Alley Urchin

by Josephine Cox

  As always, Emma’s arrival at the warehouse was greeted with mixed feelings. Most of the men respected her for being the fair-minded and clever businesswoman she was. But there were those who bitterly resented having to take orders from any woman, yet were shrewd enough to make an effort at disguising their feelings; after all, the Thomas Trading Company now had the edge on most of the competition, and the wages were the best around. There wasn’t a man among them who could honestly deny that it was Emma herself who had achieved this.

  When Emma first acquired a large warehouse on Cliff Street it was a single unit. Now the company owned almost a third of all the property down the left-hand side of Cliff Street, and every inch of space was used to its full. By the time Emma arrived, the whole place was a hive of activity. Already the two largest waggons were hitched to and loaded with all manner of tools, such as shovels, galvanised buckets, oil, candles and other basic necessities. The last items – twelve sacks of flour – were being carried out one by one aloft a burly labourer’s shoulders who, on sighting Mrs Thomas, gave a wide grin and an awkward nod of the head. ‘G’day,’ he called, and Emma returned the greeting. Afterwards, hurrying through the noise and organised chaos within the busy stores, where there was a deal of counting, checking, stacking and carrying going on, Emma found Marsh Williams out in the rear yard where the big geldings were stabled. He was a large and fearsome-looking man, with unusually wild red hair, yet he had the gentlest manner and a considerate nature, which belied his formidable appearance. He was so deep in conversation with the warehouse manager – a tall, thin and authoritative man with a surly face called Oliver Barker – that neither of them saw Emma approaching. It was only when Emma said, ‘Good morning, gentlemen, that they turned in surprise.

  ‘Mrs Thomas . . . I might have known you’d be out bright an’ early to catch me before I’m off again,’ remarked Marsh Williams. Mr Barker suggested they should ‘seek a quieter place to talk’, whereupon the three of them made their way to the office at the far end of the warehouse. Here Emma was informed that all had gone well on the previous trip. ‘But I’m telling you, Mrs Thomas,’ said Marsh Williams with some excitement, ‘I reckon if we’d taken twice the merchandise we could’a sold it.’ He thrust the signed dockets into her hand, then, as she thoughtfully perused them, he went on, ‘There’s more and more prospectors setting up an’ looking fer a fortune . . . an’ settlers too.’ He thrust another paper on to the pile of dockets in her hand. ‘See that? . . . That’s a list of goods we hadn’t got room for. Orders . . . mostly from the women folk . . . cloth, an’ fancy things like pictures and china stuff. There’s even a request for a tablecloth, would you believe? . . . And a tapestry frame.’

  Emma’s sharp business instincts told her that here was something of real interest. Her trading post already dealt in stock of the items mentioned. But up till now there had been no call for such things actually to be carried to the customer. This was a market created not by the frantic search for gold, or by farmers who looked to scratch a more down-to-earth living from the land, but a demand from the women who had bravely uprooted themselves in search of a better life. What was more natural than that they should want to retain a degree of civilisation, even though they might be in a raw and primitive land where, often, the code of culture and behaviour was lost in the struggle to survive?

  ‘We must supply this demand,’ Emma told her manager now. ‘Get these women their cloth, and their china plates! If we can’t cater to them, there are others who will.’

  ‘And what should we leave behind in order to make the space?’ asked Mr Barker, with a touch of sarcasm in his voice. ‘The flour and sugar? . . . Or perhaps the tools which they so desperately need? You’re wrong, Mrs Thomas, there isn’t a trading outfit in the whole of Western Australia who would supply these women’s fripperies. There’s little profit in it, and there are other, more important priorities.’

  Emma saw it differently. She knew how a woman might influence her husband to her way of thinking. She felt also that any woman who had courage enough to brave the adverse elements of this demanding land had a mind of her own and would not rest until she had those things about her which, however much they might be seen by some as ‘fripperies’, made life tolerable to her. Emma was quick to realise also that, because other traders might not agree with her, there was a unique opportunity here to get in first, and to build this particular market up, before the others became aware of its potential. Oh, it was true that, once they saw it opening out, they would make every effort to secure a large slice for themselves. But Emma knew from experience that if a trader got in first and gave full satisfaction, the customer tended not to change to another supplier. It was an opportunity not to be missed. Yet, there was a difference of opinion here, between the warehouse manager and herself. Such a situation, though it at times caused little difficulty, was of paramount importance in this instance, because if she were to make strides into this promising market, she must have his full backing. Most of all, it was important that he viewed the project with enthusiasm.

