‘No! No buts, the matter is settled.’
The meal finished, Luke shoved his bowl away. He had come from collecting his sixpence from the carter who was taking a tankard of ale inside the inn, he had seen Saran falling to the ground and a man move to catch her, a man whose eyes had shown more than sympathy as he held her.
‘it was nothing that man said or did.’
Nodding to the woman collecting his empty dish, the words which had revolved in his mind while he ate spun another thread to their web.
Saran had answered quickly, but she had told only what was not said, she had given no word of what had passed between them. Had she spoken truly, was the feeling of mistrust niggling him justified? Or had the man insulted her and she was passing it off so as to cause no trouble?
‘The wench might feel easier were her to leave by the back, there don’t be no leerin’ looks that way.’ Having gathered the spoons along with Saran’s bowl and deposited them in a large stone sink, the woman ran her hands over her long apron, nodding her head in the direction of the bar. ‘There gets a few in there who don’t be dummocked by a few pints o’ porter with a toppin’ o’ Methodist’s cream. They looks for summat else to satisfy their appetites along of rum and stout, summat like a young wench, an’ they won’t let a little ’un like yourself tek her from ’em, not like him who lifted her from the ground.’
A tavern was the last place she would have chosen to be, and she had no stomach at all for walking out past a host of men. Murmuring her thanks, Saran moved towards the kitchen door.
‘I ’ave to pay for the meal.’ Taking a coin from his pocket Luke glanced at the woman.
‘I’ll tek you through to the gaffer, an’ while we be gone, wench, you might care to use the privy, you’ll find it to the left of the stables.’ Handing Saran a lantern, waiting until she left the kitchen, the woman spoke hurriedly. ‘Tek a word from the wise and get that sister o’ your’n away from this town, afore somebody else beats you to it.’
‘What do that mean?’
‘Listen, lad,’ the woman lowered her voice, her look agitated as if afraid they may be overheard, ‘it be wrong to judge a dog by its collar, appearances ain’t always what they seems. The one that carried that wench in ’ere . . . well . . . just remember a clean shirt can hide a peck o’ dirt!’
Having paid the landlord, Luke helped Saran into the hayloft but sat awake long after she had fallen asleep. His heart had dropped when he saw her fall and it had not lifted when the man she had been talking with insisted on carrying her into the tavern. There had been a look in those dark eyes, a look he had neither liked nor trusted. Jealousy, he had told himself, as the man had ordered she be taken somewhere quiet, away from the stares of market traders and carters, jealousy of someone saying and doing what he himself should be doing.
Resting his back against a bale of hay he stared into the darkness. That serving woman had no cause to feel jealously, her words had not been born of envy but of concern.
‘appearances ain’t always what they seems . . . just remember a clean shirt can hide a peck o’ dirt.’
For whatever reason the woman had a dislike of Saran’s helper; more than that, she seemed to hold a positive mistrust of him.
Easing himself more comfortably into the soft hay, Luke knew the woman was not alone in her judgement.
Dusting wisps of hay from her skirts Saran’s fingers touched against a small hard object nestled deep in her pocket. The brooch the young woman had given her . . . she had completely forgotten it. Taking it out she cradled it in her palm. It was worth little the woman had said, but watching light from a chink in the roof glint from the stone that was its green heart Saran knew that for herself at least the fact that it was just a trinket with little value did not detract from it. It was pretty, and it had been given out of gratitude. At Luke’s quiet call she returned it to her pocket, resting her hand over it for the few seconds her mind took to ask health and well-being for the couple they had helped that night on the heath, adding a quick prayer for the baby she had helped birth.
Beyond the stable the spring morning was cool causing her to draw her thin, badly fitting coat more tightly about her body.
‘You be cold.’ The last pennies of the sixpence he had earned were in Luke’s hand no sooner he spoke. ‘We’ll go get you some breakfast.’
Following down the short ladder which gave access to the floor of the stable, Saran was quick to refuse. Take time to eat and they may lose the chance of a day’s work.
‘No,’ she gave her skirts a final shake, ‘let’s go straight to the line; you never know, it might be our lucky day.’
