The Runaway

by Audrey Reimann

  ‘Mama! I have merely been allowed to choose my own clothes. You have never sought my opinion.’ Tears streamed down her face, but inside a small reserve of spirit made her bold. ‘And as for marriage, when I marry it will be to a man of my choosing. I will not ask your opinion. Or Grandfather’s.’

  She fled from Mama and ran up the stairs to her own sitting room where she threw herself onto the chaise longue at the window. Sobs tore through her, making her shoulders and neck ache. Her life was hateful to her. Why did Mama turn against her friends? Mama was kindness itself underneath. Mama gave to the poor and helped support a mission in Africa. She encouraged Florence to read to the children at Sunday school in Grandfather’s village. So why didn’t she see how hurt Elsie Henshaw would be if she refused the invitation? And it was to have been her very first ball.

  Tuesday, Stockport market day, dawned warm and clear. Oliver and Albert had sorted and bundled all Monday afternoon and evening after collecting from Partington’s and three other mills in Middlefield. They used a corner of the cart shed for storage and had improvised a table where they rolled the pieces of printed fabrics into big bundles and tied them with strips of cloth.

  They had a wonderful assortment of taffetas and silks to sell as well as the printed cottons and they piled them onto the handcart.

  Stockport was a bigger town than Middlefield and the market large. There were stalls selling cotton material by the yard, from bolts of cloth, which the traders laid out across their counters. It was easier to get a stall there but Oliver wondered whether or not the customers would buy as readily. The stalls were set out down the length of the main street, in the centre of the road and down either side. They had a good spot, in front of a busy tavern.

  Their bundles made a brilliant splash of colour and hardly had they set out the stall than the customers came to buy. So busy were they that Albert had no need to use his charms, though Oliver saw that his friend caught the girls’ eyes, winking and joking at every opportunity.

  ‘Could I speak to you somewhere? Away from here?’ A well-dressed man, tall and sandy-haired had come up to Oliver at the back of the stall. He had an accent Oliver recognised as cockney.

  ‘Aye.’ Oliver nudged Albert. ‘Look after the stall, will you?’ he said. ‘I’ll see what he wants.’ The man led the way to the far end of the market, near the carters’ stand.

  ‘Fred Sheldon,’ the man said, holding out his hand.

  ‘Wainwright.’ Oliver ignored the hand. ‘What do you want?’

  The man had an open sort of face. He didn’t appear to be trying to warn him off, as Oliver had half-expected his competitors to do. He handed Oliver a printed card. ‘My name and address.’

  Oliver glanced quickly at the card but the name meant nothing to him. ‘Well?’ he said.

  ‘I have a workshop, in London, making undergarments … petticoats, camisoles, bodices. I buy cottons and lawns.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘The prints and taffetas on your stall are bought by sewing women. Ladies’ gowns are made to order. They have to choose their patterns and wait until the dresses are made up.’

  ‘Well?’ Oliver asked. Why didn’t the man say what was on his mind?

  ‘In America they are making dresses in workshops. Putting them into shops. The women like to buy that way. I want to manufacture for them. But I can’t spare the time to come north every week or so.’

  Now Oliver had the same leaping ideas that his first visit to the mill had brought. He would be a go-between. He had access to the mills. For a percentage and his expenses he’d take samples of cloth to London. If Fred Sheldon was starting to manufacture in the American way then so would others.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ he said quickly. ‘Look around the stall. Choose the patterns you want. I’ll tell you how much it will cost and send the stuff down to London.’

  ‘What about future dealing?’

  ‘I’ll come to London in a month’s time. I’ll bring samples. Can you give me introductions to the shops?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Choose your cloth then,’ Oliver said grandly. ‘I’ll buy it tomorrow and have it sent.’

  Bill Grandison always took a stroll through the market on Saturday afternoons and last week he had watched, from a distance, the two friends gathering a crowd of ladies round their stall. He smiled to himself, remembering his own early efforts.

  Early the following Wednesday he pulled up outside The Pheasant, surprised and pleased to find Oliver, dressed in his blue suit, waiting at the front of the tavern, keeping a stand clear for the carriage. He climbed slowly from the driver’s seat and stood in the warm sunshine. ‘I thought you’d have found a market stall somewhere.’ He handed the reins to Oliver and smiled. ‘I didn’t think you’d want to drive me now you’re busy making your fortune.’

