‘As if I would! I’ll find out where he works, shall I, and what he does on that particular day of the week?’ She beamed cheerfully, hugging to herself the pleasure of seeing him thrown off balance by this show of initiative on her part, plainly unsure if he could trust her, but in the end deciding to risk it.
‘I know a good deal about him, where he works and so on, but anything you can discover about his social life could be most valuable, Ruby. Most valuable indeed. And if it turns out that he does have a mistress, follow her too. Anything you can find out about such a creature can only be of benefit to our cause.’
‘And what cause might that be?’ she cheekily enquired, and he playfully tweaked her nose.
‘Perhaps, once I’m certain that I truly can trust you, Ruby McBride, I will tell you everything about myself. Until then you must simply do as you are told, difficult as that may be.’
His hand circled her neck, gently smoothing the nape, and Ruby again began to experience that strange tightening about her ribs, a feeling that left her fighting for breath. `When have I ever let you down?’
‘Just remember, I’ll stand no nonsense. Not from anyone. Not even you, Ruby McBride.’
She let out an exasperated sigh. `Why do you insist on still calling me that after all these months as your wife? When do I become Mrs Stobbs?’
He smiled, though there was sadness still in the intensity of his gaze. ‘When you become a proper wife to me, Ruby.’ Caught in a trap of her own making, she said no more and concentrated on dishing out the stew.
Chapter Twelve
Pearl was feeling decidedly sorry for herself. She’d satisfactorily disposed of the encumbrance of an unwanted child but had again lost her job as a result. Now she sat on the edge of a kerb, her arms wrapped about her knees, soaking wet and shivering with cold in a cutting December wind, and cursed her blessed sister with every nasty swear word she’d ever learned in the reformatory over the years.
‘Happy bleedin’ Christmas,’ she muttered to herself with feeling.
Had it not been for Ruby’s stupid rebellion, she’d never have got into this mess in the first place. It was her sister’s fault entirely, and what on earth Pearl was going to do about it, she hadn’t the faintest idea.
Somewhere in the distance she heard the hooting of a ship, the sound echoing down the alleyways and empty streets, haunting, melancholy. Pearl shivered. It made her feel as if she were all alone in the world. And then she realised with a shock that this was true. She was alone. She had no one at all to call her own now that she’d lost Ruby and Billy. Where can I go? What can I do? Not back to the reformatory, that much was certain. Pearl hadn’t eaten for days and she was ravenous. If she didn’t get help soon, she’d starve to death. That’s if she didn’t die of pneumonia first.
‘Are you working, love?’ So absorbed had she been in the depths of her own miserable self-pity, she hadn’t even heard the man approach.
‘Do I look like I am?’ she snapped, and then heard the jingle of coins in his pockets and her interest quickened. ‘Why d’you want to know?’
‘It’s a cold night, chuck. Bit o’ comfort wouldn’t go amiss.’ She looked at him more closely. He was a seaman, quite young and not bad-looking, no doubt with a week’s wages burning a hole in his pocket. Pearl slowly uncurled herself and stood up, smiling directly into his eyes. ‘What is it you fancy?’
Once Ruby discovered, to her own satisfaction at least, that the man in question owned Pickering wharf which had started up around the same time as the Ship Canal opened, she pursued him no further, fully prepared to tell Bart that he worked late on a Thursday. She made no efforts to discover whether or not he had a mistress. Where was the point? She had more important matters on her mind. She’d heard no word of Pearl, nor any more news of Billy, so she eagerly snatched at this opportunity to set about asking around. She spoke to the people she met in and around the docks, skippers on tugs and barges as well as the dockers who worked on the ships, asking if they’d seen her sister.
‘She’s only young, just a kid really, quite pretty with yellowish-blonde hair, blue eyes and rather plump. She might be working in a factory or warehouse perhaps, or in service at someone’s house.’ Ruby checked out every local address suggested but other places could have been on the moon for all the hope she had of getting there.
