The Red Staircase

by Gwendoline Butler

  ‘My dear Rose’, I read. I raised my head from the letter, and stared out of the window. The letter was from my godfather, Erskine Gowrie, but the hand was the hand of Emma Gowrie. She had been the scribe for the paralysed man. No wonder she knew all the details to pass on to Dolly Denisov. I turned back to my letter.

  ‘By now, I shall be dead. I waited till I had seen you, Rose, before I wrote this letter, but I meant all the time to write it, and on the same lines. Seeing you simply reinforced my conviction, held deeply even before meeting you, that I had made the right choice. But in doing so, I shall be leaving you to make a choice.

  ‘This is the situation I am bequeathing to you. In the last two years since I gave up the direct running of the works and all its subordinate concerns, and since it became known – as it did become known – that my heir would not be my son or my nephew, I have received two offers to buy my business. Both were good offers in financial terms. One offer was a Russian one, the second came from Germany. If the Russian offer is accepted then in three years the factory will be at best inefficient, at worst chaos. My manager, Andrew Keller, is a good man but he needs me behind him. If the German offer is accepted, then the works will be closed. I have every reason to believe that the place will have been bought in order to be shut down. The German motive is political, to weaken Russia. I remember what happened in the war with japan in 1904 when the guns of the Russian ships could not fire because their shells did not match their guns, and those that did fire, the shells were duds. If the Gowrie works fade away then the position in the next war (in which Russia and Germany will certainly fight each other) will be much worse. Why am I telling you these things? Because I want you to understand what the situation is. But there is a third choice open to you: you can keep the works in your own hands and run them yourself. I’ve looked at you now, Rose, and I believe you are the girl for it. After I had heard how you tried for medicine in Edinburgh and were foiled by poverty I meant you to have the money. Now you have the whole caboodle. You can sell to Russia and leave them to the muddle, you can sell to Germany, or you can take up the burden yourself. But the choice is yours. I leave it all to you; I shall be dead.’

  I sat for a long time staring at the letter. Then slowly I read through it again. It was easy to read in Emma Gowrie’s beautiful, clear hand. I wondered how far she had influenced the thinking behind it. Probably not much, the old man had had a mind of his own.

  The door opened and Mr Dundee came in. I handed him the letter. ‘Here, read it.’

  He took it and read. ‘Well, well,’ he said to me. Were its contents entirely unknown to him?

  ‘He offers me a choice, but really he wishes me to continue the works as a Gowrie concern. He doesn’t say it, but I can tell he wished it. But I am left free.’

  ‘It’s a grave choice,’ said Mr Dundee. He looked perplexed, then his expression lightened. ‘But you have plenty of time. No need to hurry. Months will elapse before the Estate can be settled. You have all that time before you need to make up your mind.’

  He was Russian enough to find procrastination the answer to anything, but in this case he was right. ‘No, I won’t hurry to decide,’ I said, as I shook hands before leaving.

  As I walked home, I found I could forgive Dolly. Now I understood her reasons for inviting me to Russia, I no longer thought them selfish and so I was able to be easy with her again. This was a great relief to me. Dolly, clever creature, sensed it at once, and without asking any questions, gratefully reverted to our old relationship and let any constraint she had adopted in her manner to me slip away. It was useless to say to her: ‘Dolly, no, it won’t do,’ because I could see she still had hope of me for Peter.

  The next day’s meeting for the reading of my godfather’s will was short and exceedingly formal. Except for some bequests to old servants and friends like my cousin, Miss Gowrie (who was present, of course, and sat uncharacteristically silent throughout, her eyes damp with genuine tears of grief) and to Andrew Keller (nicknamed Grossetete), his manager, everything was left to me. I signed a few documents, not more than three, and that was it for the moment.

  ‘But you need not worry that anyone is left impoverished, my dear,’ old Mr Dundee reassured me. ‘Sons and nephews were made independently rich years ago. And besides he quarrelled with them all.’

  ‘He was a bit like King Lear,’ I said thoughtfully.