  ‘I’d like to spend Wednesdays with you,’ Oliver answered. ‘If you don’t object. Where to first?’

  ‘Hollin Mill then back here. You want to go to Nottingham don’t you? We’ll take the train this afternoon.’

  Bill smiled as Oliver leaped easily up to the driver’s seat and called excitedly down to him, ‘I’ll wait until we’re on the train to tell you all that’s happened.’

  When they arrived Bill saw that Rosie was in good spirits. She teased Oliver about his performance in the market last week, making him blush at her attentions. Oliver reminded Bill of himself at that age, unsure of his charms with the ladies. Well, the innocence would soon be gone, he was sure, and in the meantime it was nice to see a young man so full of life and good looks who was unaware of the impression he made.

  Back at The Pheasant, Oliver proudly showed him the cart shed he and Albert Billington had cleared and the sack-loads of remnants they had bought from Jack Partington and the other two mills.

  ‘So this is your warehouse, is it?’ he joked. ‘What a lot you’ve collected. How long will it take you to sell all your stock?’

  ‘Not long,’ Oliver said with an air of great assurance. ‘These are the last of the remnants. I have to sell cloth by the yard. I’ve already started dealing with a Londoner. He wants me to buy for his manufactory. I’ve bought the cloth and sent it to London for him.’

  They took the train to Nottingham in the afternoon and Oliver talked eagerly, the youngster’s eyes intent on his face. ‘They’re building a station at Suttonford village, Oliver,’ Bill said, pointing to the spot where labourers were digging the banks.

  Oliver turned his head, as if to search amongst the faces of the workers for someone he knew but they were past the place now, steaming through the estate farms where men guided horses pulling great chain harrows over the fields.

  Oliver’s eyes were narrowed against the glare of the sun through the windows but he did not appear to recognise any of the men or boys and returned to the talk of the cloth he meant to buy, the amount he would be able to sell if all his hopes were realised.

  Bill introduced him to three Nottingham manufacturers and watched shrewdly as the youngster paid cash for a considerable quantity of lace at the workshops. It seemed that Oliver had a good grasp of commercial dealing but he knew that he must caution him so when they returned to Middlefield he told Oliver to come up to his room after supper. He asked Leonard Billington to bring glasses and a decanter of whisky. He prepared for their talk, placing two large sheets of paper, ink and pens on the window desk.

  Oliver’s knock was not long in coming. The boy must have bolted his supper in his eagerness, for he stood in the doorway, changed into the old clothes he wore for bundling and loading his cart, a happy smile wreathing his face.

  ‘Come in, Oliver. Sit down,’ Bill said. ‘I’m going to show you how to keep a check on your business. How to control your cash. You expect me to speak frankly, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes. Of course I do. I’m waiting to hear what you think about everything,’ Oliver replied.

  ‘How much have you taken in the markets?’ Bill asked. ‘I want you to write it down on
the sheet of paper.’

  Oliver looked puzzled but went willingly enough to the desk, dipped his pen in the inkwell and wrote in his firm hand. ‘Saturday. £7 13s 4d.’ He spoke the words as he wrote them. ‘Tuesday £15. That’s over twenty-two pounds.’

  ‘How much capital has Albert put in?’ Bill said.

  ‘Eight pounds, eight and twopence. It was all his savings,’ Oliver said eagerly.

  ‘How much did the stuff cost?’ Oliver wrote it down. ‘Subtract,’ Bill ordered.

  Oliver did as he was told. ‘But I …’ he started.

  ‘Just a minute,’ Bill said sternly. ‘How much did the stalls cost?

  Write it down. And how much was the cloth you bought for the Londoner? Put that in.’

  Oliver wrote. ‘I still made a profit,’ he said quickly.

  ‘I know you did. How much would you have earned, if you’d stayed a stable lad? Write it down. And Albert’s wages. And subtract them.’

