World From Rough Stones

by Malcolm Macdonald

  He pulled himself away, and readjusting his trouser, crossed to the door. "I'll go down an' tell Thornton to take 'is appetites 'ome where they belong."

  He arrived downstairs in time to see Thornton hurrying over the square; Nora must surely see him, too. Chuckling to himself, he returned to her. "Must 'ave gone already," he said.

  Her eyes fixed on him. She bit a little sliver of skin from her lip.

  "To work," he said.

  She remained silent, not taking her eyes from him. In the end, her steady gaze discomfited him and he had to take her by the shoulders, steer her to the table, and lift their business ledgers himself from the chest. While he did so she smiled a little smile of secret triumph.

  "What I want…" he began.

  "John," she said, "why would Mr. Thornton be bound off now for Manchester? What d'ye think 'e forgot to thank Robert Stephenson for?"

  John paused. "Manchester," he said.

  "'E went direct to Littleborough station. There's no company train for Summit, is there?"

  "Nay," he said. Then in a more distant and altogether softer voice he added: "Poor young bugger."

  Nora, having felt excluded by John's pretence about the maid and Thornton, was suddenly and deeply touched by this unexpected sadness. In the same instant she divined Thornton through John's tenderness. She saw the man's true poverty with John's insight and measured his hunger by John's compassion.

  She stretched her hand across the table and squeezed his where it lay loosely on the ledger. He caught it up and held it tight between his. She moved her other hand across to wrap around his, and for a while they sat thus, locked in awe of each other and of the moment.

  "I've none but thee," he said simply.

  She, not fully understanding, was suddenly impelled to ask, "'Ast tha no family? Tha'st never said."

  He continued to look at her. And through his gaze something seemed to leap from him to her as if from the very heart of loneliness and isolation; she was filled with an urge to cradle and comfort him, though she did not stir from where she sat.

  "I've none but thee I may share with," he said, leaving her uncertain as to whether he was answering her question or amplifying his own statement. "None I may talk wi'. Explain missen to."

  She squeezed his hand until her arm muscles ached.

  "Not even on Summit," he said. "There's not a man there'd understand. Not Whitaker. Not…yon poor bugger, Thornton."

  "Not Whitaker?" she asked. "He seems an educated sort of man." She knew very well that that was not what he meant; she hoped to draw it out of him.

  "I sometimes ask missen why I chose Whitaker. 'Appen it's to keep before missen a livin picture of where straight thinkin'll bring ye. 'E thinks right for an employee—'e's all of a kind wi' Thornton—but"—he shook his head—"'e'd never manage a business. Not our thrustin' sort. I mean—take thee an' me. We see a crow fly 'undred feet over'ead an' we say ''Ow can I put that crow to my advantage?' That's our nature, thee an me. But not Jack Whitaker. 'E'd lend ye 'is arse an shit through 'is ribs if 'e could think 'ow it was to be managed."

  "Aye. 'E's soft as a suckin' duck. I'll grant that." Her expression changed quickly. "One thing capped me when we ate. There was none on 'em talked o' strikin' or combination."

  "Why do'st ask?" His eyes narrowed.

  She thought a while, still looking at him, before she answered. "I think thou wants one," she said.

  He sighed and shrugged. His fingers teased the edge of the leather quarterings on the ledger. "I don't know," he confessed. "We may need one." He sat down again.

  "Need! 'Ow do'st make that out?"

  "But if I manage it wrong. Eay—it's a perilous way."

  "I'd say we need a strike like we need twins."

  "Still," he said, with something close to conviction, "where the rewards are great…the risks are great in like measure."

  She realized he was quite serious, not—as he sometimes did—just saying things to hear how they sounded.

  "Which trade?" she asked. She was all sharpness now; a casual eavesdropper would have thought it her contract, not his. For a fraction of a second she saw him wondering whether to allow himself to understand her or whether to pretend incomprehension. She smiled—their minds were wonderfully alike; when concentrated by the pursuit of profit, they could leap instantaneously for the identical point. There was something about this strike—or non-strike—that he could not share with Whitaker or Thornton; and it was something that left him undecided. If only he would share that thinking, she knew they would not quarrel in the decision.

  The sight of the ledger, which he had opened casually, without particular aim, seemed to determine him. "There's a weakness in our contract as I should've seen an' didn't," he said, not quite managing to look her in the eye.

  "Bricklayers?" she suggested.

  He raised his hands in a gesture of resignation. "I can tell thee nowt." He stood again and turned from her while he spoke.

  She, thinking he was now bitter, ran to him, cursing herself for being so forward. "Eay love. I'm sorry. I'm that sorry!"

  But he was not the least annoyed. "Nay," he said, taking her in his arms and hugging her like a bear. "No call. There's no call for that. I'm…it's just I'm flummoxed 'ow tha'rt always ahead o' me. It's thy nimbleness o' mind."

  Happy again, she leaned into him and said, "I 'ad nowt to do all mornin', 'ceptin' thinkin' about't contract."

  He let her go and held her chair for her to sit again.

  There was a knock at the door. This time it really was the maid, come to make up the fire.

