Sixpenny Girl

by Meg Hutchinson

  Lady’s Cordial

  a softer, gentler fruit drink, then by:

  Renaissance . . . a restorative wine aiding recovery of energy after illness

  Each label had been carefully designed to be tasteful rather than glaring, as had their containers. The glass bottle works at Greets Green had been happy to oblige her request for the varied shapes, valuing the extra work her custom provided.

  Her success had been rapid. She had kept her workers and employed more, taking her bread business a stage further to produce pies and savouries, releasing many from the hopelessness of the workhouse, the drudgery of a life in servitude to hell. She had brought happiness where the very meaning of the word had been forgotten, but where was her own happiness . . . the happiness of vengeance?

  She had sworn to destroy the life of Zadok Minch piece by piece, but as each piece was cut away she felt none of the pleasure she thought would come of revenge. Beyond the window, fields and cottages passed swiftly by but Saran saw only the pictures in her mind. First it had been the nailing, slowly at first then in ever growing numbers until every nail-maker in the town came to her. She had saved every farthing she could, seeing them grow into pennies and pennies into the sovereigns which would fulfil her vow, and as they had become a large enough sum she had purchased the Tommy Shops, those shops Zadok Minch had owned, where his nailers had been forced to buy their provisions with the tokens he paid in lieu of wages.

  Then the columns in her accounts ledger had shown she was capable of buying the coach axle works Zadok Minch had put up for sale. Luke and she had discussed the buying of it, Luke telling her to offer a lower price, the grapevine had it Minch was in poor straits. The offer had been accepted. Another piece of the man’s life had been sliced away. But he had bought the Coronet Works . . . had the grapevine been wrong?

  Time had answered her. More of its workers had been given their tins, men and boys coming to Brook Cottage asking for employment. Somehow she had always managed to help, the relief on their faces speaking their gratitude. She had given them happiness. But for herself there was none. The dream she had lived with, the dream of being reunited with her family, had shattered in Zadok Minch’s house, had died beneath his cruel laughter as her loved ones had died beneath the vicious lash of his whip. And that other dream, the one so secret she let it creep into her heart only in the silence of the night? Saran felt the familiar twist of pain in her chest. Being loved by Gideon Newell . . . that was all it could ever be: a dream.

  ‘Brummajum, miss . . . it were Brummajum you were wantin’?’

  The strings of the present jerking her like a puppet Saran hesitated, then smiled her thanks to the coachman waiting to help her down.

  ‘You won’t go forgettin’ the time of the last coach back, now will you, miss?’ He touched a hand to his forehead as she reached into her bag for a coin. ‘There’ll be none runs after eight o’clock tonight.’

  Summoning a hansom cab she relaxed, allowing thoughts to rush in like a tide yet keeping back the one which held her dream. It would never be realised . . . contrary to Ezekiel’s belief, not all dreams could be lived.

  What was happening to his bloody world! Zadok Minch slammed shut the ledger on his desk. First the nail-makers, they had shifted to Elwell, and his profits had taken a downward turn one after another, all of his holdings had taken the same! Now the tube works had followed suit and he faced bankruptcy!

  Adams had said nothing of the smaller place he had built on Monway Field. Was that because he’d somehow found out that he, Minch, hadn’t the money to pay for it, or had there been some other motive? Hadn’t the fellow heard of mortgages . . . bank loans, any one of which would have bought the property. Instead it had gone to Newell and the brat he called a partner. A bloody partner. Christ, it was laughable! The kid could be no more than fifteen years old, sixteen at the outside. But the profits they had turned in less than two years weren’t laughable! Zadok stabbed the pen savagely into the polished surface of the desk. Iron foundry were what it had started out as and smelting iron should have been what it kept to; but not them, they had incorporated the mekin’ of tubes into their little business, mekin’ ’em to a new process invented by the smart-arsed Mr Newell . . . and one he had the foresight to protect by Letters Patent. This new process of tube-making worked by means of heating iron in a blast furnace rather than a forge and immediately on withdrawing the plate iron passing it through swages, an instrument he had designed to bend the metal up on both sides until the edges almost met, giving the form of a long cylindrical tube. That was then returned to the new-fangled blast furnace until the iron was almost to the point of fusion. When that point was reached it was removed by means of chain attached to a draw bench and passed through a pair of dies by which means the edges of the iron were pressed together and thus the joint was firmly welded in a smooth seam, creating a tube much preferred by the manufacturers of steam engines for making steam cylinders, water boilers and pistons.

