Why, he asked himself, should she do this to me? Yesterday I almost had Florence in my arms; sweet, charming Florence, the girl I love. Yet this woman, this woman who belongs to another man, slips into my dreams every night and disturbs my working day. He took a deep breath. ‘You’d better get back to the weaving shed,’ he said.
He could not concentrate on the calculations he had to make. He added the columns of figures six times and got a different total at every attempt. It didn’t matter. There was more than a week’s supply of cloth and spun cotton. He could hold out for a month but he wanted to justify Bill’s faith in him. He had to make the mill an even bigger success than it had been under the old man. It would take more than Wilf Leach to stop him, even with Oldfield behind him.
He returned at six to The Pheasant, to supper with Albert and all the while the bubble of excitement grew inside him at the prospect of the coming clash with Wilf Leach. He refused a second helping of brown stew and had no appetite for the batter pudding.
‘What’s up?’ Albert asked. ‘Lovesick?’
Oliver laughed, a deep, throaty chuckle. ‘No. I’m fighting tonight, not philandering. What about you? Are you going to The Crown?’
‘No.’
Albert sounded weary. Oliver looked at him in mock concern. ‘Sickening for something, are you?’ he asked.
‘Aye,’ Albert said. ‘Same as you, I suppose. I’ve had me mind on Edith Clayton all day long.’ He left the supper table quickly and Oliver heard his feet clumping on the wooden staircase to his attic room.
A great grin spread over Oliver’s face. ‘Serve him right,’ he muttered happily. ‘I hope she keeps him guessing.’
An hour later and under cover of darkness Oliver crossed Rivergate and entered one of the alleyways that led down to the mills. He could not risk being seen by Wilf Leach, who, he was sure, would be fortifying himself in one of the many taverns along the street.
When he crossed the river and reached the mill there was no sign of Wilf or the striking men. They would have to come into the yard through the high wooden gates that opened into the passageway between Hollin Mill and the spinners next door. Oliver reached the yard through the back entrance of the mill and waited, well back in the shadows.
They came quietly, the men who had been at work that day, twelve of them. They stood in three small groups at the far side of the yard from Oliver, subdued, waiting for the man who had paid their workmates to stay at home. There were low murmurings from these men but Oliver could not catch the words. He saw, however, that they were being joined by some of the men who had not been in to work.
The church clock, high above the river, struck eight and as if he had been called on to perform, Wilf Leach arrived on the second stroke, swaggering and unsteady on his feet. He closed the wooden gates behind him and raised his hands.
‘Is everyone here?’ he called into the gloom.
One by one they gathered around him until they formed a semicircle and Oliver could no longer pick out the figure of Leach but he heard his unmistakable rough voice.
‘You know why I’m paying yer, don’t yer?’ he called over the heads of the men. ‘It’s so yer’ll stop out till that bugger Wainwright gives up. He can’t keep going if you all keep away. There’s a better man as wants to buy the place. He’ll pay yer more for shorter hours if you help him get the mill. Wainwright’s too young to know what he’s about. Yer don’t want a bloody boy in charge of the mill, do yer?’
‘No. No.’
Oliver’s mood changed. He had been prepared to let Leach talk for a while, to hand out the money and then to challenge him when the men were ready to disperse. Now, anger rose in him while he commenced his slow approach around the edge of the wall.
He was within ten feet of Leach before one of the men saw him. Oliver moved out of the shadow of the high brick wall and saw Leach, who was as tall as himself, over the heads of the men who were now looking from one to the other of them in anticipation of an enjoyable encounter. Oliver knew there was no risk of the men taking Wilf’s or even his part. They were spectators. It would be as good as a night’s cockfighting to them.
‘You’re on my property, Leach,’ he bellowed.
A look of surprise on Wilf’s face was instantly followed by a snort and a sneer.
Oliver’s fists were like iron, curled tight as he pushed aside the men who stood between him and his old opponent. He stopped in front of him. ‘Get out of my yard,’ he roared, ‘before I lay you out.’
Wilf quickly stuffed the money bag into the pocket of his loose brown overcoat and raised his fists to Oliver, bending his knees, the better to throw his weight behind his punches. He lunged for Oliver’s head but Oliver moved to the left and sent his right fist cracking into the side of Leach’s face, stopping Leach’s forward momentum.
