Angel Meadow (25 page)

There was absolute silence in the enormous room and even those standing outside it, gathering in the hallway and on the stairs, for word had got about that something unusual was happening on the top floor, made not a sound.

Josh Hayes remembered her and he remembered the strange sense of recognition he had felt on each of the occasions they had met. She was not a lady, of course, and these men knew it. The first time he had seen her had been in the yard at the mill. She had been a spinner then, clothed in the drab garb of a mill girl. Last year she had been dressed in decent but humble garments when they had almost bumped into each other at the Arts Treasures Exhibition. She had been accompanied by a rough-looking labouring chap and he recalled his sad feeling of . . . well, he could only call it disappointment that such a fine-looking young girl should associate with such a man. The last time they had met among the ruins of Castle Irwell she had been wrapped in a working woman’s shawl. So what had brought about this transformation? She spoke with the careful enunciation of a woman who has taught herself to speak as the upper classes do although there was still a trace of her Manchester heritage in her voice, but to look at her a man who did not know her background could be forgiven for thinking her to be a lady born and bred.

He was intrigued, though he did not let it show in his face. He had learned in the last few weeks to let nothing show in his face. He knew his family were perplexed and worried about him, for Evie Edward had been no more than a young man’s fancy and had been taken care of before her death so why should he appear to mourn her so? The child, his son, still remained at Riverside House, installed in the nurseries there with a nursemaid, his father allowing it because Josh had told him that if the child was sent away, quite simply he would go with it. It, that was all it was to him, without even a name as yet and he knew that he must pull himself out of this quagmire Evie’s death had flung him into if he was to get on with his life, and make one for the child. The infant was made much of by the servants, he was aware of that, and even his mother had ventured up to the top floor to peep at her grandson, though she had said nothing to him about it. The servants knew, naturally, all that went on in the household, marvelling when, with Mrs Hayes’s permission, the nursemaid began to push the child about the gardens in the old Hayes baby carriage. He had seen it himself. It was the talk of the polite society his family moved in, but it seemed none blamed him, for young men must sow their wild oats and who else to sow them with but one of the lower classes. It was a constant source of amazement to him that though two people were involved, the man and the woman, it was the woman who was condemned as wicked. Evie had not been wicked. She had been an innocent and he had taken advantage of it and he could not forgive himself, but at least he could make it up to her son. As soon as he felt up to it he meant to call on his father’s lawyer to arrange the adoption of the child, when, presumably, he would be christened, given his proper name and be brought up as the son of a gentleman.

For the first time since Evie’s death he felt a stirring of interest as he looked into the glowing golden eyes, the passionate face of the girl before him. What must it be like to have such enthusiasm, to show such ardour over what was really only a day’s business? The men about them were nudging one another and murmuring, fully expecting, he knew, that he would tell her that this was a place where men, and
men
only carried on their transactions and that he would be obliged if she would leave his establishment at once; but that something that had stirred in him grew stronger, lifting his heart a little, warming some place that had been cold and distant since Evie’s death. He had not loved Evie, not as a man loves the woman of his heart. He had never loved a woman, except in the physical sense and, his heart being as it was, cold and stern and unforgiving, of himself, he did not expect ever to experience what was called “true love”.

What it was he did not know, nor, at the moment, did he care but this woman had, three times, four if you counted this meeting, come into his life, challenged him, if you like, and he thought he might like to take up that challenge, see what she made of herself, give her the chance she asked for. Why not? It might not be to the taste of his other customers but they would not go elsewhere, for the cotton though coarse that came off his father’s frames was the best in Manchester, in Lancashire and they would not want to lose it for the sake of a principle. Profit was their god and they would not give it up lightly.

They faced one another, Josh Hayes and Nancy Brody, while the whole room held its breath. Though Josh was tall so was Nancy and she had not far to look up into his eyes. A message of some sort passed between them, of what sort neither understood, but it was something neither had experienced before and without knowing it, without knowing why, they both sighed.