Sparky Joe ponderously promised to keep an eye out for her, though he didn’t hold out much hope of success. His gloomy voice held its usual note of pessimism as he explained just how many factories, mills and warehouses there were in the canal basin, let alone in Manchester as a whole.
She got exactly the same reaction when she asked about Billy. ‘Do you know which liners carried orphans and destitute children out to Canada a few years back, and to which part of the country they might have gone?’
Heads would be shaken, lips chewed in quiet contemplation. Nobody knew anything for certain although various possibilities were mentioned by people trying to be helpful, which left Ruby more depressed than ever as her dreams of starting a new life across the seas in a faraway land seemed doomed to failure.
And what if she ever did manage to reach Canada? That would mean she’d never see Kit Jarvis ever again. This was such a bleak prospect that it made her feel sick inside. It came to her with a jolt that for all these months, while she’d been asking after Pearl, she’d also been secretly keeping a sharp lookout for Kit too. Hoping for one glimpse of his cheery face, his twinkly blue eyes. Oh, it would be so good to see him again. He couldn’t be too far away, surely.
It was perhaps a forlorn hope but he may be able to help her find Pearl, then they could all travel to Canada together, which would be grand. What would it matter then if she was still married? Even the baron couldn’t follow her to the other side of the world, could he?
Ruby felt more buoyed up with hope than she had in months. She set about her enquiries without wasting another minute, and to hell with the flippin’ baron and his schemes. What did it matter if one of his scams didn’t come off for once? Serve him right. She had more important matters to attend to.
On their third visit to Byrom Street, the preparations were entirely different. This time there was no disguise, no subterfuge, not for the baron. Today he walked the length of it bold as brass.
Ruby kept well back, hidden in the shadows of an alleyway, with strict instructions to keep a weather eye on the goings on in the street and to call him instantly should she see any sort of trouble or disturbance. What shape this might take he didn’t say, and Ruby didn’t ask. She really didn’t see it as her concern, any more than what he’d been talking about in hushed undertones half the night with his docker cronies, well into the small hours. Ruby was determined not to get involved in anything remotely illegal, and would very much like to have refused to accompany him today, had she not known that he was perfectly capable of dragging her here in ball and chain, if necessary. Now she watched in mutinous silence as he knocked on the door of number one hundred and forty-nine.
She saw him speak quietly to the maid who answered, doffing his hat courteously to her. She couldn’t hear the words exchanged between them but after a short discussion the maid disappeared inside to return seconds later, smiling, to invite him in. Bart didn’t even turn to glance in Ruby’s direction, he simply smoothed down his slicked hair and stepped over the threshold.
Ruby was flabbergasted. ‘What a cheek!’ And what was she supposed to do now, besides keep a lookout for this imaginary disturbance? No doubt a tale he’d made up to be sure she didn’t wander off and enjoy herself. The more Ruby thought about him dallying with some pretty housemaid while she stood about on a cold winter’s day, the angrier she got. And not simply because of the inclement weather. What sort of behaviour was this for a married man? She very nearly marched right over and hammered on the front door to ask him. No doubt he would be inside for hours, up to goodness knows what mischief.
Ruby flounced a few paces further up the alley, resolving to
pay no attention at all to what might be going on behind the lace curtains of number one hundred and forty-nine, nor to his carefully spelled out instructions about disturbances. If the police came, let them discover his conman disguise, arrest and lock him up in some dark prison and throw away the key. Serve him right. She’d be the first to dance at his trial, and on his grave if it came to that.
She became so consumed with dreaming up these satisfying images that it was some long moments before the unusual noises in the street penetrated her consciousness. Only when the sound grew to the unmistakable clatter of hundreds of pairs of feet on cobbles did she run to the end of the alley and gaze, dumbstruck, at the sight that met her eyes. It wasn’t a made-up tale after all!
A band of dockers were marching along, carrying banners. In bold lettering these proclaimed such statements as: A man’s pay for a man’s work. No more slave labour. And: A living wage for all. What were they saying? Were they threatening to strike?
