And then her eyes lit up. ‘Look at the amount we spend on wages. Good gracious, a mammoth sum. This must be reduced at once.’ Stabbing her finger against the offending item.
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Excuse me?’
Realising he’d broached upon rudeness and was only an employee after all, Toby hastily apologised. ‘I beg your pardon, Mrs Tyson. What I meant to say was, it is indeed a large sum but it’s quite impossible to reduce wages any further. We need all our operatives. Besides, they’re good workers and depend upon Tyson’s for their living. There are few other alternatives in town.’
Her expression was cold as flint, and every bit as hard. ‘That is no concern of ours.’ She slammed the accounts back on the desk. ‘Choose the youngest and strongest. Keep the best, but the absolute minimum, and make them work harder. Sack anyone who is old, slow, been off sick too much, or not pulling their weight as they should. And do it today, or I’ll do it for you with far less consideration. Once you have cleared this place of parasites, the company can easily afford to increase my allowance.’
Despair cut deep into Kate’s soul. If she hadn’t been mad when she’d arrived in this God-forsaken hole, she certainly would be if she stayed in it for much longer. Holding on to her sanity was her single, over-riding concern. Keeping track of time was difficult enough, the endless days all running into each other, every day exactly the same as the one before. The cold baths every morning, the awful food, the hours of staring into space with nothing to occupy her, the restrictions and punishments, the bleakness of her surroundings, the pills that dulled her senses, all played their part in making her life a living hell.
But being deprived of visitors, not ever being allowed to see her children, was the most mind-numbing torment of all. The pain of living without Callum and Flora tore her in two, and would surely destroy her in the end, if nothing else did.
Sometimes she would be allowed pencil and paper to write a letter home. Many of the patients had forgotten how to write, if they ever knew, but Kate would snatch the opportunity with gratitude and eagerness.
But then she’d be at a loss as to what to say. Anxious not to disturb Flora and yet keen to alert Callum to her predicament, she would chew on her pencil and dither, aware that the half hour allotted for the task was rapidly ticking away.
Whether the letter ever reached a post box, let alone her children, Kate was doubtful. Once in those first few weeks following her arrival she’d been given a letter which they’d obviously written together, carefully choosing words meant to cheer her. It was falsely bright and optimistic, striving to reassure her that they were thinking of her each and every day. Flora said how much she loved her and was trying to be patient, longing to visit her mammy but willing to wait until she was feeling better. Callum’s one concern, he said, was for her mental health.
Much of it made no sense to Kate, and bore little relation to the many letters she had sent them, as if they really had no idea what she was going through, or even where she was. There’d been nothing since. Though that didn’t prove they weren’t trying to write to her, and she certainly believed they were indeed thinking of her.
Kate was perfectly certain that her lovely children were doing their best and that someone, the dreaded Elvira perhaps, or Lucy herself, was blocking contact between them. Despite the bitter disappointment she felt, the ache of loneliness in her breast, Kate convinced herself that now Lucy was rid of her, there was little more hurt that she could inflict. What more could she do? Callum would guard Flora, and Toby was minding the company.
Kate’s one consolation was that whatever pain Lucy might inflict upon her, she couldn’t steal from her the love of her children.
Toby did not do as Lucy had commanded. He did not order an increase of her allowance, and he did nothing about sacking any of the workers. The moment Lucy discovered this, she again marched into the factory, demanded a full list of employees and struck off a dozen or so names with no thought or consideration whatsoever for their circumstances, or even if they were good workers.
Toby glanced at the list in horror. ‘I’ve already told you, this can’t be done. We need every man and woman on the pay roll. These are good people and once the orders start flowing in, they’ll be needed, every one of them. We hope to be rushed off our feet very soon once our new designs make an impact.’
‘But we are not rushed off our feet at present?’
‘Not yet, but ...’
‘Then we can dispose of these layabouts. If and when we do need them, when we have these orders you keep promising me, we can take them on again.’
