‘This is the expensive stuff, Oliver,’ Bill told him. ‘We can’t have mistakes in the stuff we send out from here. The girls are looking for flaws.’
Oliver saw that they had cut off lengths of ribbon and braid and dropped them into baskets under the bench. Again came the excited feeling he’d felt at Hollin Mill. If only he could buy these wasted pieces he was sure it would be his start.
Bill Grandison called in at his banker and the lawyer’s offices and at each stop Oliver helped carry the ledgers and boxes of papers back to the carriage. It was not yet the right time to talk. He’d wait until they returned to The Pheasant.
He carried books and boxes up to Bill’s room before he stabled the horses and sat in the groom’s place, thinking. Would Bill be angry, he wondered, if he told him that perhaps there was money to be made from Bill’s own business? Would it imply that Bill was careless in not seeing it? Suppose it was an act of charity that made Bill send the waste material to the infirmary and the workhouse? There was only one way to find out. Oliver went into the tavern, ran up the stairs and tapped on Bill Grandison’s door.
‘Come in, Oliver.’ Bill was expecting him. He was seated in front of the books, his eyes close to the pages. ‘I’m finding it difficult to see these figures. I wonder if you’d mind helping me.’
‘Bill,’ Oliver blurted out, not in the business like manner he’d meant to use. ‘I want to buy all your ends and practice pieces.’ The words were coming as fast as his thoughts. ‘I could sort them, put them in bundles and sell them in the market. I’m sure I could make a profit that way.’
Bill did not reply for a moment. He kept his eyes on the books in front of him, a frown of concentration making a deep line between bushy white eyebrows, though Oliver knew that he was considering his proposal. Oliver held his breath and watched for a change of expression on the old man’s face.
Bill slowly straightened himself and looked at him. A smile spread across his face, turning up the pointed ends of his neat moustache, bringing a boyish sparkle to his faded blue eyes. ‘I believe you could, Oliver,’ he said. ‘But you’d need more than I could supply if your bundles sold well.’
‘I could ask at the other mills. I could go round to the managers and ask for their waste.’ Oliver was gabbling the words in his eagerness. ‘Do you think they’d sell to me?’
Bill raised a hand, as if to warn him to think a little more slowly, but he was smiling and Oliver suppressed his own excitement. ‘I could take you to meet one or two mill-owners tomorrow and we’ll see if you can do business with them,’ he said. ‘We’ll go to Hollin Mill again. Rosie will let you have our ends. How much have you saved? You’ll not be given credit the first time you buy.’
‘I’ve two guineas. Will that buy enough to start myself off?’
‘I’ll sell you my waste and braid for one and a half guineas. That will give you some left over to pay for the stall,’ Bill said. ‘Now come and help me with my work. My eyes are not as sharp as they were.’
Oliver helped the old man with his books, adding the columns quickly, checking as he went along.
‘Can you calculate, Oliver?’
Bill was testing him, giving him silly little sums. Oliver grinned happily to himself as he added and multiplied – twopence three farthings a yard for one weave – and there were twenty-nine yards, nine and a half inches on the bolt.
‘It’d make more sense if you cut the nine and a half inches off, Bill. I’ll buy the odd bits,’ he joked.
‘That’s the way to do it.’ Bill said. ‘You’ll have to do your sums quickly when you’re doing business with the mill-owners. They will drive a hard bargain.’
‘Do you think they’ll trade with me?’ Oliver asked. ‘If they know I’m going to put the stuff on the market?’
‘They’ll trade. They’ll try to get the better of you though. Offer them half of what you’re prepared to pay. You can always raise your offer but you can’t come down if they seem too eager to sell.’
‘Will you advise me?’ Oliver said. ‘Can I ask for your judgement before I say a price?’
‘No. You cannae, laddie. You’re on your own when you haggle at the Middlefield mills. Watch their faces and offer low. Don’t worry what they think about you. Just put your low offer down and judge for yourself how far you are off a deal.’
Oliver had the carriage ready early the following day. He wore his new suit again and awaited Bill’s arrival in the yard where the horses stood, gleaming like new chestnuts from the polishing with a length of silk he kept for the purpose. He wanted to make the right impression on the mill-owners. Today would be his testing. He had to bargain with men who were used to making quick decisions. They’d have no time for anyone who wavered.