Leach shook his head slowly. His loose lips were wet and strung with saliva. He sucked in his breath and turned, wild as a bull that had been prodded too hard. ‘I’ll kill you,’ he snarled as he lifted his arms again.
Oliver moved in closer and brought his left fist, then his right up under Wilf’s guard, thudding into the man’s rough, unshaven chin. ‘You haven’t got the strength, Leach,’ he jeered. ‘You’re too old and too drunk.’
Oliver felt Leach’s fist thud into his eye, felt the skin split and the warm trickle of blood slide down his face towards his earlobe. He brushed it away with his sleeve and returned the blow.
The men had fallen back. He could hear, behind him, growling encouragement for him. ‘Come on, Wainwright,’ he heard one man say. ‘Come on. Give it to him.’
He felt a fist contact with his ear, a sharp pain shooting through to the back of his throat, making him cough. He also heard others join in the murmuring that came from the darkness behind him.
‘Come on, Wainwright,’ they called, louder now.
Oliver went for Wilf, intent now on stopping him before he took another blow. He threw his right fist at Wilf’s eye, felt him reel against the blow, followed with his left to Wilf’s ear and immediately came back with his right and his left. Leach staggered backwards and a final burst from Oliver had him on the cobbles, face down. ‘Had enough?’ Oliver knelt on Leach’s back, pressing his knees cruelly either side of his spine.
‘Stop!’ Wilf screamed, but he was beyond moving. ‘Enough, I’ve had enough!’
Oliver pulled him to his feet, holding the man’s wrists behind his back. He wrenched the belt from Leach’s overcoat and twisted it fast, binding it tight until it cut into Leach’s flesh. He pushed Leach forward until he faced the men. ‘Now. Tell them, Leach! Tell them who put you up to it,’ he shouted. ‘Come on, men. Listen to your bloody paymaster.’
They came slowly, reluctantly, and made a half circle around Oliver and Leach. Then he pulled the belt tighter, jerking Leach backwards, making him yell. ‘Oldfield. Sir Philip Oldfield. He wants to wreck yer bloody mill. He wants you out.’
‘And what is he going to do with it, when I’ve been put out. Leach?’ he called over the bent back. ‘Speak up. Tell my good weavers. Tell them loud and clear. Is he going to keep paying them three and sixpence a day to stop out?’
‘No. He’s going to run it himself,’ came the muffled reply.
‘Personally?’ Oliver shouted. ‘Speak up. They can’t hear you.’ He tugged again at the wrists.
‘No.’ Wilf’s voice was strong. Angry rumblings came from the crowd of men. ‘He’ll get a manager in.’
‘And will the new manager pay more money and for shorter hours, Leach?’ He threw his voice as far as he could, out to the back row of men. ‘Surely not. My men aren’t fools. They know I won’t cheat ’em. Does he care about the mill? Does he?’ Oliver went on, tugging and pulling to keep Wilf’s disclosures coming freely. ‘What’s it to Oldfield? He’ll close it down. Tell them! Tell them!’
‘Stop it, damn yer. You’ll break my bloody arms,’ Wilf squealed.
Oliver let go of his arms and Wilf fell backwards towards t
he gate, where he half-lay, panting and groaning.
Oliver stood over him. ‘Three and sixpence a day, per man …’ he sneered ‘… and how many men, and how many days does that add up to? Eh, Leach? You could make yourself a tidy packet if you let your master think you were having some success, couldn’t you?’ He took the money bag from Wilf’s pocket and emptied the contents onto the yard. The men, behind, were silent as the silver coins went clinking, scattering over the yard. ‘I’d be inclined to get a bit for myself, if I were you. It’s not worth it, just to get beaten up, is it?’
Oliver turned to face the men. ‘Do you want a bloody fop runnin’ the mill?’ he called out, strong in voice, to move them. ‘Does Sir Philip Oldfield know anything about mills? Eh?’
There was a chorus of ‘No’, from half of the men and Oliver shouted louder, throwing his voice out towards the back of the throng. ‘All Oldfield’s good for is riding a horse. Who do you want in charge, eh? Me or a blasted aristocrat?’