‘But that might be too late. They may have moved on to another town and then we will have lost their skills forever. In any case, we owe a duty to the community to keep workers on when there is the hope of better times ahead.’
Lucy was unrelenting. ‘The community is of no concern to me. We have to see to our own livelihoods first, not theirs.’
‘But that is exactly my point. The workers are the ones who supply the skills we need to continue and provide ...’
‘Enough! If you do not do as I say, Mr Lynch, then your own services too will no longer be required.’
Toby tried once more to protest, his voice growing heated, on the verge of forgetting quite who he was addressing. ‘I don’t care about myself, it is simply wrong to sack these men. You can’t do it. You can’t sack Jed Marshall, he’s one of our best shoemakers.’
Lucy set down her pen with a sweet smile. ‘Twenty men given their marching orders by five o’clock or I will put my own list into effect, and personally see that they are escorted off the premises. The choice is yours.’
At the door she paused, turning her elegantly coiffed head for one last parting shot. ‘Oh, and don’t worry about my allowance. I have already spoken to our accountant and put that little matter into effect.’
‘Then God help us all,’ Toby murmured, as she strode away.
He agonised over the list all afternoon, ticking a name here with his pencil, then rubbing it out again and ticking another. Eventually he had his twenty names, some were almost ready for retirement anyway, though how they would manage without a regular wage coming in, he’d no idea. A couple of men had war pensions, albeit small ones, the rest were women who he hoped would at least have a husband to care for them. Trouble was, with so many men lost in the war, he couldn’t even be sure of that.
It seemed bitterly cruel, and he hated himself as he handed out the letters.
‘What’s this, lad? A Christmas card come early?’ they joked.
Toby shook his head. ‘It’s not my idea. It’s Mrs Charles Tyson’s orders, not Kate’s, nor mine. I want you all to know that.’
There were expressions of shock, outrage, bitter complaints, of course there were, but Toby made it clear that he could do nothing. It was out of his hands.
He sincerely hoped this would be the end of the matter. If not, then he would be next, and who would Kate have on her side then, if and when she finally did return home from wherever Lucy had put her. He’d give his right arm to know exactly where that was.
By the end of March Toby was complaining to Lucy that there were insufficient funds in the company’s business account to finance their outgoings. ‘We seem to be spending far more than our income can justify.’
‘Bad management,’ Lucy replied, implying that the fault was entirely his. ‘Who is responsible for winning orders?’
Reluctantly, Toby named the marketing manager and her response was predictable.
‘Then sack him.’
‘But it isn’t his fault. He’s bringing in good orders now, I do assure you, and has made some excellent contacts. The problem lies elsewhere. Money is simply bleeding out of the account and we don’t have sufficient to buy new materials, pay wages ...’
But Lucy wasn’t listening. ‘What we need is someone new and go-ahead in charge of sales. This idiot is clearly useless. I shall put Jack in charge.’
‘What? Begg
ing your pardon but the lad has no experience of marketing.’
Lucy smiled. ‘He has charm and charisma, which is far more important. Experience will soon follow. He’ll have the lady shop assistants eating out of his hand in no time. You’ll see.’
‘But it’s the shop managers and proprietors who give the orders, not the shop assistants,’ Toby objected, desperate over losing yet another excellent employee. ‘And the operatives will go on strike if we keep turning people off like this.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. The operatives will do as they’re told and be thankful it isn’t them. I’m perfectly certain Jack will come back with a flood of orders within weeks. In the meantime, I’ll speak to the bank manager. Our credit is good.’
Any further protests were ignored, nor was Lucy prepared to look at the balance sheet or have it explained to her. The matter, so far as she was concerned, was settled.
Her visit to the bank manager later that day went entirely according to plan. But then she’d known that it would. The man was a family friend, had been for years and was more than ready to lend Tyson’s a substantial sum against the property they owned.