  Giving nothing of her own opinion away, Emma asked him now: ‘So you think it’s of little consequence?’ Mr Barker had only been with Thomas Trading for a very short time and he came with good references. But he had a surly disposition and he had yet to prove himself fully to Emma. ‘I reckon it’s just women’s fancies . . . won’t come to nothing. Anyway, we’re short of waggons as it is . . . and the men to drive them. Good men are always hard to find.’ With the heat of the morning already beginning to tell, and the small office being somewhat stifling, the door had been left open. Outside, two of the workers heard Mr Barker’s comments and one observed to the other, ‘It ain’t surprising the bugger can’t keep a good man, when he treats ’em like dingo shit!’ The other nodded in agreement, spat out his chewing tobacco through his teeth, and the pair of them went about their work.

  ‘You leave me in no doubt about your feelings in this,’ Emma told Mr Barker, purposely keeping her own opinion to herself. Then, turning to Marsh Williams, she asked, ‘And you, Mr Williams . . . are you of the same mind as my manager, bearing in mind that he has had some long experience in the trading business,’ she warned him deliberately.

  ‘Well . . . I reckon it don’t matter too much what I think.’ Marsh Williams knew he might be treading on delicate ground here, but he was an honest man, and must give an honest answer. ‘In my opinion, most women know what they want, and more often than not they get their own way. I think that if we were to ignore that fact . . . we could end up by losing out. The women in the outback ain’t got fancy money, and they ain’t got easy ways of getting to town. But it won’t always be like that.’

  ‘So, you’re saying that we should go all out to satisfy their modest demands?’ When he nodded without hesitation, she went on, ‘And if we did, how do you imagine we could provide enough waggons and good men to drive them . . . a problem which Mr Barker so rightly pointed out. It’s one thing catering for the town’s women who come to the store . . . but we’ll need extra waggons, horses and these “good men” to take the goods to the customer.’

  ‘I don’t see it as a problem, begging your pardon, Mrs Thomas. Waggons are easily secured and the horses we can find well enough. I don’t deny that the men might not be so easy to locate, but I think it’s worth a hell of a try!’

  ‘And so do I, Mr Williams!’ Emma took the two men unawares by her bold admission. ‘In my experience, small, seemingly unimportant markets have a canny knack of growing into a lucrative business . . .’ Here she turned her sharp grey eyes on Mr Barker, telling him in a firm angry voice,’ . . . but only for those who have the guts to get in there first!’

  When Emma left Cliff Street two hours later, she had gone through the books thoroughly, and given Mr Barker the opportunity of taking on Marsh William’s job as lead driver; when, infuriated he had refused, Emma put him under notice and appointed Marsh Williams as the new manager. His first task was to secure the services o
f top drivers, who were not afraid of giving a hard day’s work for a good pay-packet. On her way out through the warehouse, Emma was stopped by several men, who had overheard her instructions. From what they told her, it was plain to Emma that not only had she made the right decision – which some ventured to say was long overdue – but that there should be no difficulty in recruiting the kind of men required, once they knew that Barker had been shown the door. Her next stop was the trading post, to see how Rita Hughes and Nelly were coping. Emma always looked forward to spending a few hours in their company, in the comforting knowledge that the Thomas Trading post was in better hands than hers.

  ‘Pregnant!’ Nelly’s brown eyes popped out of her head as she stared at Emma. ‘Cor, bloody hell, gal. I knew it! The minute yer told me about that meeting with Marlow Tanner . . . I just knew it!’ She was so agitated that she swept herself up and out of the cane chair in the little room that she once shared with Emma and which was her own abode now. ‘What yer gonna do, Emma? . . . How in God’s name d’yer think yer can keep a thing like that to yerself? What! . . . You’ll be as big as a ship in a few months, and how are yer going to hide yer belly then, eh? Oh, yer silly bugger . . . yer silly little bugger!’ She turned to look at Emma, who was astonished to see that Nelly’s friendly gaze was wet with the threat of tears. ‘Oh, Emma . . . you’ve got yerself in a right pickle, and no mistake,’ she wailed.