  That was the brainchild which was grinding his business into the dust. Butt-welding iron strip into tubes meant joining together lengths not much more than four feet, hammering the red-hot iron end to end, and the more joints it took the more the labour . . . labour he must pay for. Oh, he’d found out about this process of Newell’s but the copying of it he could not do.

  ‘God damn!’ Zadok swore loudly. He would be out of business altogether by the time that patent expired!

  ‘What the hell do you want?’ His anger added to by the interruption, he rounded on the mousy woman stood hesitantly at the door.

  ‘You were asked to be told when your visitor arrived.’

  Zadok glanced at the mantelpiece. Ten o’clock. Punctual, he liked that, liked it as much as the pleasure this visit would give him.

  ‘Out o’ the way!’ Pushing his wife aside he strode to the stairs, the remainder of his growl trailing their long flight. ‘And keep you outta the way, the less my eyes sees of you the better I be pleased!’

  Watching the heavy figure pass along the landing and into the bedroom he referred to as his games parlour, guilt marked a deep shadow on the woman’s lined face.

  34

  ‘So you comes again to Zadok Minch, an’ what favour does it be you expects to get?’

  ‘No favour.’ Saran ignored the hand waving her to a chair. ‘I have come with a business proposition.’

  ‘Business . . . the only business you ’ave to offer be one I can get anywhere in the town for sixpence.’

  The same words! Saran swallowed hard, the same words Gideon Newell had said to her a lifetime ago. But they were as wrong then as they were now. Keeping her voice even she looked at the man she detested as much as ever.

  ‘Not quite,’ she answered coldly. ‘My proposition is worth several thousands of sixpences.’

  Heavy jowls wobbling he laughed. ‘Thousands . . . I wouldn’t pay that kind o’ money to tumble the queen herself, virgin though her undoubtedly be; but if you be sellin’ . . .’ He glanced towards the large bed set to one side of the room.

  Time had not changed this man except to make him more odious. Saran watched him pour himself a drink, noting with satisfaction the label announcing it as Gentleman’s Reserve. Zadok Minch would choke on it were he to know who it was made his whisky. But, like the rest of her acquisitions, it was registered to S.C. Enterprises.

  ‘I am not here to sell, I am here to buy.’

  The drink tipped off in one gulp, Zadok stared at the young woman eyeing him icily. The patched skirts and moth-eaten shawl were gone, replaced with velvet and a feathered bonnet. Her’d found herself a lover, one with money to throw away on scum! Well, money was money no matter where it came from and he needed it. Swallowing back the contempt coating his tongue he refilled his glass.

  ‘To buy!’ He raised the glass, watching light dance in its amber contents. ‘And what is it you wish to purchase . . . a painting, a Dresden figure—’

  ‘No.’ Saran cut the dialogue short. ‘We b
oth know the valuable contents of this house were sold long ago. I am here to buy something of a different nature.’

  How the hell could her know what he’d sold? Anger flicked the edge of contempt. He would find the one who had been talking, and when he did the bastard would talk no more, he’d have the tongue cut from his head.

  ‘I asked to see you for two reasons.’ Saran spoke again. ‘The first being to offer you four thousand sixpences in exchange for being told where the bodies of my mother and sister were taken.’

  One hundred pounds! Christ, he could do with a sum like that; he could tell her anything, take the money and . . .

  Spreading twenty five-pound notes like a fan Saran watched greed narrow the small eyes, intent spread the essence of a smile over flabby lips, and she tapped the notes against gloved fingers. ‘This,’ she said, ‘will be paid once the remains of my family are found.’

  The bitch was smart! Already whip-like inside him, his anger flicked harder. Her thought to ’ave got one over on Zadok Minch but her could keep her hundred pounds, use it for arse paper!

