh, I daresay he will work on for a few years yet. He is too conscientious to do anything else and that’s the truth of it. But on no account should he even consider taking on any more burdens than he does at present.’
‘Quite right,’ Nan agreed. ‘No more he shall, my dear. You have my word.’ And now she’ll offer young Edward.
But she was mistaken. ‘And I do hope you won’t think of Edward either,’ Matilda said. ‘Oh, he seems the obvious choice. That I’ll grant you. But he ain’t, my dear, indeed he ain’t. He’s a deal too young, and a deal too extravagant. And besides, if he took over John’s position, who would do my Billy’s job during the summer? Three months is a long time to hand over to a stranger.’
So that’s it, Nan thought. She is protecting Billy’s long summer holiday. What a choice she’s had to make, Billy’s health or Edward’s ambition. No wonder she looks strained. ‘Quite right,’ she said again. ‘Billy and Edward should remain as they are. There en’t a doubt in my mind about that.’ Which was true.
Matilda sighed with relief. ‘Then how will you manage, my dear?’ she asked.
‘Well, as to that,’ Nan said briskly. ‘I shall do the work myself for a while, being there en’t much else I can do. Then we shall see.’ And she looked back at the pile of papers on her desk.
‘I disturb you, my dear,’ Matilda said. ‘I must be on my way.’
‘Yes,’ Nan agreed. ‘You must. There’s a deal to do.’
So Matilda kissed her gratefully and left.
Nan worked until her desk was cleared, all through her lunch hour, past tea time, well into the evening. And she’d have gone on even longer, if her weary clerk hadn’t come knocking at her door to tell that ‘a young gentleman by the name of Easter’ was waiting to see her.
‘A young gentleman by the name of Easter?’ she queried.
‘If you please, ma’am, he said he was Mr Henry Easter, but being as I’ve never seen the gentleman before …’
‘Show him up,’ she said. ‘He’s a distant relation.’ And likely to be a deal closer now.
He seemed less sure of himself in her impressive office. She noticed that he hesitated at the door and had to clear his throat several times before he could tell her why he’d come.
‘It’s on Caroline’s account,’ he said, finally. ‘She is very unhappy.’
‘That is only to be expected.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘but I think I know of a way to help her.’
‘Then you’d best tell me.’
‘She has such a strong character, you see,’ he urged. ‘She needs something to occupy her, something demanding.’
‘And what would you suggest?’ Nan asked, seeing that he had some particular occupation in mind, and guessing that it would be marriage.
His answer surprised her. ‘With respect, ma’am,’ he said, ‘I think you should give her a job in your company.’
It was such an obvious solution, now that it had been said. Work. But of course. And why not? She was another Easter to take into the firm. And her presence there would certainly ease the present situation. ‘What would she like to do?’ she asked. ‘Does she have a job in mind?’
‘Yes,’ he said, smiling at her. ‘But she should tell you that herself, I think. She might not take it kindly if she thought I was arranging her life for her.’
How well he understands my headstrong Caroline, Nan thought, admiring him more than ever. ‘I will speak to her tonight,’ she said. ‘It’ll be the first thing I do when I get home. I’m uncommon grateful to ‘ee, Henry Easter. Would ‘ee care to join me for dinner tomorrow?’
In the event it wasn’t Caroline she spoke to first that evening. It was Euphemia.
The two girls came tripping down the stairs the minute the front door was opened to her. They looked almost themselves again, alert and bright with a deal more colour in their faces.
‘Could we talk to you before you dress for dinner?’ Euphemia asked.
‘If there’s a good fire in the parlour,’ Nan said, handing her mantle to the maid.
‘Oh, there is,’ Caroline said. ‘A roaring fire.’
They sat beside it, toasting their toes on the fender. ‘Well now,’ Nan said. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s Will,’ Euphemia said earnestly, her madonna face gilded by the firelight. ‘He’s terribly unhappy.’
I’ve had this conversation before, Nan thought, answering with the same words she’d used earlier that evening. ‘That’s only to be expected, Pheemy.’
‘Oh yes,’ Euphemia said. ‘I know that he must grieve. That’s only natural, but there is something else in his grief. Something more.’
Nan waited to be told what it was.
‘He feels he is doomed to work in the firm for ever,’ Euphemia said. Then realizing that her choice of words might sound insulting, ‘Well, not doomed exactly but …’
‘Trapped,’ Caroline said. ‘That’s how he feels. Trapped.’
‘It’s the job he’s been offered,’ Nan said, remembering and understanding at once. ‘Mr Dickens’ job. You think he should take it, Pheemy?’
‘Yes,’ Euphemia said seriously. ‘I do.’
‘Um,’ Nan said. ‘You could be right. We will talk of it over dinner.’
‘You won’t tell him that we spoke to you,’ Euphemia pleaded. ‘I promised not to say anything to anybody.’