It might be her lucky day. She walked silently beside the boy. Perhaps today she would learn the whereabouts of her family; the thought lay heavy, giving no trace of the lift the same thought had accorded her when they first arrived in the town.
Reaching the High Bullen they joined the small group of people already stood there; men with jacket collars raised against the sharp air, but more against the depression that sat heavily on their shoulders, men whose whole attitude told of poverty and despair; and the women, heads hidden by shawls, whose dejection showed as clear as that of their menfolk, mothers with barefoot children clinging to their skirts. It was all going to be so much better, the new queen would change everything, bring hope and prosperity to their lives, was that not what folk had said when rejoicing at her accession? But where was the prosperity for these people, where the improvement . . . and, most of all, where was the hope?
‘You here again, young ’un?’
The words directed at Luke brought an instant smile to the boy’s face.
‘Ar.’ He nodded. ‘Mebbe today I’ll be given something.’
‘But not with the jagger, eh?’
‘No.’ Luke’s grin disappeared. ‘Not wi’ the jagger, a slice o’ bacon be tasty on the tongue but it don’t buy a bed for the night.’
‘A bed! You and your sister are sleeping rough?’
A hint of concern evident in his question, the man who had threatened the coal-jagger only days before cast a quick glance to where Saran stood among the women.
‘It don’t be for long, we be leavin’ Wednesbury in a day or so, movin’ on.’ Luke rubbed his hands against the early morning chill.
‘Wednesbury not to your liking, then?’
It wasn’t the town that was not to his liking. Luke had a swift mental vision of the man who had carried Saran into the tavern, of the look on his face. No, it wasn’t Wednesbury town he had no liking for!
‘It ain’t the town so much,’ he replied, ‘but yer can’t live wi’out money an’ if it can’t be earned then there be no sense in stoppin’.’
Across the space of the High Bullen a hooter sounded from the building that pronounced itself the Coronet Tube Works.
‘That be the starting bull.’ The tall figure glanced across the way then back to Luke. ‘If you be averse to hard work, lad, then don’t follow me across the street; if it be you are not, then I’ll get you a place alongside me in that works.’ Only then did he look directly at Saran, touching a hand to his brow as his eyes locked with hers. ‘I’m sorry I can’t do the same for you, miss, but unlike the coal mines the ironworks won’t take women on.’
‘Saran . . .’ already trotting after that tall, loosely moving figure, Luke called back, ‘wait for me . . . I don’t know what time it’ll be but wait.’
‘The Turk’s Head?’
‘No!’ The reply was instant, its sharpness cutting off her words. ‘No, not there, don’t go you to the Turk’s Head, I . . . I’ll come to you beside . . . beside the Elwells’ ’ouse.’
Had it been imagination? Two hours later, all chance of being picked from the line gone with the last of the hirers, Saran walked slowly towards the town centre. Had it been no more than fancy she had seen that tall figure pause in its stride, the strong head turn to look at her when Luke mentioned the tavern? Had it been merely a trick of a mind subverted b
y cold and hunger?
But then why would he, a total stranger, have any mind where she waited? Don’t be fooled, Saran Chandler, she told herself grimly; apart from Luke there is not one other person in this town cares a jot where you are or what becomes of you!
He’d bought the woman and her brat, paid half a crown for one and ten shillin’ for the other and what had he got for ’is money! The day’s trading done, Zadok Minch closed the books that recorded every item of sale and expenditure – every item except the personal little concessions, the trifling gifts he made to himself every now and then, like the two he had bought in Walsall. The husband, the drunken lout who had dragged them into the tavern at the end of a rope, had vowed they would give good service. Vowed! Throwing the accounts books into the drawer of a heavy desk he locked it then tucked the key into his pocket. The man was a liar and so sure as Zadok Minch met with ’im again he’d kick that twelve shillin’ and sixpence right out of ’im. The woman? He ’adn’t cared overmuch for the money ’er ’ad cost; two scullery maids got rid of, replaced by one gettin’ naught for ’er labours than a meal and a place to sleep. But the little ’un, that ten-bob trifle? Irritation rising, he kicked against the desk. No man laid out that kind o’ money to see no pleasure forrit! Tonight he—
‘I see Arthur Trow along of Wharfedale Street lowered his price by another tuppence a bundle.’
