“And where did you learn about such things, my girl?” he asked her, the patronising tone in his voice very evident.
“The same place as you, I’d say,” she answered him, her eyes flashing defiance so that those in the yard prayed that the engines would be delayed in being turned on, for they would dearly love to see her have the last word with their young master. All except Annie who was certain Nancy would be sacked on the spot. Mind you, she was leaving anyway so that was perhaps why she was not afraid to square up to the master’s son.
“Oh, yes, and where was that then?”
“From books, and from working in this mill, which I don’t suppose you can claim to have done.” Her glance moved contemptuously up and down his tall frame, eyeing his immaculate suit as though she’d like to see the day when it would belly up to the machines she worked. “I keep my eyes and ears open and when I . . . when I—”
She stopped speaking abruptly, glancing round her in surprise at the crowd of avid faces. She had been so incensed by the casual way in which the master’s son had dismissed the child he had almost injured, just as though she were no more than a bale of raw cotton that had got in his way, indeed the cotton had more value, that she had overstepped herself. In all her muck and stink, her bare, oily feet and her sweated face, she had bristled up to a man who was so far above her he could step on her like a cockroach if he chose.
She could see he was amused and, naturally, he didn’t take her seriously. She came from another world to the one he inhabited, no more than a pair of hands to work his father’s machines, a strong back and legs – or weak; what did he care? – to walk the miles each day in the operating of those machines. He was surprised, she could see that, that one of these faceless, illiterate, ill-nourished, often stunted creatures should have the gumption to stand up to him in the defence of a child but she’d only show herself up if she continued with it. She was already looked on by the others as a queer sort who had forgotten her place and she had said more than enough already. Best back down while she had the chance.
Joshua Hayes watched the play of emotions on her face. It was a strong face, he noticed with surprise, since it was not something one said about a woman, but it was the way she spoke, articulate and open, that took him aback and made him want to find out how she had become as she was.
As he opened his mouth to suggest, amazingly, that she follow him to his office on the first floor, since for some reason he felt the need to question further this extraordinary girl, the engines thundered into life and at once it was as though an ant-hill had been kicked over by a careless foot. Everyone in the yard turned and flew towards open doorways, for a minute not spent on a machine might mean a copper less to spend on the necessities of life. In a moment the yard was empty, the girl gone with the rest of them. Only the men loading and unloading waggons remained and when he asked them the name of the spinner who had stood up to him they all gazed vacantly at him. They didn’t know, they said. Aye, they’d seen her around, who wouldn’t notice a bonny lass like her but as for her name . . . They scratched their heads and exchanged glances and winks behind his back as he strode away from them and up the stairs to his office.
Mick was waiting for them, as he had formed the habit of doing ever since Whit Monday, his hands in his pockets, leaning against the high mill wall just outside the gate. He nodded and smiled at lads he knew, and winked at girls he knew, but he straightened up slowly as Nancy Brody walked towards him. He was quite amazed at the effect she had on him, not just at his natural male instincts to possess, to dominate her body with his, which he hoped to do soon, but by the strange, unfamiliar and tender feelings in him to protect her, feelings he had shown to no woman before. At the sight of her, tall, gracefully swaying, her head proudly tilted, he could feel himself fall into a state of what he could only describe as the “jitters”: a dryness of his mouth that made it hard to speak, a racing of his heart that amazed him, alarmed him and that he did his best not only to suppress but to hide from others, since it was not something of which he was proud. He had never been in thrall to a woman before. His prowess with the opposite sex was legend among his cronies and if it got about that his feelings for Nancy Brody were more than just a desire to lift her skirts his reputation would be in tatters.
As he fell in beside her he winked suggestively at several of the lads and they grinned behind their hands, wondering how long it would be before Mick O’Rourke got Nancy Brody to lie down for him.
