The Runaway

by Audrey Reimann

  Oliver went on, ‘… and the market men make a good living. I want to get a start in the market. There’s always folks wanting to buy, far more than wants a ride in a carriage. It’s not that I don’t appreciate your offer.’

  Bill was intrigued by the boy. Oliver reminded him of himself at that age; full of fire. ‘Come up to the tavern when you’ve finished the harness,’ he said at last. ‘We’ll talk about your ambitions. I’ll advise you if I can.’

  He went back to the tavern and asked Leonard to bring an extra glass. He had only been waiting for ten minutes when Oliver knocked at the parlour door. ‘Come in.’ Bill pointed to the armchair opposite his own when Oliver entered the room. ‘Sit down. I’ll pour a couple of drams. You’ve not signed the pledge or anything, have you?’

  ‘No, sir. I quite like it,’ Oliver said.

  ‘Tell me all about yourself. Your ambitions – your plans for getting on in the world.’ Bill handed the whisky to Oliver and seated himself.

  Oliver leaned forward, eagerness written all over his countenance. ‘I’d like to hear your story instead, sir. They say you made your own fortune. How did you do it?’

  For a moment Bill was taken aback at the boy’s directness then he began to laugh. ‘Oh, laddie! You don’t play with words, do you?’ He took a white handkerchief from the pocket of his frockcoat and mopped his eyes. ‘I didn’t do it by asking rich men how they made their money. No, indeed. Have you any ideas yet?’

  ‘Not yet. I thought I wanted to go into the mills but now I know I want to have me – I mean my – own business, no matter how small it is.’

  ‘You didn’t like working on the estate, I hear?’

  ‘No. It wasn’t the work. You don’t belong to yourself. It’s as if you’re owned by others,’ Oliver replied and Bill saw pride in the boy’s face; pride as his had been; pride that would never allow him to comply with a system he resented.

  ‘Were you treated badly?’ he asked.

  ‘No. Not me. Me mother died when I was born. She worked until a few hours before she had me. And she died,’ Oliver said.

  ‘And your father?’

  ‘He was killed in the quarry six years ago. Dad told them – he told them it wasn’t safe – but Sir Philip made him cut deeper, undermining all the time,’ Oliver said.

  Bill saw the quick filling of the young man’s eyes. The loss of his father had affected him deeply. Bill remembered the talk about the accident at the time and wondered if he ought to tell Oliver now, that he was related to the family who had been responsible for his being fatherless. No. He didn’t want to reopen old wounds; the moment passed and it was too late. He took the empty glass from Oliver and refilled it.

  An impulse to help the eager youngster made him ask, ‘Would you like to look round my mills, Oliver? I started with nothing, you know. It can still be done.’

  ‘I’d like that, sir.’ A smile of pleasure broke across the boy’s strong features.

  ‘Call me Bill. It makes me feel young.’

  Bill had always been inward-looking but he was enjoying talking to this youngster. To his surprise he found himself telling Oliver about his own early years.

  ‘Like you, I was brought up on an estate, Oliver; a Scottish estate called Balgone. I named my house after it. The countryside was not unlike Cheshire – soft, rolling land not far from Edinburgh.’

  Oliver was listening with rapt attention.

  ‘I was left an orphan, too. But I’d had an education and knew I could do better for myself than work on the land.’

  ‘What brought you to Middlefield?’

  ‘A lassie, Oliver. A lovely lassie I’d only seen once when she visited the estate. She was so beautiful … she still is,’ he said. ‘When I found out she lived in Cheshire I set out to follow her and win her.’

  ‘Go on,’ Oliver said.

  ‘I hadn’t a penny but I’d brought some tartans with me – a bagful. I’d saved my wages and I sold my few belongings and bought tartans in the borders on my walk south. And I took a stall here – and sold them all.’

  Oliver, he could see, wanted more. The lad had poured him another dram to keep him talking. ‘And then I bought silks with the money. And I sold those – and I sold them cheap.’

  ‘Was it good luck? How did you know what to sell?’ Oliver leaned forward, eager for more.

