There was a long silence before he continued. ‘That’s how it was with me and Florence. I thought I’d found the girl I loved but it was nothing like the love I have for you. What I felt for Florence was romantic, youthful affection, not love.’
There was another pause before he continued, speaking slowly and carefully as if he were repeating his deepest thoughts. ‘I never knew a man and woman could be so close; so close that a part of them seems to be missing when they’re not together.’
He dropped his eyes to his hands, where they clenched his knees. ‘I’ve never had a proper home, Rosie. I’ve always wanted one; a home with a wife and my children glad to see me; a happy house where it doesn’t matter what goes on outside because you have everything in the world that you love right there beside you.’
He took one of the roses and began, absent-mindedly, to crush the crimson petals in his strong fingers. ‘It sounds a strange thing for a man to say, doesn’t it? It’s unusual for a man to admit he wants a home and babies. More like a girl’s dreams, really.’
Then he placed an arm gently around her and lifted her chin. And he saw that she was crying. ‘I’ve got money now. I’ve enough to buy the new factory. I’ve enough to live on and I expect I’ll make more and more.’ He looked deep into her troubled eyes. ‘But my ambitions don’t lie there, Rosie. Making money’s a game. It’s a game I’m good at. But I can’t make a home on my own.’
He kissed the tears on her cheeks and pulled her hard towards him and there was a hot and painful knot in her throat, full of sobs that she could not release until he left her. Her hair lay across her bare shoulders and she hid her face from him as he told her, ‘I’m in this just as deep as you are, love. I want a home and I want you in it. And, God help me, I’ve got to wait for Jim to die before I can have it. I can’t let you go.’
Sir Philip Oldfield had made two attempts to discredit Oliver during the year. On the first occasion he had given, through an agent, an order for such a great quantity of woven twill that Oliver had suspected the old baronet’s hand. It had been easy to make enquiries and find that the order was a hoax and a crude attempt to run Oliver, through Hollin Mill, into serious debt.
On the second occasion Sir Philip, hiding his identity behind the Manchester Trading Company, had offered to sell the freehold of the mill but at such a high figure that Oliver wondered if the man was in his right mind.
‘I don’t believe he thinks the mill’s worth that,’ Oliver said when he showed the letter to Albert. ‘The old devil’s either deranged or he’s in trouble.’
They were counting the market takings after a busy Saturday’s trading. ‘Do you think he’s losing money?’ Albert replied. ‘I’d have thought the Oldfields had plenty.’
‘Bill Grandison used to advise him. He reckoned that Oldfield had no head for investment,’ Oliver said. ‘I’ve been putting a bit away; buying here and there myself and I’ve bought a lot that has come from the Suttonford estate.’ A great grin of satisfaction spread across his face. ‘He doesn’t know I’ve been buying from him, of course. I’ve not used my own name.’
‘Can’t he find out?’ Albert asked.
‘No. But if he keeps selling and I can buy, I’ll own him in the end,’ Oliver replied. ‘And when I do, I’ll laugh in his bloody face.’
‘Maybe his son will take over. What’s his name? Gilbert?’ Albert asked.
‘No. Godfrey. Godfrey Oldfield, a bigger fool than his father.’ Oliver placed the linen cash bags into the leather case. ‘The fellow’s a drunkard. He’s debauched. His father’ll outlive him. They think he’ll marry and keep the family name going but the fellow can’t raise an eyelid, let alone anything else.’
‘Not like us, eh?’ Albert bragged.
Oliver threw back his head and laughed. ‘God, no. Not like us.’
‘You’ll be seeing Mrs Hadfield tonight then?’ Albert said.
‘Yes. What about you? Are you going to The Crown?’
Albert grinned. ‘Where’s that?’ he asked.
The following day, to Oliver’s surprise, Dolly appeared at The Pheasant.
Chapter Fifteen
She had not changed. She still had the scowling, sharp-eyed look he remembered. Her clothes were more stylish than a country woman’s normal wear but they were cheap and gaudy and had probably been worn out by someone else before Dolly acquired them.
On that September morning she sported an emerald-green dress in limp satin, its dark trimmings frayed and faded. A flattened green pancake of a bonnet sat awkwardly atop her wiry hair. Oliver no longer felt anger towards her. Instead he saw that she cut a comical figure as she stepped clumsily down from the cab that had brought her from the station.