‘Good morning, Wainwright,’ Bill greeted him.
‘Morning, sir,’ Oliver replied. A quick thrill passed through him.
Bill was treating him as if he were an equal. He was not going to give him any quarter. It was as if the great man expected him to be businesslike.
‘Bring the boxes down, will you? Then we’ll go to the mills of my rivals.’
Oliver stacked the boxes and ledgers inside the carriage and glanced at Bill’s face before closing the door and climbing into the driver’s seat. The old man said nothing more than ‘Partington Weavers, please.’
Partington Weavers was larger than Hollin Mill and its office more imposing. Oliver and Bill were shown into a furnished inner room where Jack Partington, clean-shaven and soft-spoken, shook hands with them.
‘To what do l owe the pleasure, Grandison?’ he asked. He was a small, stout man with wiry brown hair.
‘Oliver Wainwright, my young friend here, proposes to sell the waste from my mills. I’ve struck my own bargain with him. He wanted an introduction to make you an offer for your own pieces,’ Bill announced.
Oliver saw a look of surprise cross the man’s face. ‘Are you selling it by weight?’ he asked. ‘How much are you asking?’
‘Do you have much waste at Partington’s?’ Bill put in.
Bill had avoided any mention of price, Oliver noted, and he saw that Partington hesitated before answering, not wanting to give away too much information to a competitor.
‘Yes. There’s always waste, especially at our printing works. We sell the longer lengths of spoiled prints and woven checks, but there are always pieces the buyers won’t take.’ He looked at Oliver and said, ‘Look at our waste. You can make me an offer when you’ve seen it.’
‘I’ll wait here, Partington, while you and Wainwright do your bargaining,’ Bill said.
Oliver followed Jack Partington through the noisy weaving sheds, between lines of machinery to the storeroom where bolts of cloth were stacked to a great height. There was a small room beyond the store, half-filled with waste material; sacks of printed cotton ends, heaps of woven check pieces and plain-weave unbleached cottons. He picked up some of the pieces and found that the printed lengths, which measured three yards or more, were badly flawed. Some lengths had barely a yard usable. Some of the lengths would be useless, though a bundle of matching yard-long lengths would sell.
‘Well, Wainwright?’ Jack Partington said. ‘How much for the lot?’
‘Two guineas,’ Oliver said. He felt a sinking feeling in his stomach as he spoke and wondered if the man would laugh in his face.
‘Don’t make me laugh. I can get more from the ragman,’ Jack Partington replied. ‘Five guineas.’
‘Aye. But you’ll have to get someone to load it all and cart it down there for you,’ Oliver said boldly. ‘That’ll cost you a bob or two.’
‘Have you seen how much there is, Wainwright?’ Partington waved his hands at the sacks and heaps. There was hardly room for more, barely standing room for the two men.
‘Aye. You’ll be wanting it cleared out, won’t you?’ Oliver came back. ‘So’s you’ve room for more. You’ll be glad to get shot of it, I should think.’
‘Four and a half.’ Jack Partington
’s mouth was starting to twitch.
‘Three,’ Oliver said and held his breath. The mill-owner’s eyes narrowed. Had he been too greedy? Would Jack Partington tell him to leave?
‘Three and a half. No less.’ Jack Partington put his hand out to clinch the bargain. He was smiling.
Oliver shook the man’s hand. ‘I’ll collect it on Monday and pay you then,’ he said. Now, he knew, he’d have to sell Bill Grandison’s stuff on Saturday or be shown up for a bad dealer. There were two more mill-owners to see that day as well and if they had as much as this he’d have to take a stall on every market for miles around and sell the stuff quick.
Bill didn’t ask Oliver what he’d bought until they arrived back at the weaving shed of Hollin Mill and were seated in the little office.
‘Now,’ he said. ‘Tell me what you’ve bought – how much you’ve promised to pay – and I’ll tell you if you’re able to strike a bargain.’