‘I shall speak of it generally,’ Nan promised. ‘I have other things I want to discuss too. There’s a deal to think about. Howsomever, now I must go up and change, or I shall keep the meal waiting and Cook won’t like that. I’m late enough as it is.’
‘Will she let him go, do you think?’ Euphemia asked her cousin when Nan had gone upstairs.
‘We shall soon know,’ Caroline said. ‘If she talks about it before the roast, she’ll do what we want, if it has to wait for the sweet, she won’t.’
It was talked about as soon as the first course was served.
‘Have you seen Mr Dickens yet?’ Nan said to Will, as she raised her spoon to her lips.
‘Not since …’ Will said.
‘Well, then it’s high time you did,’ his grandmother said, cutting into his hesitation in her decisive way. ‘You don’t want him to go offering that job of his to somebody else, now do you?’
‘But I thought …’
‘I told you you should work with Mr Dickens, did I not?’ And when he
nodded, ‘Very well then. I still think you should. And I think you should tell him so.’
‘But who will do Papa’s work?’
‘Well now, as to that,’ Nan said, grinning round the table at them in her old familiar way, ‘I’ve a mind to take another member of my family into the firm.’
They were all puzzled and looked it. ‘But who?’ Will said.
‘Why, Caroline, who else? I’ve granddaughters as well as grandsons.’
‘Nan!’ Caroline said with awed astonishment. ‘Do you mean it?’
‘Never say things I don’t mean, child. You should know that by now. Besides I can remember you a-telling me once that you’d join the firm when you were grown up, and what’s more, you said you’d extend our trade. Or had ‘ee forgot?’
‘No,’ Caroline said, eyes shining. ‘I ain’t forgot.’ How extraordinary that her grandmother should be talking about all this today, on the very day she’d been remembering it herself, walking in the country with Henry.
‘So what will you do, eh?’ Nan said. ‘Tell me that?’
Oh, that was simple. She’d known what she would do for a very long time. ‘I will sell newspapers and books on every railway station. That’s what I’ll do. It’s so bare on those long platforms. A nice little stall would be just the thing to cheer them up. They would make them look more homely and give people something to do while they are waiting. Books would sell like hot cakes.’
Nan could well believe it, but she pressed her further. ‘How do ‘ee make that out, pray?’
‘Haven’t you noticed how people behave on trains?’ Caroline said. ‘They sit there in their seats, and they read their papers if they have them, and they look out of the window, and they fidget, but they don’t talk to one another and they never ever look at one another. They’d do anything rather than do that. They need something to occupy their eyes, that’s what it is. On a coach journey we used to stop at all sorts of places along the way. You could get out and stretch your legs and buy something to eat and drink while the horses were being changed. But trains don’t stop. They just keep on going until you’re there. Sometimes you travel for miles and miles before you ever get out of the carriage, and newspapers don’t occupy you for very long. So there you all are, with nothing to read, trying not to look at one another. If we offered railway passengers some books to buy for the journey, they would snap them up.’ Her cheeks were pink with enthusiasm.
‘You could be right,’ Nan said. ‘We would need to negotiate the concession with the railway owners.’
‘And design the stalls,’ Caroline said, ‘with a nice wide counter and a roof to keep the papers dry and our sign along the top.’ Oh, this was the way to make amends to Papa.
‘You shall start work after the funeral,’ Nan said, and when Euphemia drew in her breath quite shocked at the idea, ‘Her father will understand entirely, my dear. He always said work was a sovereign cure for grief.’
‘Will people not be offended?’ Euphemia worried. ‘If Caroline comes out of mourning so soon, I mean.’
‘She won’t come out of mourning,’ Nan said. ‘None of us will. No, no, we shall wear black for the full six months, and half mourning for the six months after that, which is only right and proper. Howsomever, a great firm cannot cease to function, even when it loses one of its managing directors. Work must go on. We will speak more of this after the funeral, Caroline. Eat up, my dears. There’s saddle of beef to follow.’
It was an extraordinary funeral. There were so many guests there was barely room for them all in the churchyard but they all stood very quietly to listen to the service, murmuring agreement at the fine, true things the Reverend Hopkins was saying in his eulogy.
‘John Henry Easter was an honourable man. He was dependable and thorough and responsible. It is ironic that these most admirable traits were the ones that led him to his death, for in his last hour he chose to walk into danger himself rather than to risk the life of another person. We are all impoverished by his death, just as we were enriched by his life. We must give thanks to God for a life so honourably led, and for memories of that life that will stay with us all until we are called to God’s Glory in our turn.’
‘Amen!’ his huge congregation growled. ‘Amen!’
And then they all went trooping off to Nan’s house in Angel Square, in a clatter of hooves and carriage wheels and a torrent of talk. They brought such a change of mood with them, it was impossible to stay sad, for they filled the house with conversation, with commiseration certainly, but with reminiscence and memory too, tales of old endeavours, remembered jokes. ‘A good man,’ they said to Nan and Will and Caroline, over and over again. ‘A very good man.’