Tonight could wait! Zadok looked across to the tall figure who stepped without knocking into his private office.
He was handsome and shrewd, but he had a long way to run to catch up with Zadok Minch. ‘But not the quality?’ he barked. If this one or Arthur Trow thought they could pull a fast ’un, sell ’im dross in place o’ quality iron, or try to squeeze an extra penny a thousand out of ’im, then they was in for a bloody sharp shock.
‘Same as before.’ The attractive mouth smiled. ‘Trow understood it was the price he was to lower not the grade of metal.’
Tuppence a bundle. Zadok’s brain clicked like the balls on an abacus. He had forty nailers on his books, forty men and most of their families supplying him with all types of nails, and at a shilling profit on every bundle of iron rod he sold them now becoming a shillin’ and twopence, every twelve hundred nails counted as a thousand, plus twopence farthing when these were sold on at thirty per cent more than he paid for ’em . . . he were seein’ a return of summat near a shillin’ an’ sixpence the thousand.
His calculations finished he looked at the figure standing watching. If ’e thought to get a share then it were another shock ’e were storin’ for ’imself. Taking his watch from his waistcoat he looked at it then flicked it back, saying as he did so, ‘You can go, I ’ave no more business today.’
‘Wait on!’ Younger and more agile, the man stepped forward, his smile fading. ‘This is the second time the price of iron has been reduced, the second time I’ve saved you money by telling nailers the rod costs the same though nails and tacks be fetching less, and this time I expects a share.’
‘Oh you does!’
‘Yes . . . I do. It is no more than my due.’
This one was getting cocky. Zadok touched a hand to his crop of side whiskers. And what did you do when a trained dog got cocky? You kicked it in the crotch!
‘I bin meanin’ to get to that.’ He met the stare of his visitor full on. ‘I bin meanin’ to tell you what your dues be . . . they be what I decides they be, no more no less, an’ you’ll get no more’n you’ve bin gettin’; an’ afore you meks complaint let me remind you it be a dangerous trade you follows. A fogger who creams a percentage, who pays a nailer tuppence a thousand less than the nails ’e buys be worth, not to mention sellin’ ’em on to a nail master at yet another threepence over the odds, be liable under the Truck Act. Her Majesty’s Commissioners would be more’n interested in ’ow you meks your livelihood, an’ I don’t ’ave to tell you they’ll tek a pretty dim view of it.’
‘A middleman has the right to make a living.’
‘That be right enough,’ it was Zadok’s turn to smile, ‘but the authorities ’olds no peace with a fogger that be robbin’ the nailers blind.’
‘Robbing them blind!’ The younger man’s fist came hard down on the desk. ‘You are a right one to talk!’
‘An’ talk is what you won’t never do if you knows which side o’ your bread be buttered!’ Zadok growled. ‘I ’ave what I ’ave an’ you keeps what you gets, so let that be the all o’ it, lessen you wants a taste o’ the cat and a ’oliday at ’er Majesty’s pleasure.’
Leaving his hand to rest a moment on the desk, the young man breathed deeply before straightening. ‘You promised me a share . . . you gave your word.’
The pup had received his kick in the groin and was whimpering. Zadok enjoyed the quick flush of triumph. He wouldn’t bark so quickly next time.
‘My word was it?’ He frowned, hiding the sweetness of victory. ‘Well, now I be givin’ you another. Tek what you will from the nailers you deals with but don’t think to do the same wi’ Zadok Minch, for he knows ’ow to deal wi’ two-timers.’
Two-timers! His handsome face taut with anger the younger man drew himself upward. One day Zadok Minch would learn the real meaning of double-crossing!
Leaning against a stone horse trough Saran dipped her hands in the water then held them to her mouth, swallowing the few drops that stayed in her palms. It had been six hours since she had left the High Bullen, nearly twice that number since she had eaten the bowl of broth Luke had bought for her at the Turk’s Head.