“Well, Miss Brody, it seems you are determined on a career in the textile trade and who am I to stand in the way of anyone’s career, man or woman, so, if you will follow me to my office we will discuss what we can do for one another.”

He turned to the warehouseman who stood with his mouth foolishly open, since he had been fully expecting to escort the two young ladies off the premises.

“Thank you, Burrows, that will be all, and in future when Miss Brody or Miss Williams call, will you bring them to me.”

14

“I think we should go for a picnic. It really would be a sin to waste such a perfect day; besides which, Kitty has never seen real grass or wild flowers—”

“You’re always taking her to Vauxhall Gardens,” Nancy interrupted absently as she studied the pattern for an infant’s dress that she was about to cut out. “Anyway, I’m too busy. Mrs Underwood wants these dresses by the end of the week and if they’re not ready she’ll go elsewhere. And you promised you’d do the embroidery.”

“And so I will but not today. It’s too nice. This evening, when Kitty’s in bed, I’ll make a start and I won’t stop until they’re all finished, even if I have to sit up all night.”

“You might have to. There are two dozen.”

“But all with a simple satin stitch joined by a chain stitch. White on white. What could be simpler? Even Kitty could do it if we let her and Mary has promised to help me. Oh, come on, Nancy, do let’s go. We’ve all worked so hard without a break and you promised ages ago to show us that ruined castle.”

“Heavens, Jen, we couldn’t carry Kitty all that way, even between us. She’s getting too big. And there’d be food and such to bring, blankets . . .”

“We could get a hansom.”

“
What!
 ” Laughingly Nancy turned to look at her friend, the scissors poised in her hand. “Are you out of your mind? A hansom indeed. You’d think we were made of money. You know every penny counts and even if I wanted to pay the price, which I don’t, you’d never get a hansom to come into Church Court. Remember all that pandemonium when the machines were delivered. You’d have thought we were putting on a show for the benefit of the neighbours. No, why don’t we wait until we move house then we—”

“When will that be, Nancy?” Jennet interrupted quietly. “We have been in business for almost a year now and we have done well, but still you won’t get out of this place. We need the extra space, you know we do, even though we have a workroom in Shude Hill. If we had another room Annie could move in with us now that she lives alone and save herself the rent on her place, which would be so much more convenient and, frankly, if you don’t do something about getting away from here you’re going to be in trouble with Rosie. Oh, I know she’s a good worker and turns out more than her share but she needs to be got away from . . . well, you know who. It doesn’t bear thinking about that she might . . .”

“Don’t, Jen, please don’t.” Nancy’s face was a picture of remembered despair and she turned away and put her head in her hands. The room in which they were working was now restored to what it had once been before the machines came, with the furniture brought down and arranged as best they could in the space there was. It was clean and tidy and had a certain degree of snugness, but it was far from what those who lived in splendid isolation in Broughton or Cheetham Hill might call even comfortable, though compared to their immediate neighbours it was the very height of luxury. On the floor, now decently covered with a bit of worn carpet, the little girl played with some empty bobbins and a tin box, carefully placing the bobbins in the box, then taking them out again. There was room only for six but she was doing her best to force in a seventh, her tongue sticking out from between her rosy lips, her fine dark eyebrows dipping in a scowl of concentration.

She was a beautiful child with the best of both her parents in her, not only in looks but in temperament. Her impish charm and her colouring came from Mick O’Rourke. She had eyes the shade of a speedwell and glossy hair as dark as a blackbird’s wing. It was curly, tumbling about her small head, not in the crisp curls of her mother and aunts but like Mick’s, deep and loose and thick. Her skin was cream and peach, like her mother’s, and her features, unlike the somewhat coarse countenance of her Irish forebears, were refined, delicate, her nose still retaining the blob of babyhood, her mouth like a rose petal. Though she was not yet a year old she was quick and vivid and soon those about her knew she would become impatient with the bobbins and look for something more challenging. She was a lively child, strong-willed but friendly enough, sitting on whichever lap was available to her, not feeling the lack of a devoted mother’s care, for she was loved by her Aunty Jennet, her Aunty Annie and her Aunty Mary. But now and again Mick O’Rourke’s fierce temper and her mother’s vigorous competitiveness came out in her, showing itself in a determination to have her own way, as in her increasingly impatient resolve that the seven bobbins could be made to fit in a box big enough only for six.