‘Three and a half guineas. I told him I’d not pay more,’ Oliver said. ‘Anyway I haven’t got more.’ He’d been wanting to know, all the way back, if he’d done the right thing. Jack Partington had come to an agreement faster than Oliver had expected and it make him think he could have gone even lower, to three guineas.
Bill slapped the desk and roared with uncontrolled laughter. ‘You’ve got the better of him. I thought I’d have to go back and talk the swindler round for you. Jack Partington’s the biggest twister in Middlefield. You’ll walk over the others if you can strike a bargain with Partington.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Oliver replied. ‘I couldn’t have offered more. I’ve got to sell your stuff as it is, before I can pay him.’
Bill opened the door and called Rosie inside. ‘Get one of the tacklers. He can help Oliver fill and carry the sacks, Rosie. He’s going to buy all our waste and make himself a fortune in the market,’ he said.
‘I’ll help him. It’ll not take above half an hour,’ she said.
He followed her to the dark storeroom and held the sacks as she pushed the loose ends of cloth into them. Their hands touched and he had to struggle with himself against the impulse to hold them and draw her close.
‘Sorry,’ she said quickly in a little shocked whisper and as she spoke she looked at him. Oliver knew again the quick surging of desire for her; could have sworn that the look in her eyes betrayed a like passion behind the calm oval beauty of her face.
He watched her bite her lips as she pressed the cloth down; caught a quick look from clear brown eyes as she worked, avoiding his hands as if they were fire. He felt the now familiar tightening sensation in his body that came when she was near.
They worked in silence. He could not bear to break the spell of her nearness with words until at last she stood straight. ‘That’s it all done,’ she said.
He was still thinking about her when he stabled the horses. He’d not feel this way about Rosie Hadfield, he told himself, if he had a girl of his own.
He must find himself a girl. Surely any girl would do. He wanted one badly. He admired Albert who had one flirtation after another with the girls who went into the taverns. Oliver tried to copy his friend’s free and easy way with them but had never managed to make the leap from bantering talk to a proper assignation.
Chapter Six
‘Are you coming with me to The Crown or The Swan?’ Albert asked, when he came down to the stables after supper. ‘The girls from Paradise Street will be at The Swan.’ He cast his eyes about the swept yard, the horses munching at their hay racks. ‘You’ve finished up early,’ he said.
‘Aye. I’ve been with Mr Grandison all day,’ Oliver replied. He was looking forward to Albert’s reaction when he told his friend about his new enterprise. ‘You go. I’ve a lot to do here. Anyway, you’re better with girls than I am. I’m not much good at getting ’em interested.’
Albert leaned against the stable door in the lanky, casual way he had and which Oliver knew the girls found irresistible. ‘You rush ’em,’ he said. ‘You want to watch what I do. I keep ’em wondering.’
‘They never look at me when you’re there,’ Oliver said, without rancour. ‘I don’t know how you do it.’
‘Course they look at you. You just have to practise. Tease ’em a bit. Let ’em think you’re after another girl. That gets ’em roused.’
Oliver grinned. He knew his friend was thinking of the conquests he’d make tonight. Albert had the sort of look in his eye that brought the girls round. Albert’s black hair, slicked back with the dressing he put on it, gleamed in the lamplight and his brown eyes danced at the prospect of taking one of the girls up to the paddock or behind the stables, later.
Oliver remembered that the village girls had just begun to be coquettish in his presence before he left Suttonford. He’d kissed most of them when he’d had the chance. But then, he’d known them well. It was different trying to get friendly with the girls who went into the taverns. Oliver suspected that, when he tried, he either held back too long or frightened them with his eagerness.
But tonight he didn’t want to think about girls. He gave Albert a playful shove, making him lose his balance and land with a thump on the broken chair. ‘Wake up! Stop dreaming about ’em,’ he laughed. ‘Go on your own. I’m not coming tonight.’
‘Why not?’ Albert looked disappointed.
‘For one thing, I don’t like the sort of girls who go in the taverns and for another’ – he pointed towards an unused loose-box across the yard – ‘take a look in that stable, Albert.’
Albert rose and crossed the yard, pushed open the half-door and held the lamp high as he peered into the dark stable. He turned to Oliver and looked at him in bewilderment.