  ‘That be the proposition you spoke of?’ Anger hid behind a laugh. ‘It be as well for women they don’t engage in business for they don’t ’ave the brains of a fly . . . if they had to live by their wits they’d die of starvation. I told you the answer to what you ask some years gone, told it for free. Them folk o’ your’n was took wi’ the rest of the shit and I don’t ask where shit be dumped. However . . .’ a smirk spread further over thick jowls as lecherous eyes followed the length of her, ‘. . . Zadok Minch be a generous man, so pay what I asks, though it don’t be money, pay what I asked afore, lay that body o’ your’n under mine, pleasure Zadok as you be pleasurin’ some other man, and I’ll find out where your folk were thrown.’

  Bitterness and acid burning her throat, Saran fought the wave of nausea threatening to engulf her. Slowly, using the moments to regain enough composure to answer, she replaced the banknotes in her bag, and when she looked again at that mocking face her own showed every atom of her loathing.

  ‘Perhaps, as you said, it is as well women do not engage in business, but it is not all women who do not have the brains of a fly. This woman comes to tell you to vacate this house by the end of the month.’

  His glass lowering with a jerk, Zadok loosed a roar of laughter. ‘That be a bloody good joke, do you ’ave any more like that?’

  ‘A few.’ Saran’s tone was cold and even as sheet ice. ‘But they are not jokes. You mortgaged this house in order to raise the money which bought the Coronet Works. In its turn that also was mortgaged to meet other debts, the loans being made by Morton’s Bank who, because of repeated failure on your part to comply with the agreement regarding repayment, foreclosed on that property at noon yesterday. The mortgages were redeemed and you are to leave by the end of the month.’

  Narrow eyes narrowed further, Zadok’s fury spitting from slits between folds of flesh. ‘Do you think I be bloody stupid . . . do I look daft enough to tek a tale like that?’

  Withdrawing a folded paper from her bag Saran held it out. ‘How you look revolts me, but I am certain the look you will have once you have read this document will prove very pleasant to me.’

  ‘You know what you can do wi’ that!’

  ‘Then we will leave it for a solicitor to deliver.’

  Solicitor! Zadok’s smirk vanished. This bitch had already showed her was smart . . . smart enough to somehow ’ave got wind of his finances? Was some man whispering more than sweet nothings in her ear? Snatching the paper with his free hand he shook it open, running a glance swiftly over the neatly written words, then, looking back at her, he flung the empty glass against the wall.

  ‘Has the fool who be buyin’ you fancy clothes, the one you be sleepin’ with, let you bring this ’ere?’ he shouted. ‘Then tell ’im I’ll see him gaoled for lettin’ a bloody woman know my business.’

  ‘I came to this house for two reasons; one you have already rejected, the second you cannot reject. I came to say what I told you some years ago, told it for free: you would be destroyed piece by piece. And that promise has been kept. The nailing was taken first, then the strip-iron works which fed that trade, that was followed by the Forge Pool coal mine, the last one you owned. It took time but finally they were all gone and you were left only with one thing to raise money on, this house. Now that, too, is no longer yours.’

  ‘So the one bedding you be the one cutting the ground from under me! Well, I tells you this – and this be for free an’ all – you won’t get nothing from my going under, the one you be pleasuring will tek that pleasure and when he be tired will ’ave you thrown out along o’ the shit, same as I ’ad that scum of a family o’ your’n throwed out; you’ll get nothin’ . . . you hear me? . . . nothing!’

  ‘I hear you.’ Quiet as a mill pond Saran’s answer followed the bellow. ‘And you are correct. The one I sleep with is the same one cutting the ground from under you.’

  ‘And that don’t be you,’ Zadok yelled again. ‘It don’t be no bloody woman!’

  ‘Can you be certain of that? I did tell you it is not all women do not have the brain of a fly. The bills of sale transferring the properties—’

  ‘Were signed S.C. Enterprises, a firm backed by money not by some cheap little whore auctioned to the highest bidder by Enoch Jacobs!’ Zadok beamed triumphantly seeing the words strike like a blow. ‘See how soon your bedfellow rids himself of you once Zadok Minch tells him what you really be, tells him how many men rode you in the fields along your way, how many times Enoch Jacobs sampled the goods he offered for sale.’