She was aware of bitter grievances among the men, knew that they felt themselves grossly underpaid. Now it seemed their patience had worn thin. But if they went on strike what would that achieve? They’d only irritate their bosses, could well lose their jobs as a result and then their families would starve since there was no work to be found elsewhere.
But they weren’t alone. A pace or two behind marched the women. Wrapped in their shawls and tattered working frocks, some carrying babies or dragging children by the hand, they were bravely displaying their solidarity with their menfolk. They weren’t shouting or even singing, the only sound they made that of their clog irons on the setts: a bleak hollow clatter with a sad echo in its wake.
Ruby hovered in the shadows while she watched their silent approach in an anguish of indecision. Could this be what Bart had meant when he’d asked her to warn him if there was trouble? Surely not. How could he have known that they might come along the street today?
There came a far more forbidding sound, one that chilled her to the bone. It was that of police whistles, and booted feet running down the street. They seemed to come from every direction to confront the procession of dockers. Ruby saw the men stop marching and grow instantly tense. She recognised the grim expressions in faces gaunt with hunger as they set back their shoulders as if mentally gearing themselves for a fight.
Ruby went cold with fear. She’d let Bart down by not keeping a proper lookout. What should she do now?
At the same instant, the door of number one hundred and forty-nine burst open and a man stormed out into the middle of the road. It was the very same gentleman Bart had asked her to follow. Giles Pickering. Now she wished with all her heart that she’d carried out Bart’s instructions to the letter, certain that she’d failed everyone in some way that she didn’t quite understand.
Pickering stood side by side with the approaching police, shaking his fist at the band of dockers. ‘I’ll have no trouble here. Go home this minute, if you know what’s good for you.’
While he shouted and raved at the silent group, Ruby saw another figure slip out through the door of the house behind him. Bart himself. She thought he meant to make his escape, to vanish quietly before the police or the householder decided to investigate what mischief he’d been up to in there: either seducing the parlour maid or stealing the silver. Instead, he sauntered into the middle of the road, positioning himself in front of the leading docker, then turned to confront the other man who was by now seething with rage.
Bart’s voice rang out, clear and strong. ‘You can’t say I didn’t warn you, Pickering. Haven’t I been telling you for some time that there was the threat of just such a demonstration taking place?’
Pickering’s lean face, with its little goatee beard and neatly clipped moustache, showed not a trace of emotion. Only the tension in his voice revealed his deep anger. ‘And I’ve told you, Bart - baron - or whatever you call yourself these days, that I’ll not negotiate with agitators, yourself included. I refuse to be blackmailed into . . .’
Bart didn’t wait for him to finish before insolently interrupting, ‘No one is blackmailing you, but you’ll have to start listening soon. These men have a right to put forward their case, to make a silent protest.’
‘Not on my street they don’t. You can play your damn’ silly games of subterfuge, make out you’re not bent on stirring up trouble, but I know that you are, as do the police here. I’ll not risk my business being ruined by unions, nor tolerate strikes of any sort, for any reason. Not in my yard. Involve yourself in this sort of socialist, reactionary mischief and your card is marked. I’ll see you finished, boy, for inciting this sort of violence.’
‘Don’t call me that. I’m nobody’s boy. And I’ve witnessed no sign of violence here. Even the police constables are, I think, satisfied on that score, since they are standing patiently by doing nothing. And you can’t “mark my card” because I’m not employed by you, not any more. I’m not employed by anyone, praise be. Unlike these poor souls here. All they want is for their union rights to be recognised, a fair day’s pay for a fair day’s work. What is so wrong in that?’
‘Aye, that’s all we want. It’s our right.’
‘Hear, hear.’ A murmur of agreement rippled through the length of the procession.
‘These people are suffering from genuine privation, and are simply attempting to demonstrate that fact in a respectable and mannerly fashion.’
Pickering spoke through gritted teeth. ‘Utter poppycock! They’re naught but troublemakers, and you’re encouraging them, damn you!’