  ‘It wasn’t good luck. It was hard work – and good brains, for I had nothing else. I made a profit but I wasn’t greedy. Week by week I built it up until I had enough to buy looms. There was an old mill, Hollin Mill, by the river. It had been a flour mill but the miller was gone and I discovered that it was owned by a wealthy man. I went to see him and asked him to lease it to me. He agreed and I asked an acquaintance to lend me money. I was sure I could do it, you see. We put the looms in and an engine and that was how it all came about.’ Bill laughed at the memory. ‘Then I bought another mill, for the money came in faster.’

  ‘Did you see the girl again?’ Oliver asked.

  ‘I did that, laddie. She was related to the man I leased the mill from. I married her. We had to run away to Scotland to marry. Her brother-in-law – my brother-in-law he is now, didn’t want her to marry me. And he had power, Oliver. He’s a very powerful man.’

  ‘Have you any children?’ Oliver wanted to know.

  ‘No. It’s been a great sadness. But it’s been the only one. We couldn’t love each other more, even if we’d had all the children we’d have liked,’ Bill replied. ‘We have a great-niece though. What about you? Have you brothers and sisters? Did your father marry again?’

  ‘I’ve a half-brother. His name’s Tommy and I’m going to send for him as soon as I’ve got a place of me own and some money,’ Oliver told him. ‘And there’s me stepmother. She’s marrying a man we hate. She didn’t need to do it. I’d have looked after them both.’ A look of anger crossed Oliver’s face when he spoke about his stepmother.

  Bill wanted to know more. ‘Are you disappointed in her?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m disgusted with her. She’s behaving like a … like a …’ He seemed reluctant to say what he felt about his stepmother’s behaviour. ‘She used to be a good woman. I never thought she’d throw herself at a man like Leach,’ he added.

  ‘Is he rich? This Leach?’

  ‘No. He earns more than she does. He earns more and he steals a bit. She doesn’t love him or anything. I’m sure she doesn’t. She’s fed up with being poor.’ Oliver added fiercely, ‘I’d have seen ’em right. I don’t think a woman should marry a man she doesn’t love. Do you?’

  Bill chuckled. ‘Would you marry a woman you didn’t love, Oliver? If she could set you up in business? Give you your start?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘There’s a woman who’d have you, you know. She’s a good-looking woman. A lot of men would be glad to have her and her money,’ Bill said, watching Oliver’s face carefully. The look of pain at the mention of his stepmother had gone from the boy’s face and Bill grinned as Oliver threw back his head and laughed.

  ‘You’re talking about Mrs Wardle?’ he said.

  ‘You’ve noticed?’

  ‘Of course I have,’ Oliver said. ‘She’s a nice woman. I like her but not to marry. I’d never take her – you know what I mean?’

  Bill smiled. Oliver was trying to spare his feelings, not wanting to be thought coarse. ‘Not even if she were worth a few thousand?’ he teased.

  ‘No.’ Oliver’s expression was serious again. He bent forward, the better to make his point. ‘Making money, getting rich isn’t the most important thing. I want the money so I can have the sort of home I want so I can ask the girl I want. I want the money for that, not the other way round. I won’t take a rich woman just so’s I can get started. But I do want to make me – my – own money,’ he added. ‘I suppose I want the challenge of it. Anyway, I’d have to feel a lot more for a woman than I do for Mrs Wardle before I’d – you know?’

  ‘I know.’ Bill smiled. ‘I was the same. I wasn
’t cut out for flirtations.’

  ‘Tell me how you met your wife. How did you find out she was related to this man? How did you come to meet up with her again and get married?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I saw a girl at Suttonford. The most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. She’s tiny and she’s fair and even though I’ll perhaps never see her again I can’t forget her. When I marry I want a girl just like her.’

  Bill was silenced for a moment. Could Oliver have seen Florence? ‘When did you see her?’ he asked gently.

  ‘The day I left the estate. It was the day of the garden party. She was travelling back to Middlefield in a carriage with her mother.’