Lucy really didn’t know why her sister-in-law was so against borrowing money, probably nervous of asking because she did not possess friends of this man’s calibre. It took a woman with savoir-faire to run a business, not a little guttersnipe like Kate.
Before the month was out Lucy called an Extraordinary General Meeting and put Jack’s name forward as a director. ‘He has done well in sales and marketing, so has earned his reward, don’t you think?’
Unsurprisingly, Toby resisted the motion, pointing out that decisions of this nature shouldn’t be taken without all the company directors being present, meaning Kate; that a directorship was not normally handed out quite so easily. ‘The quantity of orders still falls far short of expectations, let alone what is needed to bring the company back into profit,’ he complained. He fought hard, insisting Jack was too young, too inexperienced, had too much to learn.
‘I’ve been left in charge of this factory, to watch over Kate’s interest. I cannot sanction this move.’
Lucy scornfully reminded him that all the directors who were fit to vote were present and that he was only the manager, so had little, if any, say at all.
The aunts dutifully concurred, the vote was taken, and the motion carried with only Toby opposing it. Jack had been voted on to the board as a director, at last.
Autumn 1920
Chapter Sixteen
House parties, in Mrs Petty’s opinion, were a nightmare, probably because Madam Lucy never seemed to be satisfied. She would complain bitterly about the lack of a country house in which to hold them, and the consequent difficulties of finding ‘a good shoot’, or of not having access to a lake for sailing and fishing, or even a tennis court, all of which she’d apparently enjoyed at her old house in Windermere.
She’d even complained of the shallowness of the river, comparing it with the Avon, the Thames, and other grander rivers down south where a boat could apparently sail freely without holing itself on rocks or the weir.
It would come as no surprise to Mrs Petty if Madam Lucy didn’t order a lake to be dug, though happen that were a bit beyond even her skills, in the middle of Kendal. She’d already made a start on installing a tennis court, though what Mrs Tyson would say when she discovered that all those lovely new trees her husband so lovingly planted had been toppled, Mrs Petty didn’t care to consider. Certainly young Callum had put up a valiant fight against their destruction.
Mrs Petty and Ida had heard every word of the raging argument which had lasted for hours, without moving an inch from their seats in the kitchen. It had rumbled on for days, right up until the moment the men with the saws moved in and the trees were taken down.
They hadn’t seen the lad for days afterwards. And somehow he hadn’t seemed himself since. He’d given up on his night classes and taken to imbibing a pint or two too many at the Rifle Man’s or the Odd Fellows’ Arms. It broke Mrs Petty’s heart to see such a fine lad start to slip. But then he was worried about his mam, which she didn’t wonder at. She’d heard of some funny business in her time, but this took the biscuit.
‘Biscuits! What did we do with those ratafias, Ida?’
‘I put them on the trifle, Mrs P, like you said.’
‘Thank heaven you did summat right, for once.’
‘I does me best, Mrs P, even though I’m that wore out.’
‘I know you do, lass, and yer not the only one to be knackered. Eeh there’s too much to think of, too much for the pair of us to cope with on us own. I’ll have to tell her ladyship again. We need more help, but madam won’t give us any. Yet she must spend a small fortune on her frocks and fancy jewellery and folderols, not to mention a new fast car and all the alterations she’s done on this house, even a grand piano installed in the drawing room.’
‘That’s for them musical swarays,’ Ida explained.
Mrs Petty sniffed loudly. She did not approve of all these goings-on, even the music wasn’t fit to listen to.
‘Hearken to that row.’ Cocking her head to one side she indicated the noise emanating from the front of the house where Lucy and a small coterie of her friends were apparently practising their repertoire, in preparation for an event that evening.
‘Are they singing or crying?’
‘Well might you ask, Ida. Like braying donkeys, or happen lunatics in bedlam would sound better.’ Mrs Petty clapped her hand over her mouth. ‘Eeh, I shouldn’t say that. What am I thinking of?’