  ‘Yes, except that he was sensible enough to keep his hands on the source of his power – the manufacturing,’ said Mr Dundee shrewdly.

  ‘Which is now mine.’

  ‘Which is now yours.’ And he looked at me questioningly.

  I shook my head. ‘No. No decision yet. I need more time.’ He nodded in agreement. ‘But first there is one thing I must do.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘Inspect the factory.’ I think my voice held some relish at the task, because I saw a look of surprise appear on his face. ‘I mean to go over it thoroughly. Will you arrange it for me?’

  ‘My dear Miss Gowrie, nothing to arrange. It is yours to command. Or rather,’ he added cautiously, ‘not totally, until the legal matters are finalized, but you may certainly inspect it.’

  We had been meeting in a long, narrow room with tall windows draped in green silk. On a silky green carpet stood a large round table covered in a green plush cloth and on this had been laid the papers for me to read and sign. Clearly this was the room in which important clients were dealt with.

  ‘Get Madame Denisov to run you out one day.’ Dolly, of course, was not present.

  Firmly, I said: ‘I prefer to go quite independently.’

  Mr Dundee looked first surprised, then approving. ‘Yes, quite the right way to do it. Go under your own steam. Very well. I will send my own car for you tomorrow. Will that do?’

  If Dolly was surprised to see me depart in the morning, she was too polite to enquire. I could see she was longing to, though. ‘It’s business, about the Works,’ I said briefly, and she had to be content with that. But as I departed I saw a little frown ruffling her brow. Dolly was really just like old Princess Irene: she liked to be well informed about the doings of her household, and just at that moment she particularly wished to know about me.

  The only other time I had visited the Gowrie Works I had been turned away. This time my car rolled through the gates to a welcoming committee; a self-appointed, dour-faced committee of one, consisting of Andrew Grossetête. He took one step forward as I stepped out of the car and gave me one brisk bow. That done, he reverted to aloofness. He was supported by two assistants, one carrying papers and the other a map or plan of the whole Works, but it was quite obvious that their part was to speak when spoken to.

  Between Andrew Keller and me there was the problem of communication. My Russian was perfectly adequate for ordinary social purposes now, and had even seen me through the ordeal of Vyksa, but whether I could conduct a business conversation was another matter. Of course, Mr Dundee could easily have supplied me with an interpreter, but to do this would put a barrier between me and Andrew when I knew it was vital for us to speak directly to each other.

  The scene in the big courtyard was virtually the same as it had been before, with the big drays rumbling in to be loaded and to discharge their cargo. A dozen or so large wooden casks were at that moment being trundled across the yard on a barrow to where a group of workers stood ready to roll them into store. I wondered what they contained. Nothing explosive, I guessed, from the way in which they were being manhandled, but certainly a chemical of some sort.

  I stood looking for a moment, then I turned to Andrew who at once gave another bow. ‘I want to see everything you can show me, please.’

  This time he didn’t bow but turned to the other two men. ‘Please allow me to introduce: this is Dr Gurien, our chief chemist.’ The man carrying the papers shook my hand. ‘And this is Mr Somov, who is in charge of the administration, ordering and supplies. But I am in general charge,’ he ended firmly.

&
nbsp; ‘And don’t mean to let me interfere,’ I thought, as I shook Mr Somov’s hand. He rather shyly presented me with a plan of the Works; I believe he was about to point out and name the various places to me, but Andrew Grossetête took the plan smartly from him and indicated with his finger.

  ‘Here, where we stand, is the Alexander courtyard, it was named for the Tsar Alexander. Here are the loading bays, and here incoming goods are received.’

  ‘Yes, I can see.’

  ‘Of course. Leading off from Alexander Court is the Catherine Yard and from that the Nicholas – smaller.’

  ‘All named after rulers of Russia?’

  ‘Exactly. And buyers of our wares.’ He almost smiled. ‘Perhaps we could name buildings after Napoleon Bonaparte and Count Bismarck, for they too have helped in their own way.’ Yes, undoubtedly he could smile if he wanted.