  Emma had not been prepared for the fact that Nelly might feel fearful for her, only that Nelly would give her a proper telling-off. Now, however, she found herself in the position where it was she having to comfort Nelly. ‘Come and sit down, Nelly,’ she said, going to put her arm round Nelly’s shoulders and drawing her back towards the chair, where she persuaded her to sit down. After they were both seated, facing each other, Emma told her how she intended to ‘talk to Roland about the whole business, when he’s in a better state of health. I realise he will have to be told the truth,’ she said quietly. ‘But he knows about Marlow . . . and I’m sure he will understand.’ She prayed that he would.

  ‘He bleeding well won’t, y’know!’ exclaimed Nelly. ‘Not if my experience of men serves me right. And, even if he does . . . there are others in this town of Fremantle who’ll be only too glad to point the finger at you. Oh, I’m telling you, me darling . . . yer don’t know what you’ve let yerself in for!’ Nelly was full of woe, but Emma would not be depressed. She clung to the belief that all would come right in the end, because she had no intention of ever being separated from the child she was carrying. Not by hell or high water.

  Feeling that her problem was one that only she and she alone could contend with, Emma deliberately directed her attention to other matters, of how pleased she was that Nelly and Rita Hughes got on so well, and how well the store was doing. ‘But are you sure that you wouldn’t prefer to come and stay at the house with me, Nelly? There’s plenty for you to do there, and it would be nice to have you close by.’

  ‘Naw . . . it ain’t that I’m not grateful, Emma gal,’ Nelly replied, pulling a face, ‘but I’d be lost in that grand place, and what’s more, I like working the store and meeting people. Besides . . . you ain’t so far away, and I do see you every day, don’t I, eh?’ Nelly could not be persuaded so, as on previous occasions when Emma had raised the matter, she pressed it no further. All the same, Nelly’s reluctance to come and live in the house was surprising. But then, when they had both returned to the store, Nelly to her tasks and Emma to her business discussion with Rita Hughes, something happened which gave Emma grave reason to fear for Nelly. It explained also Nelly’s reasons for not wanting to leave the store, in favour of lighter work at the house.

  ‘Morning, Mrs Thomas . . . beats me how you always manage to look cool in this blistering heat,’ called a portly little fellow who was at the counter, busily heaping a wad of ‘baccy from the jar and into his pipe. He had a ruddy face with a blue neb cap perched on his bald head in a jaunty manner, and Emma recognised him as a nearby settler who insisted on buying his ‘baccy only by the pipeful, having developed a raking cough and rationed his ‘smoke’ because of it. When Emma warmly returned his greeting, he paid for the ‘baccy and left, whistling a merry tune.

  The store was busy, with customers constantly milling in and out, when Emma murmured her intention of perusing the ledgers to Rita Hughes, and afterwards went into the office. She made copious notes about various things which she would need to discuss with Rita, but on the whole, she was delighted to see that everything was in good order and the business running smoothly. Emma congratulated herself on seeing the potential in Rita Hughes, and following her own judgement in offering her a responsible position here. Rita had not let her down.

  It was about an hour later, just coming up to midday, when custom had slacked off enough for Emma and Rita Hughes to retire to the small office together in order to discuss the points which Emma had noted. ‘You’ll be all right on your own, Nelly?’ asked Emma. ‘We shouldn’t be above an hour. Then you can get straight off for your break.’

  ‘You two bugger off from under me feet,’ instructed the incorrigible Nelly, ‘course I’ll be all right!’

  Rita Hughes and Emma looked at each other with amusement, but they were not surprised by Nelly’s familiar light-hearted abuse. They had grown used to it, and saw no offence in her attitude, for there was none intended.

  ‘I gave up on her years ago!’ laughed Emma, shaking her head.