  Closing the bag held open all this time Saran looked straight into the mocking narrow eyes. ‘You can tell the one I sleep with nothing which is not already known. You see, the fool who buys my fancy clothes, the one cutting the ground from under you, the S.C. Enterprises who now own everything you once had is me. Saran Chandler Enterprises. The same person once offered for sale by Enoch Jacobs.’

  Beyond the door a mousy drab woman smiled as she hurried down the stairs.

  ‘I’m sorry, but your coming might be a waste of time.’ Zadok’s wife smiled apologetically at the attractive figure stood in the hall. ‘When I was sent to invite you I was unaware Zadok had also invited a young man.’

  ‘A young man?’ A painted mouth tightened.

  ‘More a boy really, someone from the works no doubt. He has left now but I fear my husband was tired by the visit, business often leaves him exhausted. Maybe I should see if he is awake.’

  ‘Please don’t bother. If he is sleeping I will just slip away.’

  Watching the exquisitely dressed figure walk up the stairs, Zadok’s wife smiled to herself.

  ‘Your wife said you were tired.’ Red lips smiled as Zadok’s naked figure half lifted from the bed. ‘Does that mean I should go home?’

  He hadn’t expected this, but then he wasn’t going to turn it away either. His flesh already stirring, he lay back. ‘It means you should get them clothes off, I be a hungry man.’

  ‘I don’t know whether I should play with you . . .’ the full lips pouted, ‘your wife tells me you have had a visitor already today.’

  His wife wouldn’t be able to open her mouth for a week after he’d dealt with her! Hiding the thought behind a toss of the head, Zadok answered, ‘A solicitor. Called with some figures I’d asked him to collect. But who wants to talk legal business when there be more pleasant business to hand?’ He stretched out his hand in invitation.

  Lie number one! While the podgy outstretched hand was ignored, the violet eyes hid irritation. How many more would he tell?

  The throb in his loins demanding attention, afraid his attractive visitor might leave, Zadok thought quickly. It was a case of say something or waste what could be a most amusing evening.

  ‘It be the Coronet Works.’ He slid a gaze over the elegant figure. ‘I be thinking to sell it and this house along wi’ it.’

  Finely arched brows drawing togethe
r, Zadok’s visitor expressed surprise. ‘Sell this house . . . but why . . . where would you live?’

  Impatient with the questions and with being kept waiting for the satisfaction his body shouted for, Zadok’s reply was snapped. ‘The why should be obvious, I be fed up with tube-mekin’ and with this house, as for where I’ll live . . . the house you be in belongs to me, I shall live there.’

  ‘Your wife, too?’

  ‘Who said anything about her living there? I ’ave ways of gettin’ rid of shit!’ Spread-eagled naked on the bed he smiled to himself. He had gotten rid of that bitch Chandler’s mother and sister, and today he had taken steps to get rid of her. Tomorrow would show just whose life it was were destroyed!

  In the next room, with an ear pressed to the wall, Bridget Minch drew a long breath then, moving quietly, returned to her kitchen.

  Livvy was happier than she had ever seen her. Holding her skirts free of evening dew Saran made her way across the rough open ground towards Brook Cottage. Her family safe around her, training others to the making of bread and savouries, the woman had blossomed in health and in confidence until now she could run the large specially built kitchen like a trained chef; and Edward he also was happy, keeping a sharp eye on the quality of the nails brought to him, buying in only the best iron for their making. Ezekiel too would have been content at the success of the brewing. They were all happy, including Luke. At the thought of him she smiled. He had grown so tall, almost as tall as Gideon . . . Gideon! Her smile faded. He rarely came to Brook Cottage any more, business meetings between himself and Luke taking place at the works they ran together. He was polite on the odd occasion their paths crossed but it held no warmth. The grey eyes were always guarded and the mouth tense. She had lost the friendship of Gideon Newell long ago and he made it clear in his every look and movement that he wanted no renewal of it.

  This evening had been no different. He had come not to Brook Cottage but to the home of the Elwells, bringing a brithday gift for Martha; but all during that time he had spoken only briefly to herself, wishing her good evening. It had become more than she could bear – the nearness of him yet the distance – and so she had begged the excuse of doing her accounts.