  I studied the plan. I saw that great buildings flanked each yard, and that all the yards were linked by both a covered way and a tunnel, so that there were double exits from each area. ‘For safety,’ said Andrew, in answer to my enquiring look. ‘We deal in dangerous stuff here. And hence the brick screens built before the doors of the “danger” buildings. This building here, and here – ’ he pointed with his finger – ‘we call “danger” buildings. There danger is at a maximum, and we take special precautions.’

  I nodded. I could see that beyond the Nicholas Yard stretched a wide terrain of apparently empty ground, for no buildings were marked, its boundary was one of the many rivers that cross St Petersburg. ‘And is all this as empty as it seems?’

  ‘Emptiness is what we need down there. Don’t you see what we call it? The Testing Ground. We test regularly on three days of the week. Our explosives must be seen to be stable and reliable: to do what we design them to do and nothing else. Here we provide the finest explosives for use in shells, grenades and small-arms. These are filled here in our Works. With our stamp on, they are known to be trustworthy.’ He pointed out on the map for me: ‘This is where they are packed.’ What he indicated was a range of long, low buildings covering a good area.

  ‘Now I know why I own so many acres and so many buildings,’ I murmured. ‘We don’t seem to make the guns?’

  ‘No, no, we are not a foundry.’ He seemed amused. ‘But of necessity we are involved to a certain extent in the production of shell cases and grenade cases. You have a financial interest in the firm that makes them. The big guns are made elsewhere.’

  ‘I’m beginning to understand.’

  ‘It’s not to be expected a woman would really comprehend,’ said Andrew patiently. ‘It’s not in the female nature.’

  I refrained from answering this comment. ‘Thank you for letting me see the plans. Now can I see the place itself?’

  He looked surprised and I could see that he had hoped to foist me off with a look at the plans, a talk, followed by tea in his office afterwards. ‘As you wish. Delighted to show you,’ he said gloomily.

  Now that I had leisure to observe, I saw that all the workers, even Andrew and Dr Gurien and Mr Somov, wore neat linen jackets clearly marked with a letter and a number. ‘What is the significance of the numbers and letters?’ I asked.

  ‘The letter indicates the department in which the person works, and the number is his personal number within it. Part of our safety precautions – every person can be easily identified. Moreover, only the workers bearing certain numbers may enter a danger area. And then, of course, if there is an explosion the letters and numbers help us check the population within the Works.

  ‘Did you invent this system?’

  A smile flashed across his face. ‘Perfected it.’ I smiled back. But secretly I was impressed with the efficiency of it all.

  We crossed the first big yard on a diagonal path, went through another archway into the Catherine Yard. Here we were faced by a low block of buildings lined with windows and entered by a double swing door. Andrew stopped. ‘Here is Dr Gurien’s territory.’

  Dr Gurien said: ‘The laboratories are here. Nothing much to look at, but we do good work.’ He was obviously a man of few words.

  ‘What we are famous for here,’ said Andrew, ‘is our precision. Everything we produce is accurate, everything is as it should be. We are reliable.’

  ‘And of course, all the time we are researching for more efficient explosives,’ said Dr Gurien. ‘Those that make better use of the energy we put inside them.’

  To blow people up, destroy men, and animals and buildings, I thought. And this was my business now, the source of my wealth.

  ‘And we are experimenting with the devices that set off the explosion – the bomb within the bomb,’ said Andrew. It was a little joke, but he made it with a straight face. ‘And we are developing a mechanism to delay an explosion until the minute we predetermine it should go off.’

  ‘But would that have a use?’ I asked.

  ‘Certainly. In naval warfare, for instance. And even on land it would be very useful to have such a trick at command. Other factories are experimenting in this field too, of course.’ At this point, Dr Gurien opened the swing doors and I entered his laboratory.

  Inside was a small lobby with two doors opening off it. Through the glass panels I could see three white-coated figures bent over their laboratory benches, which were crowded with Bunsen burners, pipettes and racks of glass tubes. I had well-nigh forgotten that scientists worked in such a confusion of equipment.