“All right, my lasses?” he said to the Brody sisters, swaggering a little as they moved with the crowd of be-shawled, be-clogged women along Victoria Parade, moving past Chetham’s College towards Long Millgate, which, in turn, took them through the narrow alleyways and courts to Angel Meadow. Their way led past a hideous, unplanned sprawl of dilapidated cottages, broken pavements, rutted tracks and open drains but they were accustomed to such sights and such smells, sauntering along in the mild dusk as though they were walking a fragrant country lane.
Mick kept up a monologue of lively chatter, his Irish need to hear the sound of his own voice, to see the interest and admiration in the eyes of the three pretty girls, to listen to their laughter, which he caused since his wit was deliberately wicked, very strong in him. He was a born story-teller, a clever mimic with a sharp eye for detail and a good memory. He was putting himself out to be entertaining and he was succeeding, particularly with the younger girls, though he sensed Nancy was not quite as impressed as he would have liked her to be. She was not like the other two. She had a more serious side to her which baffled and yet intrigued him and it would take more than a few jokes, a few laughs and the several small jobs he had done about their home in the last few weeks to win her over to . . . well, to his way of thinking! She needed softening up, something he achieved quite easily with most lasses but this one required a different approach. It was a challenge that he rose to eagerly. He loved a challenge. Anything won easily was not worth having, in his opinion, which was why he so quickly tired of the girls who fell like ripe plums into his greedy hands.
“An’ what’re the three of yer up to this weekend, then?” he asked casually as they turned into Church Court. They were watched by the usual sprawling figures of men and women enjoying the fine spell of warm weather, including his own mam who pursed her lips and hitched up her sagging breasts with crossed arms, displeasure in every line of her at the sight of her son with Lady Muck. It was evident that Nancy Brody was not yet broken in then, her expression said.
“Nothing much, Mick,” Nancy answered. “We usually go over to the market to do our shopping and I wanted to have a rummage on the second-hand clothes stall. Our Rosie grows out of her clothes so quickly.”
For a moment Mick was diverted by the evidence of Rosie Brody’s “growing out” of her clothes, which displayed itself in the budding of what promised to be tits as splendid as Nancy’s, but Nancy was still speaking.
“And I want some paint. Them window frames are a disgrace and I thought—”
“I can do them for yer, acushla. Just say the word and . . .”
“I can do them myself, thanks, Mick,” Nancy answered tartly, for now and again, though she enjoyed his company and he made her laugh, Mick’s male belief that she was helpless without a man to do these things for her irritated her. She had been managing her own life and the lives of her sisters all these years and yet he insisted on the pretence that she’d be lost without him. And in such a short time, too! “Anyway, what d’you mean about the weekend?” she added to distract him.
His face, which had begun to frown, cleared and he grinned, pleased with himself over something.
“Well, I ’eard yer mention the Art . . . somethin’ or other . . . show.”
“The Arts Treasures Exhibition?”
“Aye, that’s the one.”
“What about it?”
“Yer said yer wanted ter see it.”
He was most gratified by the way her face lit up and when her hand clutched at his ar
m, pulling him to a stop to face her he thought she was going to kiss him, right there in the street under the fascinated gaze of their neighbours.
“Oh, Mick,” she breathed and he was bewitched, with her and with himself who was so bloody clever.
“Does that mean yer do?” He grinned mischievously.
“Oh, Mick.”
He preened himself, looking about him to see if the spectators had noticed the way Nancy Brody, who bothered with no one, was clinging to Mick O’Rourke’s arm.
“Well, I reckon if it’s good enough fer ’Is ’Ighness Prince Albert, an’ I ’eard tell t’Queen’s comin’ in a week or two then ’tis good enough fer Mick O’Rourke an’ Nancy Brody.”
“What about us, Mick?” Mary and Rose clamoured, and with an expression of false sorrow he told them the lie he had prepared.
“Eeh, darlin’s, I only wish it were possible, so I do, but only two at a time the chap told me.” He turned to Nancy. “I’ve bin over there terday ter mekk enquiries, yer see.”