  ‘She’s a good worker and harmless enough,’ rejoined Rita Hughes, as she followed Emma to the back office, ‘though I do have to keep my eye on her with the likes of Marjorie Hunter and her snooty cronies. Given the opportunity, they would report Nelly to the authorities and have her reassigned to cleaning out the prison pigsties.’

  Emma knew this Marjorie Hunter well. She was a social climber who had nosed her way on to every committee that was formed, and Emma made a mental note to have a word with Nelly before she left. That woman, and others like her, could prove to be Nelly’s downfall if she weren’t very careful, and it would be tragic if that were to happen, because lately Nelly had made every effort to mend her ways. In fact, Nelly had earned her ticket-of-leave, gone out of her way to appear more disciplined and it had been months since she’d been in any kind of trouble. Emma was full of praise for her friend, but there was something which bothered her. This was Nelly’s unusually quiet manner on the occasions when Emma began talking of her future, and of how one day she would take Nelly home to England and ‘find you a handsome husband there’. At one time, Nelly’s jubilant reaction would have been to prance about her little room, with a mischievous look about her, and the comment, ‘What ’andsome feller could resist a little beauty like meself, eh? Oh . . . I’ll show the bugger a thing or two and no mistake!’ Lately however, Nelly seemed to have other things on her mind, so that when Emma talked of England and their future, Nelly’s quiet indifference was both astonishing and disturbing to Emma.

  The reason for Nelly’s curious behaviour was made painfully evident to Emma, when both she and Rita Hughes emerged from the office in less time than Emma had anticipated, having concluded the business discussions with satisfaction and efficiency. It was Emma who saw them first, and she couldn’t believe her eyes! The store entrance was closed up and the shutter pulled down. There, with her back against the door was Nelly, her arms stretched round the bent form of a man, and the two of them locked in a kiss which was so obviously passionate that Emma felt her own cheeks flaming.

  Rita Hughes had been walking alongside Emma, paying careful attention to Emma’s suggestions for display, her own eyes looking downwards to a sketch in her hands which Emma had made to emphasise her point. When, of a sudden, Emma came to a halt, Rita Hughes looked up at her briefly, before following Emma’s startled gaze to where the two figures were so rapt in their enjoyment of each other that neither had heard the two women approach.

  ‘Nelly! What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?’ Emma demanded, lifting the cumbers
ome folds of her skirt with both hands as she swept forward in anger. As she did so, the man, whose back had been to her, now swung round and Emma was so shocked to see who it was that she came to an abrupt halt, exclaiming in a voice that was filled with horror. ‘You! . . . Foster Thomas!’ At that point, Rita Hughes made a loud gasp, afterwards coming forward on hesitant steps to face him. ‘No! . . . I won’t believe it. You and . . .’ Here she inclined her head towards Nelly, who had stepped up to half-hide herself beside Foster Thomas. ‘. . . and Nelly!’ So terrible was her voice that Emma quickly glanced at her. She was riveted by the awful look on Rita Hughes’s face, which was drained white, her odd-coloured eyes stark with panic. Emma knew then, without any doubt, that Rita Hughes adored this man, this fiend who had it in him to force himself on a woman who was ill and helpless, and who was as low as any man could get.

  ‘Look here, girlie,’ Foster Thomas appeared unperturbed by the intrusion as he half-turned his murky blue eyes to Nelly, with a sly smile moving over his lean handsome face, which was marred only by the thin low scar made by the lick of his father’s whip, ‘I reckon we’ve been caught in the act.’ He laughed, a quiet sinister sound which chilled Emma’s heart. She had not forgotten how Roland had disowned this man, and how it was common knowledge that he sought to avenge himself on Emma who had been made full heir to all that was ‘Thomas Trading’.

  ‘Get out!’ she told him now, going in a rage towards the door and flinging it open. ‘Get out . . . and stay out!’ she told him, her grey eyes ablaze.

  ‘It ain’t all his fault, Emma!’ Nelly protested, running forward in his defence and touching Emma on the arm. She was amazed when Emma shrugged her off, never once taking her stony glare from the man she had every reason to loathe. ‘I’ll only tell you once!’ she warned him in a dangerously quiet voice.