Oliver was outside The Pheasant when she arrived. ‘Where’s our Tommy?’ she barked as soon as she saw Oliver. ‘Tell ’im to coom out ’ere. I want to talk to ’im and you an’all.’
‘Come inside, Dolly. We’ll talk in the parlour. I’ll tell you all about Tommy when we get in.’ He knew she was capable of making an exhibition of herself, and of him, here in the middle of the Rivergate.
He wouldn’t tell her all about Tommy. For one thing, he knew she’d swear that Tommy had never given anyone a minute’s trouble in his life before he left her tender care. And for another, he wanted Dolly to be proud of her son. Tommy would be all right when he’d grown up a little.
He guided her through to the parlour and seated her on one of the plush chairs. Oliver sat and stretched his legs lazily. He leaned back in his chair and told her about Tommy.
‘You know what a lad our Tommy was for adventure, Dolly?’ he began. ‘This town didn’t have enough for him. So he went to Liverpool and joined a ship to Australia. He hasn’t gone penniless, though. He’d a bit of money by him. If he’s any sense he’ll set himself up.’
Dolly seemed pleased to think that her faith in Tommy’s abilities had been vindicated and she seemed satisfied when Oliver said that the boy had money with him.
Mrs Billington popped her head around the parlour door. ‘Are you all right in here, Oliver? Shall I light the fire for you?’ Her kind face beamed a welcome as she waited to be introduced to the mother that Tommy and Oliver had spoken of.
To Oliver’s amusement and embarrassment Dolly adopted the air of lady of the manor.
‘No, my good woman. We’ll ring when we want you,’ she intoned in a strange nasal voice, at the same time raising her reddened hand imperiously, pointing towards the door.
Oliver winked at Ma Billington who immediately saw the funny side of Dolly’s behaviour. She barely suppressed a snort of laughter as she bobbed a little curtsey to Dolly before leaving them to their talk.
‘We was talking about you and our Tommy, wasn’t we?’ Dolly went on, this time in her normal, rasping tone. ‘That’s right! I look after you both all your lives, wear my fingers to the bone for yer. And as soon as you could put a bit of money my way, you “ups and off”. Both of yer!’ She settled back into the armchair and cocked her head to one side. ‘You want to know what’s going on, don’t yer?’
Oliver hoped it was not going to take her all day to get round to telling him some trifling piece of Suttonford gossip. ‘It depends on what it is, Dolly,’ he told her. ‘I don’t lie awake at night wondering what’s going on at Suttonford.’
She sniffed, disdainfully. ‘Well, what I’ve got to tell yer, you’ll not get for nowt. I’m not coomin’ all this way and going ’ome empty-handed. No, I’m not!’ She looked sharply at Oliver. ‘I don’t know why I should come and help you out. Why I should tell yer that someone’s goin’ to smash yer ruddy business for yer! Not for nothing! No!’
‘What’s up, Dolly?’ Oliver sat up straight, interested now. Dolly wouldn’t have come all this way for nothing. ‘If you’ve something to tell me that’s worth listening to I’ll give you a half sovereign.’ He rattled the gold coins in his pocket, to whet her appetite.
Dolly patted her hat with a work-worn hand, flicked at an imagin
ary speck of dust on her skirt and looked at her stepson slyly. ‘Two sovereigns!’ she demanded.
‘Tell me first,’ Oliver said, then added with a trace of sarcasm, ‘Would you like some tea, or maybe a drop of gin before you start?’
He called Ma Billington back and repeated, ‘Tea or gin, Dolly?’
‘Gin, please. And tea after.’ She leaned confidentially towards Oliver. ‘In my kitchen – I’m second cook now, you know – there’s a flue as needs brushing out every week. Sometimes Bessie leaves the plate off it. She forgets to put it back, like, and when it’s off you can hear every word they say in the office above … Sir Philip Oldfield’s office!’ she added dramatically.
‘Did I tell yer about Wilf?’ she said. ‘About ’im getting thick with Sir Philip. Well, he is. Wilf does things, he does underhand deceitful things when Sir Philip orders him to. And sometimes when ’e doesn’t.’ She broke off as the door opened and Ma Billington brought in a tray of tea and a glass of gin. Dolly sipped genteelly. As soon as they were alone again she continued eagerly.