‘You. You.’ More were calling back to him.
‘Do you want a boss who’d steal a man’s inheritance? Who knows nowt about a working life? Eh?’
‘No! No!’ They were roaring in unison now.
‘Then be back at work tomorrow. All of you,’ Oliver shouted. He spoke to the men at the front. ‘Will someone run inside and tell your forewoman to come down?’ he said. ‘Mrs Hadfield will tell you about the new system. You’ll all benefit if you come back to work.’
One of the men crossed the yard to the back door to call for Rosie. ‘What’s going to ’appen to them as came out?’ a voice called from the back of the bunch.
‘No hard feelings,’ Oliver promised. ‘A new system. A new start.’ He walked towards them. ‘Make way!’ he demanded. ‘And – someone pick that bugger up and throw him off my premises!’
He felt no pain from his cut eye; nothing but a great swelling feeling of triumph as he made his way up the stairs to the washroom. Rosie’s face wore a horrified expression when his bloody figure passed her on the stairs. She could handle the weavers. They’d be back tomorrow.
For a month Florence had been coming to The Pheasant on Sunday afternoons and twice she’d come with Edith to supper on a Tuesday, though the evening visits demanded a massive deception of her mama and were fraught with the danger of discovery.
On Sunday afternoons they stayed for an hour, Albert and Edith going to his ma’s sitting room where, Albert told Oliver, they talked. Oliver was glad. It meant that he was alone with Florence once a week for an hour.
Today she wore a silk dress of deep rose with dark ruby insets at the neck and wrists. Her hair was taken back with a silk ribbon, which caught and held it demurely in place, a cascade of brightness spilling from beneath its folds.
Florence delighted him. Oliver found her easy to talk to. They exchanged confidences effortlessly, all the while excited by the other’s nearness. Now, sitting beside her, he knew that the girl he had first seen when he was sixteen was the girl he wanted to spend the rest of his life loving.
‘You visit Aunt Lucy, she tells me,’ Florence said provocatively. ‘I think I may start to call on her by myself, instead of in Mama’s company.’
The thought that soon their hour would be over and there would be another empty week until he saw her again made him despondent. He took her little hand in his. ‘We can’t meet at your aunt’s house,’ he told her gravely. ‘Your mama will find out and Aunt Lucy will be blamed.’
She must have been dreading the hour of her departure too for all at once the bright smile that hardly left her face when she was with him faded and she turned enormous grey eyes upon him and Oliver saw that they were brimming with tears.
‘I can’t wait a whole week to see you again,’ she whispered, her voice full of choking sadness. She averted her eyes and began to dab them with the most ridiculous slip of cotton and lace Oliver had ever seen.
He had never attempted any intimacy with her in the weeks that had gone before but he could not keep himself in check now. He lifted her to her feet and put his arms around her, touched the tears that were falling, rolling, down her lovely face. ‘I can’t wait either,’ he said softly, pulling her in towards his chest. She lifted her arms and placed her hands at the back of his neck. Oliver felt her fingers threading in and out of his hair as he began to kiss her gently and he tasted the sweetness of her mouth.
‘Do you love me, Florence?’ He held her close, his eyes searching her face as he asked the question. He could feel her heart, through the silk, a strong, steady thudding against his chest. He had never seen, never held anything as beautiful in his life. Her heart-shaped face was turned up to his, her lips were parted and red from their kiss and he was having to restrain himself from covering her face, her neck and her white bosom with hungry, eager kisses.
‘More than anything, Oliver. I love you more than I have ever loved anyone in my life before,’ she said.
‘I want to marry you,’ he told her. He kissed her again and felt the answering passion in her response. ‘I can’t wait.’
He couldn’t bear to let her go. He was filled with resolution. Her mother would see that he’d be worthy of Florence. She’d allow him to call; let them meet openly. ‘I’ll speak to your mother,’ he said. ‘I’ll come to the house tomorrow.’
‘Oh, no. We can’t tell Mama.’ Her breath was coming short and fast and she pulled down his head so that their open mouths met again.
But their hour was slipping away. As they kissed so hungrily they heard the footsteps of Albert and Edith outside the parlour door and they wrenched apart and tried to compose themselves.