‘That might be good for horses but for you I would recommend something warmer.’
With her hands already immersed again in the trough Saran started, sending a shower of droplets cascading into the air as she spun round.
‘Whoa!’ The deep voice laughed. ‘I was simply wanting to be sociable. Do you always try to drown folk giving you the time of day?’
‘I . . . I’m sorry; you startled me.’
Making to brush the droplets from a fine worsted coat, then realising her wet hands would only add to the damage she had caused, Saran let them fall to her side, colour rising rapidly to her cheeks.
As dark and riveting as she remembered, eyes filled with amusement regarded her as she was handed a large, perfectly laundered handkerchief. Her colour flamed even higher as a rush of pleasure rippled through her. Thanking the man she had talked to across the street from the tavern she dabbed at her fingers before returning the handkerchief.
‘The fault was mine.’ He smiled, cutting off her further attempt at apology.
Pressing her palms self-consciously against her skirts, Saran felt the small hard lump that was the brooch nestled in her pocket. ‘No,’ she stammered, ‘you were—’
‘I know . . .’ the amusement lighting dark eyes became a smile curving an attractive mouth ‘. . . I was simply trying to be sociable, but if you are truly repentant for showering a man with water then perhaps you will take a cup of tea with your victim.’
Tea! Hot sweet tea! The very thought was pure ecstasy and for a moment she languished in it. But taking tea with a strange man, no matter how kind, was out of the question.
‘Thank you, but—’
‘Now you are not going to throw that “we are strangers” excuse at me, are you?’ The smile widened. ‘After all, I have held you in my arms.’
Her face scarlet, Saran dropped her glance. She had tried to remember, to live the moment again but with her senses awake.
‘Allow me to present myself, Jairus Ensell.’
Saran watched the slight unaffected bow as he spoke. Unlike her stepfather he had made no attempt to touch her, he did not leer at her as had those men shouting to be shown her breasts; his manners were those of a gentleman. Reassured by what she saw she dropped a faint curtsy. ‘Saran,’ she murmured shyly, ‘Saran Chandler.’
‘How do you do, Saran Chandler,’ he answered soberly. ‘May I take the liberty of asking if would you take tea with me?’
What would be the
greater wrong, to rebuff a man who had come to her assistance when she had fainted, to snub an offer he could only have made out of kindness, seeing her drink water that had been used by animals; or to accept, to walk alone with him into some tavern?
‘There are tearooms in Union Street, I think perhaps they might prove more acceptable than an inn.’
He could have read her thoughts, seen what was in her mind as clearly as had Harriet Dowen.
‘It is most kind of you but I must—’
‘Whatever it is you “must” can be done better after a cup of tea . . . and I promise I will not press you to stay a moment longer than it takes to drink it.’
His smile was open, and beyond their sparkle of laughter his eyes were honest. Her doubts calmed, Saran nodded and began to walk beside the man, who shortened his step to match her own. For all his good clothes and way of speech that was less rough than other men she had spoken to while looking for work or enquiring after her family, Jairus Ensell had not treated her like she was a beggar, a scavenger of the streets. He was polite, kind and thoughtful. He was a man she could trust.
9
Why had she told him so much of herself, how could she have let it all pour out the way she had? She had not meant to speak of her mother and sister, of their being sold like animals, or of Enoch Jacobs dancing with the moon and her meeting with Luke; she had meant to say nothing, yet the whole story had poured from her like water from a jug. She must have bored him terribly, only the politeness that was a natural part of him prevented him from showing it. Embarrassed by her own lack of tact, Saran fell silent.
‘Your stepfather was scum, he got what he deserved and you should not spare him another thought.’
The hand that touched hers was clean, free of the calluses which covered those of the miners and nail-makers she had spoken to, a hand that was gentle . . . a blush rising to her cheeks she drew away swiftly.
‘You say you have enquired in every part of the town and no one knows anything of your family?’
Saran nodded, not yet able to meet those dark eyes. ‘I’ve asked at the houses and workshops but each time . . .’
Sixpenny Girl Page 9