‘Yesterday, he says to Wilf, “You know my mill in Middlefield? The one as Holiver Wainwright uses?” Well, as soon as I heard your name, Oliver, I put me ear to the flue. “I want you to go down there next Thursday and smash it all up. I’ll pay yer well,” he says. “Do it at night. I ’ave a key to the door in me desk. Smash them up well, Wilf, and I’ll reward you ’andsomely,” he says.’
Oliver felt the hairs on the back of his neck begin to prickle. Sir Philip was determined, then, to have a last attempt to ruin him before he left the mill for the new factory. Next Thursday! That left him only four days. His thoughts were racing so much that he hardly listened as Dolly continued her tale.
‘So. Tip the police off. Get them down there and they’ll arrest Wilf and you’ll save yer machines!’ Dolly went on, a smile on her face. ‘I can just see it! Wilf locked up and that slut from the village tearing her hair,’ she finished.
Oliver leaped to his feet, so grateful to her that he slapped her across the shoulder as if she were a man. ‘Dolly Leach!’ he declared. ‘You’re a clever woman! Three sovereigns is what that little bit of news is worth.’
He brought a leather pouch from his pocket and counted the gleaming sovereigns, letting them drop with an inviting ‘clink’ into her bag.
Her face was flushed with excitement as she drained the glass. Already a plan was forming in his mind. He gave Dolly his arm and led her towards the door. ‘Don’t let anyone know you’ve been here. Get the next train back.’ The coach was in the yard and he called to the new boy. ‘Take this lady to the station will you?’
Dolly settled herself, smiling smugly but clutching the bag as if she might be set upon and robbed at any moment.
‘Don’t spend it all on Wilf!’ Oliver warned. She sniffed in disgust at the mention of Wilf’s name and attempted a haughty look.
When the coach had rolled away Oliver looked for Albert.
‘Get the looms at Hollin Mill insured tomorrow. Insure them as high as you can will you? I’ll put some of the stuff we’ll need at the new factory in the storeroom here!’ He slapped Albert on the shoulder and grinned.
‘Don’t look so worried. I know what I’m doing. And arrange for a night out at The Swan on Thursday for you, me, Herbert Clayton and the police inspector. They’ve been wanting a game of poker with us for weeks!’
The four men were to meet in The Swan at eight o’clock that night: Herbert Clayton, Edith’s father, a young-looking, florid man of around forty; Inspector Dale; Albert; and himself.
Oliver watched Inspector Dale stride across the market square from the police office in the narrow lane between the Town Hall and the church. ‘Everything all right?’ he asked when the inspector reached his side.
‘Aye. There’s only a handful of thieves. They’re locked in the cells. They’ll be dealt with severely by Sir Philip Oldfield on Monday. They’ll not trouble Middlefield for a year or two.’
They drank a couple of pints of beer in the public bar where an old woman picked out a tune at the piano. The air was thick with smoke from tobacco pipes and the old woman’s fingers moved desultorily. Customers were barely listening so early in the evening. Later the playing would become louder as the old one became tipsy and the patrons, working men and a few women who cared nothing for their reputations, stood up to sing sentimental, popular songs. Yet another glass of port would be placed on top of the piano for Ma Burkitt who could keep the tune going with her right hand while the left took the elixir of life to her purple lips to be drained in seconds.
‘Shall we go up now?’ Herbert Clayton asked.
‘Aye. Lead the way.’ Oliver bought more beers and carried them up to the room overlooking the square, where a games table had been placed for them in front of the window.
Oliver was enjoying himself. His mind was never so sharp as when it was being challenged and tonight the challenge was to concentrate on the game and not let the others suspect that his imagination was elsewhere. By two o’clock in the morning Oliver had won two guineas, Albert had won four and the older men were hoping to make up their losses, when at last it came; a knock on the door.
A burly constable stood in the doorway. ‘There’s been trouble … an intruder, sir. Down at Hollin Mill. A man’s gone berserk and smashed the place up. He must have had help. There’s a lot of damage done. We’ve arrested one man. He was in the water, must have left the mill by a window over the river. But he denies it, sir. Says he fell in the Hollin after he’d drunk too much. Says he was making his way home to Suttonford village and lost his way. Name of Leach. Not from Middlefield, sir.’
