‘For God’s sake, Kate, shut yer noise. He’ll hang, draw and quarter us, so he will.’
‘Not before we get our money, he won’t. We’ll have that off the bastard first, to be sure. You can string me up when I’ve fed me babby and not a minute sooner, Ned Swainson. So, what’s it to be?’
‘Mr Swainson to you, girl, and you’d do well to hearken to your brother’s advice, if’n you wish to keep your job.’
‘Indeed? And where’s Mr Tyson? What would he have to say about all of this, I’m wondering? Now wouldn’t I like a word with the grand man himself, and hear his opinion on the way we’re being treated.’
‘Hear what the grand man himself has got to say about what, may I ask?’ And Kate turned to find herself face to face with her employer. Behind her Dermot began to quietly mutter, ‘Oh, Hail to Mary, Mother of God . . .’
Eliot Tyson viewed the scene before him with the jaundiced eyes of one who has seen it all enacted too many times before. The underfed waif, the rapscallion brother, both no doubt ready to swindle and cheat while being anxious to save their own skins, obstinately maintaining they had right on their side. Eliot was all too aware that his reputation among the outworkers was not good, yet despite common opinion, he believed himself to be a fair and just employer, if somewhat neglectful. He provided much needed employment in the town in a business which was expanding rapidly; paid above the going rate and contributed generously towards a recreation room for his workers, and an annual outing for them every July.
He didn’t greatly care for Swainson, who was admittedly a bit of a bully, but the task of keeping outworkers in line couldn’t be an easy one. Many of them were only too eager to get one over on him, at the least opportunity. The most favoured method was substituting cheaper quality leather for the soles, while selling off the better stuff to dealers. Another way was farming out work to women at a cheaper rate while pretending to do it himself, so that a man could take on more than he could personally cope with, which easily boosted his own income.
Eliot glanced at the girl and saw, to his surprise, that she was a beauty, from what he could see of her beneath the grime. She’d obviously made some effort to clean it off, for which he gave due credit, even if the attempt didn’t meet the standards he was personally accustomed to. Her eyes were the softest grey he’d ever seen, admittedly with not much evidence of compassion in them at this precise moment; and the lashes long and curling. But her hair was filthy and matted, more like a rook’s nest, save for its fiery colour. He considered it with a detached fascination, trying to put a name to the particular shade: auburn; ginger; titian; no, none of those. But how could he even begin to guess? It would take several buckets of hot water and a large cake of soap to discover the answer. Startled out of his reverie, he realised that she was speaking to him directly and Swainson was jumping about like a cat with his tail on fire as a consequence.
‘You’ll address your questions to me miss, not bother Mr Tyson with your prattling.’
‘I’ll speak to whosoever I wish, and since you’ve just given both me and my brother the push for doing an honest week’s work, we owe you nothing, I’m thinking.’
Eliot hid a smile, for the girl’s forthright manner was refreshing, and having a decidedly unsettling effect upon his surly foreman, which was most amusing. ‘If he sacked you, I’m sure he must have good reason. Perhaps you’d best listen to him, and go quietly.’
The young man beside her, he noticed, was growing agitated, plucking at her sleeve and begging her to hush. His own thatch was not quite so red and cut exceptionally short but the pair were undoubtedly related.
Eliot resigned himself for a long, convoluted tale of self-pity from all parties concerned. Instead, she marched right up to him, hands on hips and sticking her chin in the air, with steam practically rising from her ears, she began to rail at him. ‘Not while I’ve breath left in me body. I never did anything quietly in me life, and I don’t intend to start now. Just for the record it’s this man you should be watching, not me. He’s the one doing the cheating which you’ll discover to your cost one day, mark my words. But you can stick yer rotten job. I don’t work for them what twist me and steal the bread out of me babby’s mouth.’
Startled and perplexed by her daring, Eliot narrowed his eyes in a questioning manner as he swung around to his foreman, demanding clarification. ‘Is what she says true?’
‘Not a word of it, sir, as you well know.’
‘Hmm, as I would expect. Then can you perhaps explain to me, briefly, and in words of one syllable, what this fracas is all about?’