Nancy withdrew a little and her face became uncertain. It was all right to go about with Mick with her sisters accompanying them but to go somewhere, just her and Mick, seemed to her to be making a declaration on which the wrong interpretation might be put. She had no interest in the impish young Irishman, much as she liked his company, for he played no part in her future plans. In fact, when the time came he would only stand in their way. But surely just this once it could do no harm? There was nothing she wanted more than to see what was described in the Illustrated London News, which she had read at the library, as the “scene of an event almost unique in the history of art in England and perhaps the world”. She was still no more than a cotton spinner, no matter how she bettered herself; and in all her life, until Mick took them to Belle Vue, she had known nothing beyond the perimeter of Angel Meadow. Was she confident enough to go alone, or with Mary and Rose, to walk among what she was sure would be the gentry, in her second-hand cotton dress and straw bonnet? Would it cost more than she could afford or was willing to part with? Would they even let her in? Her ignorance of the world outside books was enormous but she had to start somewhere and this might as well be it.
Her smile was radiant and Mick’s heart swelled with some emotion he did not recognise and ignoring the sullen muttering of Rose and the sigh of envy from Mary he pushed open their front door and ushered them inside.
At once, knowing exactly how he should treat this lovely, shining, grateful girl, he stayed on the doorstep, smiling.
“I’ll see yer then, Nancy,” he told her, curbing his need to be bold and manly, then turned and whistled his way to his own front door.
6
Joshua Hayes ran lightly down the back stairs, along the passage and through the enormous kitchen where half a dozen women were working. He winked at several on his way, before striding out into the sunlit yard. A pretty girl in a frilly mob cap and a snowy apron, with a laundry basket on her hip, sauntered towards him across the yard and at once, on sight of him her rosy face became even rosier. She dimpled and lowered her long lashes, then peeped up at him knowingly and yet innocently.
“Mornin’, sir,” she said softly, a wealth of meaning in her voice.
“Mornin’, Evie,” he answered just as softly. No more than that but the air about them seemed to warm and colour like the sunshine that fell about them.
“Lovely day, sir.”
“Indeed it is, Evie.”
“The washing’s dry already,” she went on, sticking out her hip to draw his attention to the basket of snowy linen, and at the same time to her small waist.
“I’m not surprised. Let’s hope the rain keeps off.”
“Oh, yes, sir,” she answered, with what seemed heartfelt emotion.
They were walking away from one another by now, she towards the kitchen door, he to the arch let into the high wall over which already roses were beginning to clamber. The arch led to the stretch of rough grass that stood before the stables. They were in full view of the kitchen window where stood a ramrod-backed woman with iron grey hair drawn into so tight a bun at the back of her head it dragged the skin of her forehead taut. She wore a floor-length black frock of great severity and she frowned as she watched the little exchange beyond the window. She could not hear what was said and if she had could not have taken exception to its content but it was apparent she did not at all care for what she saw.
She tutted to herself, then, as Evie entered the kitchen, turned towards her, rattling her housekeeper’s keys menacingly.
“You’ve taken your time, my girl,” she said, as though even before the laundry-maid spoke she was prepared to call her a liar. “Don’t ask me to believe that it takes ten minutes to unpeg a line of washing.”
“I ’ad ter peg out another lot, Mrs Harvey,” Evie protested.
“Don’t you argue with me, girl,” Mrs Harvey hissed, her flinty eyes narrowed suspiciously, for though there had been nothing untoward in the appearance of the laundry-maid and the master’s son, Evie’s smile had been too warm for Mrs Harvey’s liking.