She paused in her labours, lemon grater abandoned, screwing her eyes tight shut for a moment as if in pain. ‘Do you reckon she’s getting any better, our lass? I do hope they let her have visitors soon. It don’t seem right her being stuck in some God-forsaken wilderness with no friends or family near.’
‘Mrs Tyson says that’s the whole point of the place. It’ll give her a better chance of recovery.’
‘Well, I must say I never reckoned our Kate as the suicidal type, not even when she lost her beloved husband. She’s been down afore, we’re witness to that, eh Ida? ... and she’s bounced back again.’
‘Aye, she has.’
‘There’s summat wrong somewhere. Why would she suddenly tek it into her head to slit her wrists, and during a weekend away, in the home of a perfect stranger? Choose how, it don’t seem right. And even if she did, why isn’t she getting any better from all this expert care she’s supposedly having? Months it’s been now and not a word from her, not even a postcard. Eeh, I never thought to hear meself say it, but I’m that worried about t’lass, I am really.’
They both stood for a moment in silent companionship, brows creased with worry.
Wiping her hands on a cloth, Mrs Petty drew out a large handkerchief and blew her nose very loudly, then reached for the kettle. ‘Let’s have a brew. I can’t bear to think of her suffering. Eeh, I do hope she’ll be on the mend soon.’
As Mrs Petty slid the kettle on to the hob and Ida fetched the shortbread biscuits to console them, Kate was drinking cabbage soup with a spoon. Thin and watery, with precious little in it by way of vegetables, it was near tasteless but it staved off the worst of her hunger. Following this came a plate of what could only be described as ‘slops’, an unidentifiable mess largely made up from the left-overs of previous meals, grey flakes of what might be meat mixed in amongst the potatoes, turnips and barley. It was far removed from the crown of lamb that Mrs Petty was preparing for Lucy’s guests that evening.
Kate picked at the mush with her spoon, pushing it about her plate, as always her appetite waning the instant food was put before her.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten anything which had possessed any flavour or required much chewing, but then they weren’t allowed knives, so where was the point in serving anything which required cutting? Her dreams were haunted by memories of succulent roast beef, of Mrs Petty’s steak and kidney pie with its rich, flaky p
astry.
There had been days when food had been denied her completely, because she’d transgressed against one of the many unwritten rules, or ‘misbehaved’ in some way. More often than not kicked up a fuss because they wouldn’t let her go home.
Kate knew that she should be grateful for the sustenance, that she really ought to eat every revolting scrap, considering there’d be nothing more until breakfast time, and not much even then. Lukewarm porridge if she was lucky, which at least lined the stomach for an hour or so, otherwise bread and milk which always tasted revolting, the milk slightly sour and the bread soggy.
But she couldn’t eat these slops. She really couldn’t. Her stomach heaved at the thought.
Her friend Peggy, her only friend in this dreadful place, had told her that the meals were prepared by the patients, who were not above spitting in the food, or worse, if they had a grievance against the nurses. Which, of course, most of them did have.
A sharp tap on her shoulder brought Kate out of her reverie. ‘Eat up, number 172, we don’t like food to be wasted in this establishment, nor will we hang around all night waiting for you. Time you lot were all tucked up in your warm and cosy beds.’ The nurse cackled at her own joke, since warm and cosy were not epithets which could rightly be attached to the hard iron bedsteads they were obliged to sleep in. Nor was their night attire and single blanket the sort meant to withstand the sharp cold of a long Scottish night, the thought often reducing Kate to grim laughter as she recalled her conversation with Lucy on that subject.
‘I’m not hungry, thank you.’
The woman nipped a fold of skin on Kate’s neck between her fingers and thumb and pinched it hard. ‘Eat, if you know what’s good for you.’
Kate knew that it was important not to react. No matter if she was near passing out from the pain of the woman’s tenacious grip, it did no good at all to object. She’d tried protesting, in those first weeks, when she’d still had the energy to feel outrage over the ill-treatment they were all forced to endure.
The Woman From Heartbreak House Page 14