When they finally left, the house was peculiarly quiet.
‘Back to London tomorrow,’ Nan said. ‘It’s the quarterly meeting on Thursday week. Just the right time to tell ‘em what we’re a-going to do.’
Chapter 17
Nan Easter’s twenty-seven regional managers were none too pleased when they heard her plans. It was bad enough that Mr William had decided to leave the company, as they told one another afterwards, but to appoint a woman to replace him! Well, that really was the height of folly. Mr Jernegan of the City of London and his friend Mr Maycock of the County of Middlesex were so aggrieved by it that they took themselves off to the nearest hostelry for several pints of porter and considerable complaint. And at their particular invitation ‘their very dear friend and valued colleague’ Mr Edward Easter went with them.
‘You should have been asked to replace Mr John,’ Mr Maycock said to Edward. ‘That’s my opinion of it.’ He was a plump gentleman with very slack, rubbery-looking lips and consequently every word he said had to be thorougly munched. ‘You should have been the one.’
‘Very true,’ Edward said miserably. Because it was. There was nobody so well suited to take command of the firm. His father was too weak and Nan was too old, for all her tough ways. And yet there she’d sat, telling them all she would be ‘running the firm for the time being’ as if he, Edward Easter, didn’t exist. It was deeply hurtful to be overlooked like that. And all done so quickly too, before he’d had the chance to suggest a better arrangement.
‘We don’t want women in the firm,’ Mr Maycock said, stroking his mutton-chop whiskers so as to pull his mouth back into realignment. ‘You should have taken Mr William’s position, Mr Edward, sir, at the very least, and after that we should have become a full management committee, with voting powers. That’s what I say.’ He’d been saying the same thing to the other regional managers for more than a year now, but he’d never found one brave enough to suggest it to Mrs Easter. Lily-livered lot!
‘Petticoat government,’ Mr Jernegan said, signalling to the pot-boy that their glasses needed replenishment, ‘petticoat government is the very devil. No good ever comes of it, on account of it ain’t natural.’
‘No good will ever come of Miss Caroline Easter and her meddling,’ Mr Maycock agreed. ‘That’s a certain sure thing. Bookstalls on railway stations! I ask you! New-fangled nonsense, that’s what it is. The public won’t stand for it.’
‘I agree with you, Mr Maycock,’ Edward Easter said, nodding his fair head so energetically that his hair bounced up from his forehead. ‘I tell you if there were any way I could persuade her straight out of the firm again I would take it. No matter what the cost.’ He was more than a little drunk, his speech slurred and his blue eyes bleary, but there was no doubting the sincerity of his sentiments. Now that cousin Will was leaving, he should have been the one to take his place. It was insulting to give such a position to cousin Caroline. Downright insulting.
‘Scandal,’ Mr Jernegan said, slopping his next glass of porter as he tried to raise it to his lips. ‘A nice juicy scandal to frighten her off. That’s what we need. Petticoat government is the very devil.’
‘Perhaps she’ll get married,’ Edward hoped, ‘and settle down with her husband, a nice long way away, and raise a few kids.’
‘Meantime,’ Mr Maycock said, munching moistly, ‘we’ve to watch her wasting the firm’s money on that hare-brained scheme of hers. Bookstalls! I ask you. Your very good health, Mr Easter sir.’
‘Nothing will come of it,’ Mr Jernegan promised, belching slightly. ‘Because nobody will take it seriously. And for why? Because it’s a stupid idea. A very stupid idea. The stupidest idea I ever heard. Railways are nothing. A flash in the pan. That’s what railways are. Never amount to anything, won’t railways.’ He fumbled his watch out of his waistcoat pocket and tried to focus his eyes upon it, and failed, frowning at the mist of shifting numerals. ‘I tell you what,’ he said importantly. ‘We were better off in the old days with the coaches. You knew where you were with coaches. Coaches didn’t mean having women foisted on you.’
‘All this change is so unnecessary,’ Mr Maycock complained, spraying spit into his porter. ‘Much better off – things stay as they are.’
In the Strand outside the window, carts and carriages and coaches clogged the road as they’d been doing all his life, struggling through the crush a few feet at a time, rough with bad temper and worse language. ‘Much better off – things stay as they are.’
It was unfortunate for Mr Maycock that the managing director of the mighty London and Birmingham railway didn’t share his opinions. and doubly unfortunate that the same managing director was none other than Mr William Chaplin, Sheriff of the City of London, who was a life-long friend of Mrs Nan Easter and a man who not only accepted change but encouraged and caused it. He had once been known as the coach king, because he ran the largest fleet of stage coaches in the country, but being a shrewd business man, he was one of the first to see the potential of Mr Stephenson’s invention. He had sold his coach companies while he could still command a good price for them and transferred all his capital and all his energy into the railways. Now he was a managing director of two London based companies, held shares in several others, and was constantly on the look-out for ways to increase his trade and influence.
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