They went to see for themselves, carrying oil lamps through pitch-black, moonless streets to where the inky waters of the Hollin surged alongside the narrow pathway bordering the mill.
‘Oh, God!’ Albert was stunned by the scene revealed in the dim lamplight. He leaned weakly against the splintered door jamb. ‘We’ve lost everything. The man’s mad.’
Oliver had not told his partner about the plot. He knew that Albert’s genuine distress would be plain to the onlookers. Inside, the machines looked grotesque, twisted and smashed. Wooden frames were shattered, cast-iron loom sides were snapped in two. Even the heddles and shuttles were broken, torn from the cloth in a tangle of threads that were strewn over the ruined machinery.
‘I am sorry, lads,’ Inspector Dale said. ‘If we’ve got the right man he’ll be dealt with good and proper. Sir Philip Oldfield’s on the bench on Monday. Are you insured?’
‘Aye. But it’s the lost production, Inspector. It’ll take us a while to recover from this,’ Oliver replied in sorrowful tones, bringing from the inspector a sympathetic pat of friendship.
Oliver was delighted. Wilf, in his usual inept fashion, had smashed up the great steam engines which worked the looms, and these belonged to Sir Philip Oldfield’s company. It would cost him a pretty penny to put the place back into working order if he wanted to let it again.
‘There’s money enough in compensation to buy twice as many machines,’ Oliver told Albert, ‘and more modern ones at that. Our old machines need one man to two looms. The new ones have got self-acting temples to control the tension. We’ll need fewer skilled men to work them. They’ll work faster and weave wider cloth.’
‘Make ’em an offer for the broken ones,’ Albert said. ‘We can cobble together twenty new looms from the parts that are undamaged.’
Sir Philip Oldfield found Wilf Leach not guilty on the following Monday morning. He was, he said, one of his own workers and had been seen in a tavern by three witnesses at the time of the incident. The man was drunk and had taken a wrong turning home on the night in question.
After listening to the case in the magistrates’ court the two friends went to The Swan where Herbert Clayton was waiting to hear the judgment. He set beers before them at the long bar and commiserated with them.
‘Disgraceful, that’s what it was. Letting that rascal free to
commit another crime. What are you looking so pleased about, Oliver?’
Oliver could not conceal his delight. ‘We’re on our way now, Albert!’ he rejoiced. ‘Sir Philip Oldfield’s given us the chance. Wainwright and Billington will be the biggest name in cotton in the whole country. Now we can give up the market stalls and concentrate on weaving cloth.’
‘You knew what he was up to all along, you crafty devil,’ Albert replied, though there was admiration in his look as he gave Oliver a push, sending beer splashing over their shoes. ‘Anyone else would have gone ruddy bankrupt!’
The new factory was ready to move into but first there were three weeks, three empty late-summer weeks, before the new machinery arrived and could be installed. Oliver could not remember when he last had a day, let alone three weeks, of idleness.
He decided to take Rosie to the seaside.
On the pretext of clearing up the devastation at the mill Rosie joined Oliver every day and they planned their holiday by the sea. ‘I’ve never seen the sea,’ she told him. ‘I came here from Bradford when I got married and I’ve never been anywhere else.’
‘Wait till you see it, love. Big and blue and endless.’ He embraced her there amongst the debris of the weaving shed. ‘And the shops. Big shops, Rosie, with things you could only dream of. We’ll walk arm in arm and everyone’ll say “What a handsome couple they make. I wonder who they are?” Will you be able to get away?’ he added anxiously.
‘Yes. I’ve written to Jim’s parents and sent them money for the train. They want to come and see Jim and the children, and the new house.’ Rosie smiled. ‘They’re not so fussy about seeing me. They always thought I’d too much of a mind of my own. They think I’m going to stay with my sister Agnes.’
‘Albert’s given me the address of a house near the sea. The woman takes in guests. We’re booked in as Mr and Mrs Wainwright,’ Oliver told her as he held her hard up against his chest. ‘Oh, God, Rosie, I wish it were true.’
The Runaway Page 19