‘It is not poppycock when a man is compelled to pawn the clothes off his back in order to feed his children, or when he must choose between a roof over their heads or food on the table - assuming he hasn’t had to pawn that too.’
‘Aye, true enough,’ Tom Wright’s voice rang out, and a rumble of voices agreed.
Ruby saw how the police pushed forward, lifting their truncheons in a menacing. fashion.
‘I’d take care if I were you,’ Pickering warned, wagging a finger in Bart’s face. ‘You know the House of Lords ruling as well as I do. If these union members of yours go out on strike, they’ll be liable for any financial losses the Company sustains. I’d take that into account if I were you, before advising them of their so-called rights.’
Despite the threat, Bart pressed on undaunted. ‘That was a crazy judgement, and one we’ll continue to resist. As it happens these men are not on strike, not yet, so nothing they are doing here today is unlawful. I live and work side by side with these dockers and they’re not troublemakers. They are desperate men. They work from dawn till dusk shovelling coal or heaving cotton, carrying goods on your barges, and earn coppers at the end of it. And that’s no one’s fault but their employers’, of which you are one. You were the ones who negotiated uneconomic rates for haulage but they are the ones to suffer. They don’t work for you out of charity, or a sense of loyalty, but from fear. Fear of sickness and starvation, fear of debt and homelessness, and worst of all, fear of losing their jobs.’
‘Which you are risking by encouraging them in this sort of lawlessness. However, since you seem to be the only one they’ll listen to, tell them to go home, now, before it’s too late.’
Watching from the shadows, Ruby recognised and understood the dilemma the men found themselves facing. They were valiantly attempting to stand up for their rights yet did indeed fear for their jobs. She could see it in their haunted eyes.
Sparky’s lugubrious face loomed up out of the crowd. ‘We’re going nowhere till we get satisfaction.’
Twin spots of colour like ripe plums had appeared on the ashen planes of Pickering’s flat cheeks. ‘How dare you! I’ll not be threatened by my own workers, nor tolerate this manifestation of civil disorder. It’s inconceivable that such a blatant display of anarchy should take place in my own street, before my own front door. My wife is upstairs cowering in fear, and no wonder. You would never see me and mine involved in this sort of despicable behaviour.’
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br /> ‘That’s because you’ve no need,’ cried a woman’s voice from the back of the crowd which had gathered to watch events. ‘Since you know where your next slice of daily bread is coming from.’
‘Hush up, Aggie. Don’t make things worse,’ Sparky yelled back at her.
While the two men had been arguing, the police had quietly split into two groups, lining the street on either side in an almost threatening way. On hearing the woman call out, a policeman advanced upon her, looking for all the world as if he meant to strike her with his truncheon. Despite her brave words, she cowered before him, a child held tight in her arms as she began quietly to weep.
Without pausing for thought Ruby ran out into the street. ‘Leave off, you great bully. Can’t you see the babby in her arms?’ She wrapped her arms protectively around both woman and child and glared up at the constable, her face a picture of defiant insolence. The air was suddenly charged with danger, yet Ruby held on, unrepentant, her voice rich with challenge. ‘Go on then. Hit women and childer, why don’t you? Show us what a fine man you are.’
The constable looked into those blazing, beautiful eyes and hesitated.
‘Well, what are you waiting for? Let’s see just how brave you are.
A hush fell upon the entire street, broken after a long, paralysing moment by a loud commanding voice. ‘What’s going on here?’
All eyes swivelled in its direction, watching in awe as the Chief Constable himself strode towards them. Even before he had uttered a word, people began to melt away, the crowd quietly to disperse. Ruby could almost smell their alarm. Only Bart remained where he was, thumbs in his waistcoat pocket, standing before them as the baron, voice of the people. Proud and defiant as always. What a man! Just watching him brought a rush of unexpected emotion to catch her by the throat.
Giles Pickering was politely requested to withdraw, which he did with obvious reluctance, going to stand at his own front door in an aggressively defensive stance.
Ruby McBride Page 12