“No, darling.” Jennet kneeled down beside her and attempted to take the box from her. “The box isn’t big enough for all the bobbins. See, let Aunty Jennet show you.” But Kitty set her face in a mutinous frown and wilfully jerked the box away.

“No.” It was the only word she knew but she said it frequently. Sometimes Nancy caught a glimpse of the first Kitty in her, a curl at the corner of her mouth, a movement of her head and for a moment was saddened for the dreadful life and, one supposed, death, that her mother had suffered. And yet, if her mother had shaped herself, as Nancy had done, could she not have made more of her life than she had? There was work to be had in this vast cotton city, Nancy herself had proved it. Gritting her teeth and ignoring the jeers and laughter of her neighbours she had dragged herself and her sisters from the mire her mother had wallowed in and now look where she was. Getting above herself, they still shouted after her but she had shown them all and now had a small but increasingly successful business of her own, a bank account with money in it, premises in Shude Hill, six sewing-machines with six girls, including Mary and Rosie, turning out shirts and waistcoats, baby garments, ladies’ undergarments such as petticoats and shifts, and indeed anything that she thought might sell on the market. While Jennet supervised the work and attended to customers in the workroom Nancy stood behind a stall for the three busiest days of the week and sold the garments that had been made in her own workroom.

She remembered that first day with quiet amusement. How afraid she had been and yet not for a moment would she allow it to show, holding her head high and her shoulders squared against whatever might come her way. She was not awfully sure what she had been afraid of, unless it was that she might stand there for the full day and sell nothing. She didn’t care what anyone thought of her, or the way the men eyed her, for she knew she was not unattractive, or that the decent women who shopped in the market might have heard that she had an illegitimate child and so condemn her and her merchandise. She didn’t care what they thought of her personally as long as they liked what she was selling, the attractive, well-made garments she and her sisters, with Jennet, had spent hours over. Wearing a plain grey skirt and bodice, a snowy muslin apron and a shawl wrapped about her shoulders, she had arranged her goods on her stall on a wide length of clean cotton, the shirts, the baby garments, the undergarments, all in a plain creamy cotton, of good quality, well made and even a bit of embroidery on some of them. They were within the price range of the careful, thrifty housewife, those who shopped in the market not at the end of the day when produce was cheap, since it might not keep until tomorrow, but early in the morning when it was fresh and therefore cost more. These were the customers Nancy wanted. They had husbands who were in decent work. They came not from Angel Meadow but from better districts, still working class but decent and hardworking, limiting their families to the size they could afford. They might be shabby but they were clean and proud and required the best for the prices they could afford. Nancy meant to give it to them. Mrs Beasley, opposite whose stall Nancy stood, catered to the poorest of the poor, selling second-hand clothing that sometimes was no more than tattered rags. Nancy knew, for Nancy had once worn them, so she and Mrs Beasley were not in competition with one another.

That first day many of the women had stopped and fingered her goods, looking for a bargain, studying the seams, the embroidery, the buttonholes, the hand finishing over which she and Jennet and the girls had laboured, nodding pleasantly enough before moving on. Their circumstances meant that they could not afford to buy the first thing on offer but had to circle the market on the lookout for value, for every penny must be made to count. But one by one they drifted back. They were not to know that Nancy had herself gone round the market on many occasions, stopping at every stall that sold children’s clothing, shirts and undergarments, matching the quality and prices to her own and by charging a penny less, sometimes even as much as sixpence, she undercut them all and the housewives could not resist.