  The column of figures was getting longer. Oliver’s pen scratched and a frown, Bill hoped not one of resentment, furrowed his brow. ‘Subtract your train fares,’ Bill said, ‘and the amount you have to spend to restock to the same level.’

  ‘Bill …’ Oliver looked up, as if he were prepared to argue with him. Bill disregarded him and went on. ‘Have you done that?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘And how much have you got in reserve?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Oliver replied. ‘But I’ve bought more stock with it.

  I’ve bought stuff to sell to the London dealer and stuff to keep Albert and me going until next week.’

  Bill picked up the sheet of calculations and glanced at it quickly. He knew what he would find and also knew that what he must say would be hard for Oliver to take. He spoke firmly. ‘You mustn’t bank on having one good day after another. You must only expand at the speed you can afford to go. You are not a gambler; not in a position to disregard common sense in business.’

  He sat down beside Oliver at the desk and wrote quickly. He wrote out the sums clearly and handed the paper to Oliver. ‘Look,’ he said kindly. ‘Always leave yourself some in reserve. It’s exciting when you make a quick profit, I know. But it can go as easily as it came. Stick to these principles, Oliver. Never put all your money into stock. You could lose it overnight.’

  Oliver looked at the figures. ‘But I can sell it all, Bill. It will all be sold in two weeks,’ he protested. ‘And the man I told you about will take as much as I can get.’

  ‘What if he doesn’t?’ Bill spoke sharply now. ‘What if he’s a villain? What if you and Albert sell nothing one week?’

  ‘I wanted to take lads on and do all the markets I could,’ Oliver replied. ‘I thought I’d strike while the iron’s hot. Make the most of it.’

  Bill knew that Oliver had been shocked when he’d seen the result of his calculations. The boy’s face had fallen when he saw that he’d ended with so little.

  ‘Do you really think I should hold off?’ Oliver spoke quietly now and Bill saw with relief that realisation was beginning to dawn in Oliver’s mind.

  ‘Sell the stuff you’ve bought, Oliver,’ he said kindly. ‘When you’ve enough money put aside to carry the business for four weeks without using each day’s takings, you’ll be in control, but not until then.’

  He stood up and put a hand on Oliver’s shoulder. ‘Go canny, until you’re on your feet. Always make sure you’re out in front. Be prepared for a bad spell, for one will come, sooner or later, and you’ll be able to ride it out. Somebody will have seen what you’ve done. You had a good idea, selling remnants, but you’ll not be able to keep it to yourself. Soon there’ll be others following you, copying you, making your takings fall away. That’s when you’ll need cash in hand, to take the lead again.’

  ‘All right. I’ll take your advice,’ Oliver conceded.

  ‘You’ve done well, though,’ Bill said. He reached for the decanter and poured whiskies for them. ‘We’ll drink to your first success.’

  ‘I was rushing at it, wasn’t I?’ Oliver said.

  ‘Understandable. I felt the same.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Oliver said. ‘You’re right. I didn’t really think it would be as easy as it was. I’ll sell this lot before I buy more.’

  ‘I’ll advise you, if you wish,’ Bill said. ‘You can expand soon. Just see how it goes week by week and move on when the time’s right.’

  Oliver drank the whisky swiftly. ‘Now shall I help you with your books?’

  ‘Not tonight,’ Bill replied. ‘You’ve a lot of work to do. But next week I’ll ask for your help. And I’ll show you how you can make money on the stock market when you’ve so much that you wonder what to do with it all.’

  Bill watched Oliver go down the winding stair. He was a sensible youngster. He’d go canny now. He’d hated pouring cold water on the boy’s high spirits, but if Oliver was to succeed he’d have to pay attention to a wiser man.

  Bill had been right to caution him. Two weeks passed before he received the money from the cloth he’d bought for Fred Sheldon and he’d paid for it in advance. He wouldn’t do that again. But if Fred Sheldon kept his promise and introduced him to others, he’d subtract a percentage from the price of the cloth. Or … his mind raced … if he sold 100 guineas worth every two weeks that would be 30 guineas profit, less his expenses. He’d be able to take lads on to help Albert in the markets.

  Then, months after their first, heady day in Middlefield market a newcomer opened a stall on the Thursday market in Stockport, selling remnants of cloth, and selling them cheaper than Oliver could buy.