  "An' what did tha think on it?" he asked.

  "I think I know what weakness tha may be on about," she answered, indicating the maid with her eyes.

  "Nay, talk on," he said.

  She shook her head. He smiled at her caution but waited quietly until the maid had gone.

  "That one's a gossip," Nora said. "The weakness, or so I believe, is that we get our bonus only on a finished yard o' drift or a finished yard o' tunnel. Unlined tunnel pays us nowt—but we've got to pay navvies on their work, bonus an all."

  "Aye," he sighed. "Good lass. Question is, does Tom Metcalfe know that?"

  "'Ow would 'e know?" Nora asked.

  "It seems like Thornton's bin gassin' on to 'em." She looked shocked. "Not wi' malice aforethought, see tha," he assured her.

  "Nay, 'appen not. But end result is no different." Her face hardened. "Poor bugger tha calls 'im. I know what I'd call 'im! To 'is face if 'e were 'ere. I'd tell 'im 'is name for nowt."

  John was not to be diverted. "Never tha mind all that now. If't cream be spilt, it's spilt. What I want thee to do is to work from our weakest position. Let's think of all't worst possibilities an' see where it leaves us. 'Ast tha stomach for it?"

  "Aye," she said bravely—even a touch scornfully. "It'd not be't first time"— she tapped the side of her head—"up 'ere."

  "Then let's suppose as Metcalfe an't brickies know. Suppose they strike an' we don't get bonus. Suppose't navvies go on at full steam, an' all t'other trades, an' we pay out full bonus to all, weekly like I've said. An' suppose every supplier gets frightened an' wants cash-wi'-order…"

  "An' suppose thee and me just goes out and 'angs ussens!" she said; but her tone was light and she spoke with a smile. "I'm sure Manchester and Leeds'd stake thee," she added seriously. "It's not their interest to 'ave a strike succeed."

  "Course!" he agreed. "If it comes to a strike, I tell thee, if they start at knockin'-on time, I'd ave't ringleaders away an't rest o't lads back while knockin'-off time. On my terms."

  The calm that came over him as he spoke frightened her. It was a side of him his men knew well but he did not often show it at home. She was glad never to have to face him in opposition and she pitied the led, though not the leaders, among the bricklayers.

  "But," he went on, "I must know't very worst. I must know 'ow long we could last if all went against us. If all income ceased an' all outgoin's went
on."

  She opened his writing case and took out his pens and set to work. Now that the question was out in the open, he, of course, wanted an immediate answer. Having pondered it silently for over a week, he now found it unbearable to have it hanging between them for a minute.

  "Tha must 'ave some idea," he hinted.

  She merely smiled and continued with her preparations—scraping the dried ink from the nibs and firming down the blank paper.

  "If tha'st done all't thinkin' tha lays claim to."

  "Nay!" she said. "Shut up. Tha never employed me to guess."

  "Me employ thee!" he exclaimed with ironic astonishment.

  She looked at him seriously. "I'll say this much," she said. "Tha knows these books as well as me. Tha knows we've more cash now—by several thousand pound—than we 'ad three month back when we started. An' it's thee that's done it. I couldn't say 'ow, but Skelm lost 'is coin by't bucketful, and thou've never dipped under three thousand. Like I say, I don't rightly know 'ow—but t'only difference is thee an'im. So—I'll go far enough to say that t'answer tha wants'll be better nor what tha supposes now."

  "But 'ow much better?" he persisted, tantalized rather than satisfied by this answer.

  She shook her head, sadly and pityingly, to herself and returned to the work. "Piss off," she told him, not looking up. "Go an' hire yon screw that Stephenson 'ad this mornin. Go an' ride somewhere."

  "Nay," he laughed. "I'll go to't workin'." He paused at the door and added: "When I've got thy answer, I'll tell thee all."

  Impatience brought him home again by five. He had the bricklayers' meeting to attend at seven in the oval shaft at the far end of the tunnel; he decided for once to go by horse, though he was not the world's best or most willing rider. He had tried Robert Stephenson's hack that morning for a short stretch of the road back and had found it docile enough. So, as he turned the corner by the church, he left his usual path up to the town square and crossed instead to the livery stables.

  Just as he entered their gateway a voice behind him called his name; it was a voice he knew, yet he could not at once place it. The street, when he turned, was deserted except for a cat who stalked a small flock of poultry while keeping a wary sideways eye on two geese. Then he saw the man who had called him and instantly he placed the voice: The Reverend Doctor Prendergast.

  His sly black shape erupted self-importantly from the churchyard gate. Stevenson waited and held a smile of welcome until he drew close enough to discern clearly in the failing daylight. Prendergast was not pleased.

  "Have ye quelled this mutiny?" were his first words.

  "Welcome, Reverend," Stevenson said.

  "I don't like it. Not a bit. Don't like it a bit."

  "I'm about to hire a hack here to take me up to the strike meeting tonight."

  Clifford, the ostler, relieving himself against the tack room wall nearby, shouted over his shoulder, "Which one?"

  "Yon ye hired the other Mr. Stephenson this morning."

  "Stephenson?" Prendergast asked. "Robert?"