  It must have been Florence. Bill thought it uncanny; there were so many similarities between himself and this young man. A strange feeling, almost a premonition, passed through him. He took their empty glasses and put them on the tray. He was tired now and he still had his figures to do. There were shares he wanted to buy and he must assess the likely return on them. ‘We’ll talk again next Wednesday, Oliver. Come round the mills with me. I want you to think hard about your future before then. If I can help you, I’ll do my best.’

  ‘Good night, Bill.’ Oliver put out his hand and Bill took it in his.

  ‘Good night.’

  The following Wednesday, a soft, warm April morning, Oliver waited with impatience for Bill’s carriage to pull up in front of The Pheasant.

  Albert had an attic bedroom overlooking the front of The Pheasant and Oliver stood at the window, dressed in the new suit of good blue cloth, which he kept in Albert’s wardrobe. The expense had left him with only two guineas in savings but he was glad he had the suit. It made him appear older. He glanced at himself again in the wardrobe’s long mirror. Yes. The high wing collar looked good. He’d tied his cravat loosely and had been to the barber’s earlier for a haircut and shave.

  He was pleased that he was changing. He’d been noting the ways and manners of men he admired and was no longer the country bumpkin that Albert had first encountered. He wanted to look right today.

  The carriage turned up the hill and Oliver ran down the stairs to be on the doorstep at the moment Bill pulled up.

  ‘Do you want to take the reins, Oliver?’ Bill asked. ‘Or would you rather sit inside? You look too handsome by half to do the driving today.’

  Oliver laughed. ‘You sit inside. I’ll drive,’ he said. He held on to the bridle while Bill climbed slowly down from the driver’s seat, then Oliver leaped easily into it and steadied the horses until the old man was aboard.

  He had to shout against the noise of other horses, carriages and carts, which were clattering and rumbling over the cobblestones.

  ‘Which one first?’ he called.

  ‘Hollin Mill. The weaving shed,’ Bill replied.

  Chapter Five

  The noise in the weaving shed was deafening. The air was filled with cotton dust and the wooden floor vibrated under the weight of the rattling iron looms; rows and rows of them.

  Oliver had never imagined anything like this. The machinery rattled as the wooden shuttles flew between the close threads, clacking when they reached the sides. Heddle looms lifted and dropped between the whirring pass of the shuttles and the weavers and tacklers reached and pulled, their hands never still.

  The weavers conversed by lip-reading. It was impossible to hear above the din. They talked while their fingers swiftly caught the occasional broken threads, twisting them into weavers’ knots as the lengths of cloth steadily grew.

  ‘Rosie!’ Bill Grandison tapped the young forewoman on the shoulder. ‘I’m going to the office. Show Oliver the machines. This is the young man who drives for me.’

  Rosie nodded to Bill and went ahead of Oliver between the rows of looms.

  Rosie.

  She was tall; in her twenties, Oliver guessed, and she took him to each loom in turn, explaining the processes by leaning towards him, her mouth only inches from his ear. And he could not take his eyes off her. Her dark hair was drawn into a heavy plait to keep it from catching in the fast-flying shuttles as they crossed and re-crossed the warp threads. He found himself shaking, so conscious was he of her nearness, of the shining smoothness of her hair, the softness of her breath on his cheek and the feel of her skirt against his legs.

  With an effort he made himself act normally. ‘Are you in charge of all these people?’ he asked her, mouthing the words carefully.

  She had the most beautiful eyes of a soft, warm brown and when she smiled it was inviting and slow, so that for a moment it seemed as if the noise of the mill faded and he and she were the only people present. He wondered if she had felt it too.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’ve been the forewoman for a year.’

  He watched the little creases that came in her cheeks when she smiled and he asked her to show him the rolls of woven cloth. ‘Where do you store the woven cloth?’ he asked.

  She put a hand on his arm again. ‘Follow me,’ she said.

  She walked ahead of him again, tall and slender with a sway to her hips and her head held high. They went down a short flight of wooden steps at the far end of the shed into a big, dark room where the bolts were stacked on slatted wooden shelves. Under the bottom shelves six large sacking bags lay open, filled with untidy pieces of cloth.

  ‘What’s that?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s the waste,’ she told him. ‘The practice pieces and the ends; the pieces with faults.’

  ‘What do you do with them?’