‘What’s it all for?’ he asked. ‘Why do you want sacks of cloth?’
Oliver stood behind him. ‘I’m setting up on the market. I’m going to sort this out into bundles and put tickets on them tonight. I can get plenty more, and better stuff, next week from the mills … so long as I sell this first,’ he said, trying to hide the excitement in his voice. ‘Come here.’
They went back into the groom’s place and Oliver pushed back the sleeves of the old jersey he wore for yard work and reached for a parcel beneath the table, opened it and showed Albert the contents. ‘I’ve bought paper and Indian ink for the tickets. Will you ostle for me on Saturday, or get one of the lads from The Crown to do it? I’ll give them a florin and all the money they get for driving.’
‘How are you going to get the stuff up there? How can you be sure of a stall?’ Albert asked.
‘The market manager has to give me a stall once the regulars have got theirs. I found that out. It’s the first one up there that gets it,’ Oliver told him. ‘I’m going to borrow the handcart from here and take it up early. I’ll leave the cart in the yard behind the Town Hall.’
Albert took off his jacket and placed it on an empty hook. He undid the mother-of-pearl cufflinks he wore on what he called his ‘wenching shirt’, pushed back his sleeves and sighed. ‘Never mind the girls,’ he said. ‘You’ll not get this lot sorted out on your own. I’ll help you.’
Oliver was touched by Albert’s spontaneous offer of help. He knew Albert liked him and as for himself – well, it was as if they’d been friends all their lives. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I’ll go to The Swan with you on Saturday night, after I’ve sold it.’
‘You might be back here with it all,’ Albert laughed, ‘and you’ll have bought yourself enough polishing cloths to last a lifetime.’
‘I’ll not.’ Oliver couldn’t contemplate failure. ‘We’ll make ’em cheap enough so they can’t resist. And we’ll tie ribbons and braid together so they’ll have to buy a lot to get what they want.’
They bundled ribbon, cloth and braid all through the evening. Oliver thanked God that he had been quick at figures at school for now his brain worked faster than his hands.
Sheer cotton and cotton twill-weave went into the biggest bundles. ‘They’ll make pillowslips and bolster cases,�
� Oliver said. ‘Put in enough to make half a dozen of each and enough twill for a small sheet. I’ll sell them for two and six a bundle.’
Albert was starting to catch Oliver’s enthusiasm. ‘What’s this stuff called?’ he asked, holding a piece of cotton.
‘Cambric. Put enough in to make a couple of petticoats or a pair of curtains. I’ll sell them for a shilling.’
There was heavy cotton too. ‘Give ’em enough for half a dozen cushion covers, Albert. One and ninepence a bundle. Then we’ll start on the braid and ribbon.’
He made the bundles as cheap as he could, leaving a good margin of profit, trying to stop himself from counting and recounting the money he’d take if he sold them all. They had to work hard to finish the bundles on Friday night but by midnight it was done. He’d never have managed without Albert’s help. Nor would he be able to sort and bundle all Partington’s mill pieces by himself if he sold all this tomorrow.
‘I’ll fetch us a jug of ale each,’ Albert said when at last the cart was piled with neatly tied and labelled bundles of cotton.
‘Ta.’ Oliver tied cord over the bundles, winding the ends round the axle bar to fasten it securely. At last he stood back. He was convinced that he would be fortunate, that all that remained to be done was to get through the next few hours.
Albert came back with the beer. ‘If you sell it all, you’ll be on your way,’ he said as he handed the frothing pint jar to him.
‘Aye.’ Oliver drank deeply.
‘Have you worked out how much you’ll earn?’
‘Aye. Near on eight pounds.’
‘More than the pub takes in a week,’ Albert said.
‘Aye.’
‘You’ll not need to work here. If you’re successful.’
‘No.’
‘You could move into lodgings. Rent a house, even.’ There was a glum note in Albert’s voice.
‘I’ll not do that,’ Oliver said. He was tired now. He wanted to be alone for the last few hours of what he was sure was his old life, to think and to dream and plan. But Albert seemed to want reassurance, needed confirmation of their friendship.
The Runaway Page 6