Each week it was becoming harder to see her go, hard to watch the little figure depart secretly when all Oliver wanted was to take her proudly by the hand and proclaim his love to the world.
When Florence and Edith had gone Oliver returned to the parlour and sat by the fireplace. He must be allowed to marry her. He was ready, now, for marriage and Florence would be the perfect wife. He had always wanted a home, a wife and children. He wanted Florence to be the mother of his children.
He saw it as if it had already come to pass, his house and Florence at its centre – lovely, loving Florence. They would have a lot of children and she would be kindness and sweetness to them; the kind of mother he and Tommy had never known. She would teach them by example to be as she was, happy and good, and they would be like her with exquisite manners and low, musical voices that made your toes curl with delight, listening. All his own dreams, all his promises to Tommy would come about.
He’d asked her if there was much to learn, for he knew nothing of keeping house. ‘There’s lots to learn, Oliver,’ she’d replied airily. He smiled to himself, remembering the eagerness with which she’d added, ‘I practically run the house by myself, at present. Mama leaves it all to me.’
‘I could show you how to cook,’ he’d told her.
‘I’m sure I’d find a good cook, Oliver,’ she’d said. ‘The cook at Churchgate would come with me … Mama would never live there alone. She’d go to Suttonford.’
He could afford a house and a cook and a maid … and a couple of servants. It took his breath away to contemplate what he could afford. It would take everything he had to start them up but the mill profits would pay for all that.
Albert came in, disturbing his dreams. ‘I want to marry Florence,’ Oliver blurted out. ‘They’ll never let her go, of course, the Oldfields.’
‘They’ll maybe come round, in time. When you’ve got more money than they have,’ Albert tried to console him.
‘I want her now. I’ve got enough money to get married. We could rent a nice house and pay for a cook and a maid,’ Oliver told him. ‘There’s enough coming in to set us up.’
‘You can’t expect a girl like Florence to live in a little house, with a cook and a maid,’ Albert said in his practical way. ‘Look at the house she lives in. There must be twenty rooms in their house and at least eight servants. She couldn’t run a
house.’
‘She can learn. She says she wants to learn.’
Albert put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Be sensible. The Oldfields’ll lock her up if they know you’ve been seeing her. You’ve got what they thought was their mill. They’re not going to let you walk off with their daughter.’
‘Then what can we do?’
‘You’ll have to wait. You’ll have to tell Florence that you can meet secretly but you can’t marry her yet.’
A new wave of despondency swept over Oliver. Was Albert right? And why should he have doubts when he knew that Florence was the girl he wanted? He was sure of his love for her. Was it impossible to make the Oldfields agree to a betrothal?
‘I don’t want any supper tonight, Albert,’ he said. ‘I’m going to my room.’
He had been in his room for less than an hour when he heard a carriage draw up outside The Pheasant, heard Ma Billington running up the stairs on her fat little legs and stop outside his door.
‘Oliver! Oliver!’ he heard her whisper hoarsely as she pummelled on the door. ‘Your young lady’s downstairs.’
Oliver was galvanised into action. He pulled on the jacket he’d thrown over a chair and raced down, taking the stairs two at a time, heart pounding. He flung open the parlour door. Florence stood on the hearth mat, a diminutive figure in a coat of green velveteen and pale fur cape and hat. ‘Mama knows. She says she will disown me, Oliver, unless I swear never to see you again.’ Tears coursed down her cheeks as she spoke. She took another scrap of lace from under her cape and attempted to stem the tide of her tears with it. ‘I’ve brought my clothes. I’m going to stay with you.’
Oliver could not bear to see her like this, tearful and afraid. He held out his arms and she came to him. He wiped the tears from her eyes with his own large white handkerchief then, turning her face up to his, his mouth came down on hers, gently at first, then with a passion that was flaming within him. His hands found the buttons of her cape, of her coat.
She shrugged them off, still clinging to him. His mouth was on her neck and her throat and his hands were sliding across her slender back. She made no move to stop him but began to shake violently when they came to rest on her breasts. Her fingers raked through his hair as she pulled his head down against their round fullness and he felt her trembling need of him as she whispered his name against his ear.
The Runaway Page 15