‘No, he cannot,’ cut in Kate, before Swainson had chance to draw breath. ‘Because he hasn’t a leg to stand on, isn’t that the truth? Me brother here showed me how to do the work since that eejit didn’t have the time nor the patience to show me right, and for some reason this is not allowed and so we’ve both got the push.’
‘The work is rushed and inferior,’ Swainson blustered, finally finding his voice.
‘Tis not. It’s just that your foreman here doesn’t believe a woman to be capable of such quality work.’
‘And the boy hasn’t used the right leather.’
‘I have so.’ This from Dermot, who suddenly took it into his head to speak up and defend himself.
But a tell-tale flush was creeping up his neck and along his jawline, a sure sign of guilt in Eliot’s opinion, one he had seen too many times before. He came to a swift decision, more out of admiration for her cheek than anger, and because he was in a hurry. They were expecting the Whinerays for supper this evening and he was anxious to get back home to soothe his wife’s jitters. Her nerves always played up when she found herself required to give precise instructions on menu and flowers and goodness knolws what else. Of late, her depression had been such that she couldn’t even control her own servants, particularly the dreaded Mrs Petty. Amelia had grown far too indulgent of her cook’s failings, a woman easily diverted from the task in hand by her facility for fanciful superstition and gossip.
‘Give the young man his cards but keep the girl on. He seems to be the one at fault.’ And she has a baby to feed, added a small voice at the back of his head. But Eliot didn’t say this out loud, in case he failed to disguise the envy in his tone. It always seemed so utterly unfair that those who had least to offer could breed so easily, while he, who had everything - a fine house, a thriving business, a beautiful, adoring wife - couldn’t get himself a son for love nor money. A child of either gender would, in fact, have been most welcome. But, apparently, it was not to be.
Having issued his judgement, Eliot Tyson turned on his heel and walked smartly away. The last thing he wanted was for any of his own workers to feel sorry for him.
The supper party was not a success. It had begun badly when he’d found his tail coat had not been brushed and his white tie was crumpled and dingy so that he would have to use the black one instead. Really, this household had gone to pot ever since Beckworth had retired. He should somehow find the funds for a new valet despite dear Amelia’s insisting she enjoyed laying out a clean shirt and handkerchief for him. She’d had young Dennis polish his shoes and press his trousers, but the boy had put out his velvet smoking jacket by mistake so the tail coat was still hanging, unbrushed, in the wardrobe.
Eliot had always been most fastidious about his appearance and now quietly completed these essential tasks himself rather than upset his wife by pointing out the inadequacies of her preparations. He’d painstakingly shaved the whiskers from his chin with a cut-throat razor, slapped cologne on the long, narrow cheeks and jutting jaw, then brushed his hair, striving to flatten the dark curls into some sort of order. His own brown eyes stared broodingly back at himself from the mirror, already expressing doubt as to the wisdom of hosting this occasion.
Did he really wish to become involved in local politics? Was this a wise move on his part? Almost as if he wished to fill the gap in his life, as if he needed to keep every hour of his day fully occ
upied. Yet could he afford to take his eye off a business which seemed to be flagging of late?
Tyson’s Shoe Manufactory had been his father’s pride and joy, and his undoubted obsession. Eliot was all too aware that he would never be able to match up. Hadn’t his father told him so a dozen times? George Tyson had started the company from scratch, cycling the length and breadth of the country as a young man in order to win orders, devoting his life to building up the company but his success had brought little happiness in its wake, resulting in him rarely showing his face in the gracious home he provided for his family. His wife had grown bitter and disillusioned and, not surprisingly, had ultimately refused him her bed, so that he’d turned to other women for consolation and had taken a string of mistresses.
With the business an endless bone of contention between his parents, Eliot had watched in helpless misery as the pair barely spoke a civil word to each other, living entirely separate lives within the claustrophobic four walls of their home.
George Tyson had jealously guarded his creation, declaring that he wished his sons to climb above trade and any necessity of earning a living for themselves. He’d assured them that there would be no need for them ever to work, that there would be sufficient money for them to live a life of ease, as gentlemen.