  I turned my head to look through the other door and the scene was more or less repeated, except that one of the white-coated figures was a young woman. ‘You employ women?’ I said to Dr Gurien.

  ‘That one,’ said Andrew dourly.

  ‘My wife,’ said Dr Gurien.

  ‘I’m glad to see a woman working in here,’ I said simply. ‘I won’t interrupt them. I’d like to go on round the building.’

  ‘We employ plenty of other women,’ said Andrew, ‘but mostly at packing the shells; they make a neater job of it than men. But it stains their hands yellow. You’ll know one of our girls anywhere by her fingers.’ He held the door open for me to pass out.

  When I got a moment, I said to Andrew: ‘About the women’s hands. Why can’t they wear some kind of protective glove?’

  He didn’t bother to think about it. ‘Because they would not work so well. Here are the store-houses. You can go round them easily enough, but you will find them boring. Women always do.’

  ‘Still, I’ll see them.’ And with Andrew beside me and the other two behind, I set off on a tour of the great storerooms, almost as tall as cathedrals, but well lit. I dragged them up stone stairs and then down again, getting myself dusty and breathless, but delighted to show Andrew a positive interest in everything.

  At the bottom of one flight of stairs I heard a noise and turned sharply. ‘Isn’t that a baby crying?’

  ‘It could be,’ said Andrew indifferently. ‘Some of the women in the packing-sheds bring their babies to work with them and we let them have a room down here to leave them in.’ He spoke as if they were unattended parcels.

  ‘With no one to look after them?’

  ‘Oh, they leave them in the care of an old babushka.’

  Over his protests, faint but decided, I pushed open the door of the room ahead of me and went in.

  About half a dozen infants of varying ages were laid out in old boxes or broken drawers or, in one case, just on the floor, although admittedly on a torn blanket and a pile of paper. An old woman sat smoking placidly in a corner, ignoring her charges, nearly all of whom were asleep except for the howler.

  I took a deep breath. ‘Why don’t you stop that child crying?’

  Without removing her pipe, the babushka said: ‘He likes to cry. He’ll stop when he’s ready.’

  ‘Oh surely not.’ I went over to look at the red-faced yeller.

  ‘Yes. He’s bored. We are all bored. I am bored. The others sleep, he cries. Hush up, my precious one, or your old babushka will beat you,’ she called in a lovi
ng voice.

  At once the child stopped, gave a sob, and put his thumb in his mouth and went to sleep.

  At the door Andrew stood silently waiting – but far from patiently. ‘I told you they were all right.’

  ‘But I wanted to see for myself. All the same, they ought to have a better room – a proper nursery.’ I could see about all that, I thought, and I would do.

  Andrew looked incredulous, but he did not argue. Women, I could hear him almost mutter. Andrew and I would have much to learn about each other.

  Then he took me through into the Catherine Yard, and here at once I felt a different atmosphere. Everything was clean and very well swept, no dust allowed, and the few people about passed on their business in a quiet and concentrated manner. The Catherine Yard did concentrate the mind as death does. Large letters on all doors proclaimed that there was Danger.

  I walked towards one of the heavy metal doors, but Andrew put a firm hand on my arm. ‘No. You do not go in there. I will not take the responsibility.’

  I tried to throw off his hand. ‘But I will.’

  ‘No.’ I was made aware of how much stronger he was than me. ‘No, no and no. In there you do not go. There they pack the shells.’

  ‘But there are women working inside. You said so.’

  ‘That is different,’ he said stolidly, and he would not let me go in. I had to give way. You and I will have to come to terms, I thought, you shall see who is master here. But for the moment he had won.

  In revenge I made him take me all around the huge testing area, examining everything I could and walking fast, until at the end of it we were all dusty and tired. But I was aware that there would have to be a fight between Andrew Grossetête and me if I was ever to feel in control of the Gowrie Works. He did not like women, did not admire their capabilities, and saw no sense in pretending otherwise. My place was the drawing-room, and I should stay there. Once more I wished desperately that I had succeeded in qualifying at Edinburgh so that I could have waved my professional status in his face. Women needed to be professional.