  "Right away?" Clifford asked, shaking a burst of golden droplets from a member of equine dimensions before he buttoned up the front flap of his breeches.

  "Six o'clock will do."

  "What was Robert doing here?" Prendergast asked.

  "He'll be up the Royal Oak, ready for you, at six, Mr. Stevenson sir. Never fear."

  "Very good."

  "On the same business as me I'll be bound," the cleric answered himself.

  Stevenson turned to him. "What business would that be, doctor?" he asked. "Come to tell me how to manage my affairs?"

  As soon as he said it, the thought seized him that Prendergast had come out to look at his books. His heart began to race with fear.

  Of course that was it. There was this strike in the offing, and Prendergast, whipped to a frenzy by all these wild rumours in Manchester, was out here to seize what he could before this Chartist blood tide washed it all into oblivion.

  "I'll tell ye one thing," Prendergast said, "ye'd best move from those two wretched rooms at the Royal Oak."

  Stevenson's mind almost burst at the thoughts that now came crowding in. And there was one that ran, leaping, darting, showering pure gold through… over…upon, all the rest: A frightened man is as a man of clay; skilful hands may mould him to any shape they please.

  "Indeed?" He spoke as if Prendergast's command had been mere small talk.

  It would be wrong to say that Stevenson formed a strategy there and then, but he certainly got an intuition of the totality of this new situation. Here was the first real chance to play Prendergast in a more positive way. The old way—from fear to salvation. But had the cleric yet stoked up enough fear within himself? Find that out first.

  "Dammit!" Prendergast thundered. "You're a man of substance now. Stopping at an inn makes ye look…"

  "Man of substance!" Stevenson echoed sarcastically. "My bricklayers seem to share that opinion. Well—they're in for a surprise! Is that what you've come to hear, old partner in crime?"

  Prendergast, catching the ambiguity of this interruption, shot him a suspicious look. "I've not come to hear anything," he said darkly. "Certainly no more pleas of poverty. No, sir! By no means, sir!"

  "Ah! Then you've come to put your two and a half thousand pounds where your tongue is?" Stevenson made it sound only remotely like a question, but it stopped the priest in mid-stride. Indeed, he almost stumbled as he turned his astonished gaze upon the other.

  Stevenson halted a little way ahead and turned back. "You take that for a jest?" he asked mildly. "Or plain impudence? I tell you, doctor: If you still cherish hopes of this contract, I shall now need every last penny of your pledge." Then, without waiting for Prendergast, and without much outward interest in his reaction, he resumed his stroll toward the inn.

  "Will you dine with Mrs. Stevenson and myself?" he asked when the other had once more drawn level.

  "No, I thank you." His politeness was that of an automaton. "I shall dine later tonight in Manchester."

  "Dine twice. That is quite within the hallowed traditions of your church."

  Even this insolence provoked nothing. Prendergast still walked—and looked—as if all the blood had drained out of him. All the way across the square he said nothing.

  When they reached the Royal Oak, the priest went out the back to relieve himself. Stevenson called for a pie and a bottle of sherry and then, when he was sure the cleric was well away, he raced upstairs to Nora. She must have noticed them crossing the square, for she was already half out of their door.

  "Where is 'e?" she asked.

  "Comin'." He gripped her arm to show her how important this was. "Listen! We need 'is two thousand five 'undred."

  "Do we?" Her tone was sarcastic.

  "I'm tellin thee. If 'e doesn't go from 'ere wi' that belief firm an' fixed, I can do nowt wi' 'im."

  She grinned and nodded, taking his meaning at once.

  But he was already on his way back downstairs, ready to stand where the reverend doctor had last seen him.

  The sherry and pie arrived immediately behind Prendergast. "Ye'll not change your mind, doctor?" Stevenson asked when the introductions were over.

  "No, thank you." He looked at his watch. "I shall take the six o'clock." He stared at Nora, evidently thinking she ought to leave them to their affairs. But she took her glass and went over to sit at the dark end of the room, lit only by the glow of the fire.

  Stevenson, seated by the room's single lamp, tucked heartily into his pie. "Mrs. Stevenson is privy to all our affairs," he said.

  Prendergast, on hearing that, sat opposite, but with ill grace.

  "If that's so," he said, "she will know how well you've done for yourselves this last month or…"

  Stevenson chewed his mouth empty and swilled down the shreds with sherry before he replied, "For all of us, doctor." He smiled. "I look upon you as a partner." He chuckled. "And never more so than now!" There was just the faintest menace i
n his laughter—enough for Prendergast to catch the whiff of it.

  "I don't understand," he said. In fact, he said it twice.

  Stevenson paused, a steaming lump of ox-kidney halfway to his waiting jaws. "Very simple," he said. "Your two-and-a-half will float me ten further days at worst, twenty at best." He trapped the meat and shredded it. "Either way, I'm going to need it—old silent partner!" He smiled a long smile at the other. "And you are silent!" he added at length.

  He enjoyed Prendergast's quandary; but the priest recovered swiftly. "Very well, Stevenson," he said, with something like his former aplomb. "Let us suspend our disbelief. You prove to me you need it, and you shall have it."