Charles, the younger son and apple of his father’s eye, accepted this unquestioningly, preening himself on his own good fortune. Eliot was different. He wanted to be a part of the company, to be active in its growth. But when he asked if he could learn the business from the shop floor upwards, his father had simply laughed, telling him he knew nothing about shoes, and never would. That he should stick to his books and his gardening.
But then nothing Eliot ever did, or suggested, was considered good enough so far as his father was concerned. He dubbed him a ‘mother’s boy’ in that sarcastic, derogatory way of his, all because Eliot took his mother’s side in the inevitable and frequent arguments between them.
Feeling rejected and unwanted, he had buried his disappointment by spending much of his youth studying art and history at university, and in travelling, at least until his father’s stroke. That had been so dreadful, so incapacitating, that George had been forced to allow Eliot to take over, albeit with furious resentment, viewing his son as an interloper and resisting him every inch of the way.
This cold and empty childhood was perhaps the reason why a desire for a child so consumed him now. Eliot still longed for the family life he’d been deprived of as a boy, to be the kind of father his own never was. But even that was denied him.
Tonight, dinner had been late, no doubt due to yet some distraction in the kitchen, and yet the lamb was woefully underdone, too bloody for his taste. Young Fanny, the bows of her starched apron sticking out like cow’s ears, had spilled soup on Gilbert Whineray’s pristine white cuff. The wine hadn’t been chilled for nearly long enough and darling Amelia was taut with tension, as highly strung as a young thoroughbred. Which was what she was, in a way. Far too well bred for her own good. Ah, but what she lacked in organisational skills she more than made up for by her beauty.
She had looked utterly delightful in a coffee and cream lace gown, a pink rose tucked into its trim waistband. Her skin was clear and rose-flushed, lips generously curved into a gracious, rather wistful smile, and her eyes as bright as a summer sky. With her blonde hair puffed out entrancingly about the pale oval of her lovely face, his wife sat at the head of his table with all eyes upon her: a perfect vision of loveliness, a picture of serenity. Only he was privy to the true turmoil within. But then Amelia looked wonderful whatever she was wearing, even in the thick woollen stockings and tweed skirts she adopted to ‘help him’ with the gardening, which never managed to become mud spattered however inclement the day. And when she was asleep, neatly curled up like a child with one hand cupped beneath her cheek, she was never anything but entrancing.
Oh, how he adored her. She was the sweetest, most delightful woman he’d ever met, and despite everything he had never, not for a moment, regretted marrying her. She was his very reason for existence. Without her, he would be nothing.
But yet he longed for a child.
When all their guests were gone, Eliot came out of his dressing room to find Amelia already sitting up in bed, cheeks flushed, blue eyes bright as they always were after such an evening. ‘It went well, don’t you think?’ she asked excitedly. ‘I thought Mrs Petty surpassed herself with the pear tart, didn’t you? A quite unusual dessert. I’m sure Olive Whineray was thoroughly impressed.’
Dear Olive, he noticed, had left half of it untouched, the pastry being slightly soggy. He leaned over and kissed Amelia’s soft, pink cheek. ‘It was wonderful darling, as ever. A superb evening, and I’m sure it will bear fruit. Whineray is keen to have me on the Council.’
‘And will you agree to it?’ She sounded anxious, knowing his doubts.
Eliot suppressed a sigh. ‘I dare say I might in the end. It can do no harm to be seen about more, I suppose. But what about you? You must feel quite worn out with all the preparations and organisation you’ve had to do.’
Her cheeks, if anything, flushed even pinker. ‘Not in the least. I feel perfectly marvellous.’
And so he climbed into bed, turned off the light and made love to his wife. But sadly, as he knew only too well, their passion for each other would bear no fruit at all.