  Albert and the lad returned with the unsold bundles and a half-empty money bag and Oliver discovered that he could not tolerate opposition. He fretted and schemed. He’d drive the man out of business if only he knew where he bought. He’d stop him getting his hands on more stock. Stop the customers buying from the upstart. He waited with impatience for Bill to arrive on the following Wednesday.

  ‘Look at this,’ he said in the evening as they worked on first Oliver’s then Hollin Mill’s ledgers. ‘Some jackanapes is taking my business. The man’s made my profit drop by a quarter.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to do better, Oliver. You’ll have to make your goods more attractive to the customers than his are,’ Bill advised.

  ‘What will that do?’ Oliver’s face was dark with anger at the effrontery of this newcomer, this stranger to the market. ‘He’ll simply make his cheaper and make my profits drop again. He can’t be paying for them, or someone’s giving the stuff to him.’

  ‘Then he’ll soon go out of business,’ Bill said. ‘There’s room for both of you. Don’t waste your energy in fighting him. Think of something that will put you in a stronger position.’

  ‘Help me price this then, will you?’ Oliver said as he pushed a bill of purchase for lace and ribbon towards the old man. ‘Tell me what I should be charging so I’ll get my customers back.’

  He knew Bill was right and did his best to push down the desire for retaliation. ‘I’ll check your Sales and Bought Ledgers for you while you do it,’ he said.

  Oliver was cheered tonight though, when after half an hour’s work he spotted a glaring error as he added columns of figures for his friend. ‘I see you’re getting three farthings a yard less for your twill-weave from this customer,’ he said.

  ‘Where?’ Bill leaped over to Oliver’s side, his keen blue eyes alert, not six inches from the paper. ‘You’re right, Oliver. You’re quick, to spot that. I must be getting old, not seeing it myself.’

  It was good to realise that Bill Grandison could make mistakes after all this time. ‘What will you do about it?’ Oliver asked, a slow grin spreading across his face at the sight of Bill’s vexed old face.

  ‘I’ll send him short on the next few rolls,’ Bill replied. ‘I’ll not be bested.’

  The smile left Oliver’s face and returned to Bill’s when, minutes later, Bill pointed to a receipt. ‘Why have you bought a bolt of pu
re silk?’

  ‘I couldn’t resist. It’s a fair price and a good shade of green,’ Oliver said airily.

  ‘You’re in this to make a profit, not to please your senses,’ Bill told him crossly. ‘No matter how much you like it, if you can’t sell it fast then don’t buy. You’re not selling to the gentry, laddie. You’re a market trader selling to the poor.’

  The grin was back on Bill’s face. The old man liked to put him in his place. ‘You’ll come to hate that silk, Oliver,’ Bill prophesied. ‘When they all handle it and nobody can afford to buy it, you’ll begin to wonder where your brains were when you bought it,’ he added.

  Bill had a coachman now and Oliver sat inside the carriage with the old man on their Wednesday trips to visit the mill and workshop. Afterwards they often drove to a favourite inn near the cattle market and drank ale or porter with plates of beef and dumplings.

  It was a popular stopping place and strangers often took them for father and son. This seemed to amuse Bill Grandison greatly and he did not trouble to correct the impression. They made a point, when they were dining, of not talking business but spoke of other things. Bill spoke about Lucy whom Oliver knew, in Bill’s eyes, had never passed the age of twenty. She was still his girl and he spoke wistfully about their childless state and proudly about his early struggles and the opposition he had met from men he had bested.

  He told Oliver too of the hostility he had met from Lucy’s family towards their marriage. ‘My brother-in-law would have done anything to stop us from marrying, Oliver. But he didn’t think she’d defy him. He made good use of me though, afterwards. I had to do all his investing for him. The man thought money grew on trees and all he had to do was sit underneath and pick it up,’ he added, cackling with laughter. ‘He’ll get the shock of his life if I die before him.’

  It was September and Middlefield market square was carpeted in bronze, crisp leaves, which blew in from the sycamores and beeches that bordered the churchyard. They crunched underfoot in the little green space behind the Town Hall that was known to people of the town as Sparrow Park.