Evie bit her lip to prevent the next words of protest from tumbling out. She stood, her head hanging, her poppy mouth clamped mutinously shut and in the chair by the fire where she was smacking her lips over her midmorning cup of tea, Cook shook her head sympathetically. Cook was younger than the housekeeper, with a lighter spirit, an inclination towards good humour, a bit of a laugh and, she admitted it to herself, would have allowed the maidservants, if they had been in her charge, which they weren’t except the kitchen-maid, the scullery-maid and the skivvy, more leniency than Mrs Harvey showed. More freedom to gossip and giggle and stand about idly which would not have done at all, but then she had been married and, despite her use of the title, “Mrs” Harvey had not. Cook had found in her long career that women who had never known a man’s touch were often harsh on those who had. Not that young Evie was married and, as to the other, it had not gone unnoticed that the laundry-maid and the master’s elder son smiled at one another a lot. Mind, Evie was a good girl, a bonny girl, an innocent girl, Cook would have sworn to it, with glossy dark curls that constantly escaped the severe cap Mrs Harvey insisted upon, and the loveliest laughing blue eyes. She had cheeks on her like a ripe peach and a mouth that looked as though it had just been kissed, which it probably had if the young master’s smiles were anything to go by, and it was as well that Mrs Harvey was as strict as she was. No followers, she told the maidservants, and it was a rule that was strictly adhered to, though who they met, or where, on their day off, was their own business.
“Now, if it’s not too much trouble I’d be obliged if you’d get on with the ironing, girl,” Mrs Harvey told Evie sharply, “or the morning will be gone and not a blessed thing done.” This despite the fact that Evie had been at the washtub for the past three hours.
“I haven’t had me cup o’ tea, yet, Mrs Harvey,” Evie was unwise enough to say and at once Mrs Harvey’s face flushed a bright, brick red and for a moment Cook thought she would strike the girl but she quickly controlled herself.
“You’ve the impudence to expect to sit about drinking tea after wasting half the morning idling in the yard! I’ve never heard the like and what girls of today are coming to I don’t know. In my day we were lucky if we managed to sit down for our meals let alone a cup of tea. Many’s the time I took my dinner on the move we were that busy. Now, Jeannie’s seen to the fire for you and brought in the box irons to be filled. The embers are ready and so should you be. Now, not another word, d’you hear. I’ve to go up to see Mrs Hayes about the arrangements for the dinner party at the weekend but when I come back I want to see them shirts done at the very least. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Mrs Harvey.”
“Very well, now get at it. Keep an eye on her, will you, Cook?” Just as though the minute her back was turned the laundry-maid would be lolling in Mrs Harvey’s chair in Mrs Harvey’s sitting-room drinking tea from one of Mrs Harvey’s china teacups.
<
br /> Evie got her cup of tea, though she had to swallow it down quickly before Mrs Harvey came back or not only she, but Cook, who slipped it to her in the laundry-room, would have been for it.
The cause of it all was at that precise moment thundering round the loop in the River Irwell which ran at the back of his home. In fact it was so close it almost passed through the garden of Riverside House. Riding low on the neck of his new chestnut mare, which he had named Copper for obvious reasons, he galloped beside the river, then turned right abruptly, racing across field after field, putting the high-spirited mare to hedges of hawthorn and may, the fragrance of the newly opened blossom disturbed into a haze about him as Copper’s hooves clipped the top of the hedges. The fields were a spring miracle of silvery green, crimson, white and yellow where poppies and kingcups mixed with field mouse-ear in the tall grasses that brushed the horse’s belly as she and the rider hurtled onward.
When he reached Kersall Dell, a dense grove of beech trees which were already clothed in their bright, pure, spring foliage, he checked the mare slightly, for the smooth, silver grey trunks of the trees, like the soaring columns of a cathedral, were very close together. The trees, forced to grow tall in their constant struggle to reach the light, made a perfect hiding place and he smiled reminiscently at the memory of some moment pleasing to him. The grass was short and soft, as he well knew, muffling the mare’s hooves and he slowed right down to a walk. Layer upon layer of leaves circled each tree-trunk and as summer progressed the dense shade cast by the foliage would strip the ground of growth, leaving only the rotting carpet of last year’s dead beech trees.
Josh slowed only for a moment then turned the mare south towards the small pedestrian bridge at London Place Print Works which stood on the northward loop of the river. He crossed it, the animal’s hooves making a great clatter, causing heads in the print works yard to turn curiously.
Angel Meadow Page 8