  ‘We use them for rags. We clean the looms with them, wipe the oil off the machinery and send what’s left over to the infirmary or the workhouse. They use them for floor cloths.’

  Oliver felt a strange excitement in the pit of his stomach that had nothing to do with the beautiful young woman who stood beside him. If he could buy the ends, the practice pieces … if he could bundle them up … sell them in the market … ‘Couldn’t they be sold?’ he asked.

  ‘If there are too many we get something from the ragman, but only if we deliver it to him. He gets it for nothing if he collects it,’ Rosie replied.

  ‘Do you have complete charge?’ Oliver asked. ‘Is there a manager? A man in control of the mill?’

  She laughed, showing fine white teeth in the generous mouth. ‘I can manage without a man,’ she said. ‘I was forewoman in a bigger place than this, before I came to Middlefield. It might seem a big mill to you but really it’s quite small and easy to run.’

  Oliver wanted to keep her there, talking to him. He wanted to watch her ever changing expressions.

  ‘I’ll get back now, Oliver,’ she said at last. ‘Mr Grandison will be waiting for me to give him the work reports. Look around the place for an hour, if you want. We’ll be finished then.’

  Oliver watched her from the open door of the storeroom as she went back through the weaving shed, stopping to speak to the weavers if they signalled to her, tall and graceful, confident and assured. Then he wandered the lines of looms, asking questions; standing to watch the processes until he had absorbed as much knowledge as he could take in on a first visit. He had a growing sense that this, this business of making and selling, was what he wanted for himself.

  He made his way back to the office, a dark, partitioned corner of the mill, lit only by a small window, which opened into the weaving shed. Bill had the record cards and work books ready and he handed them to Oliver.

  ‘What do you think of it then?’ Bill asked him.

  ‘I like it. I’d like to learn more about it,’ Oliver told him.

  ‘Put these in the carriage,’ Bill said. ‘I’ll show you how I keep my records when we get back to The Pheasant.’ They went together down the dusty wooden stairs and out into the sunny street.

  Oliver placed the books on the floor of the carriage. ‘Rosie knows all there is to know about weaving, doesn’t she?’ he said. He’d seen her deal quickly and fairly with an argument that had flared between two women. ‘She keeps the pla
ce in order too,’ he added, keeping Bill talking for a little longer before he unfastened the horses’ reins from the post. He wanted to know more about Rosie and the work of the mill.

  ‘Rosie’s a good worker. I pay her well.’ Bill told him. ‘Her husband’s a sick man and she has to work to keep them all; her husband and three little children.’

  She was married. A wave of disappointment went through him. ‘Is she a Middlefield woman?’ Oliver asked. ‘She doesn’t talk like the others.’

  ‘She was brought up in Bradford. She and her sister are orphans. She met Jim Hadfield when he went to their chapel to preach. He’s a lot older than her; a good man and a moving speaker, by all accounts.’ Bill said.

  The sun was warm on their backs and Bill turned his face up to the sun, as if in no hurry to leave. Oliver dawdled over the reins, wanting to hear more. ‘You don’t need a man to look after the place when you’re not there then? It must take a hardy woman to keep all those men and women in their place.’

  ‘Rosie Hadfield runs the mill better than any man could. She’s a clever lass. She’s not at all hardy. She’s high-strung, but you’d never think it, seeing her at work. Not a bad thing in a woman is a fine sensitivity.’

  ‘Where to next?’ Oliver asked as Bill climbed into the carriage.

  ‘The spinning mill.’

  There, too, Oliver found that long spools of cotton thread were wasted. Mistakes in the spinning led to the piling up of spools that could not be sold and he wondered if they would find willing buyers. Ideas now were spinning, like the very cotton, in his head. He’d wait until he’d seen the braid workshop before he spoke to Bill about them.

  There it was much quieter. The braid looms were small and Oliver watched in fascination as reels spun fast. Shimmering silk threads in golds and crimson, purples and green seemed to hover in the air, unmoving. Yet they were transformed in front of his eyes into the intricately woven ribbons and braids that were carefully rolled, outside in, on the polished benches by girls with nimble fingers and sharp eyes.