Chapter Three
‘I’m done for. This is it, the end. If I’d known that helping you get started in the job would lose me mine, I’d never have offered. Years of apprenticeship, a trade at me fingertips, and now I’m all washed up, finished before I hardly get started.’ Dermot stood in the midst of the muddle and squalor of the single room Kate called home, Millie and Clem anxiously looking on. Only Ma Parkin was oblivious to his distress as she sat and hummed some ditty, surrounded by a gaggle of children. His hands hung at his sides, shoulders slumped, dejection written all over him. ‘What am I supposed to do now? I don’t even have a home to go to, not now me apprenticeship is over and I’ve no money coming in to pay rent.’
‘You could stop here, with us,’ Millie offered, generous to a fault, as always, even though she had nothing to give.
Dermot gave her a weak smile and said nothing. He’d no wish to give offence but the idea of bunking down with Millie, Clem and their noisesome brood didn’t bear thinking of.
‘What about yer master?’ Clem put in, clearly thinking that a man fortunate enough to have two arms and a trade as well as youth on his side, didn’t have too much to complain about.
‘Old Gabriel barely has enough work to keep himself going, he’s certainly none to give me. I’ve already asked him. I was depending on Tyson’s.’
‘Couldn’t you get work some place else?’
‘And who would that be with, would ye mind telling me? What other employer of size do we have hereabouts? None that won’t be influenced by the fact Tyson laid me off. No, I’m done for. There’s no other word for it.’
‘Aw, don’t keep going on about it, Dermot. I know what I’ve done to you, and I’m right sorry for it, so I am.’ Kate could hardly bear to look at the bleak misery in her brother’s face, see the tightness of his jaw and the way his mouth trembled very slightly despite his best efforts to prevent it, just as it had done when he was a boy. ‘I never meant for this to happen. It was just that it was all so unfair, I couldn’t bear for Swainson to cheat us. He wouldn’t accept that a woman can do as good a job as a man.’
‘You and your blethering pride.’
‘Tis not my pride at fault, but his. To blame you for helping me wasn’t right, not right at all. The miserable scoundrel. I’d wring his scrawny neck with me own two bare hands if ever I got the chance.’
‘Ach, don’t start again. I’m the one who has to suffer, not you. You’re fine and dandy, so you are. It’s me what’s got the push.’ He pounded a fist into his chest, made to storm off but then realising there was nowhere for him to go, stayed where he was, flapping h
is arms about in frustration. ‘What am I going to do, Katy?’
He hadn’t called her by this pet name in years, not since they were children together. Kate felt a lump come into her throat and couldn’t help but wonder what Daddy would have said, to see how her show of temper had landed their Dermot in this mess. She could almost hear his soft tones just as if he were standing right beside her, the lilt in his voice as he put the long A in her name. ‘Houly Mauther, what’ve ye landed us in now, Katherine child.’ Kate couldn’t help but smile at the memory, for all she could feel the prick of tears at the backs of her eyes. She came to a sudden decision.
‘I’ll put it right. I’ll go and see himself. Apologise for being so forward, so filled with pride and impudence. I’ll speak to the Father too, get him to put in a word for me. I’ll tell himself it was all my fault and it’s me should be given the old heave-ho, not you.’
Millie said, ‘Don’t talk daft, Kate. How will you feed the bairn if you’ve no work, nor money coming in?’
‘Aye, she’s right. At least I’m still single.’ Dermot had been hoping to change that lonely status and ask Dolly to wed him, once he’d got a bit put by. They’d been walking out for years and they’d both been very patient, but the waiting was driving him mad. He was desperate to bed her, but she wouldn’t even let him go beyond a chaste kiss and a bit of fondling till she had a ring on her finger. Now he was further away than ever from that hoped for happy state.
Kate was saying, ‘I’ll go up to the Union Workhouse then, so I will.’
‘You’d rather be a skivvy in the kitchens or scrub laundry up there, would you, than work for Mr Tyson?’ Millie asked in disbelief. ‘And what about your dreams for Callum? Look at us, is that what you want for him too?’ She became distracted as one of her babies started to howl and picking it up, lifted her blouse and watched in pained resignation as it clamped it’s greedy mouth tight on to a scraggy breast. It sucked for no more than ten seconds before it began to howl again. ‘See what I mean? No food left anywhere.’
The Girl From Poorhouse Lane Page 3
