God Is an Englishman (88 page)

“But, good God, man, he’s only twenty!”

“All the better. He’s got his way to make, and Keate regards him as the most promising of that bunch you started out with.”

“Would you be saying that to make amends?”

“I might, but it’s true anyway. He knows the territory and a stranger wouldn’t.

Get Keate down here to supervise for a week and then turn him loose. He’ll manage, take it from me.” He faltered a moment, still keeping his eyes on the table. Then, “Will you shake hands, Gaffer?”

“Why not?”

He took Abbott’s hand, noticing for the first time that it was as soft as a woman’s.

“You’ll give me a character?”

“As regards your work, yes.”

He went out then and felt the man’s gaze following him across the yard.

Suddenly the air began to quiver with pulsing waves of sound, as the cathedral bells began to peal. He thought, sourly, “What the devil have you got to sound so smug about,” and made his way back to Rookwood’s lodging.

The lad was downstairs now, drinking cocoa at the kitchen table, and when Adam came in Mrs. Gilroy excused herself so he was able to come straight to the point. “I’ve seen Abbott and he’s leaving. You can go back there as soon as you feel up to it. How would you feel about taking over from him?” GodIsAnEnglishman.indd 470

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Advance on Most Fronts
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Rookwood gaped and then began to splutter, setting down his mug and groping wildly for his handkerchief. “Me, Mr. Swann? Gaffer of the Square?”

“Abbott thinks you could do it. I’d get Mr. Keate down here for a week or so to explain the paper work. Well?”

“I…I dunno, sir. Mr. Gilroy was goin’ to get me a job at his office.”

“You want to be a penpusher all your life?”

“No, sir, I’d sooner work with ’orses. ”

“Would you like to give it a trial?”

The clamour of the bells seemed to fill the room. Adam got up and shut the window. The boy said, slowly, “I’d do that, pervidin’ you don’t expect miracles, sir.”

“I don’t, just patience. Abbott will be gone in a day or so. Keep clear of the place until he has and by then Keate will be here. How are you off for money?” The boy’s ebullience showed in his grin. “I’m not hard up for a shillin’.”

“Then there’s no more to be said, except to back yourself to win.” He went out into the Close and crossed the town to the station.

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Five

eDith as thieF-takeR

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Ratcliffe’s excursions; Fraser’s raid across the Border; Abbott’s dismissal and Rookwood’s promotion. These were matters that came within his personal orbit and found their way into the firm’s records. But one incident that occurred that summer was not recorded and he was to remain unaware of it for years. It was, in a sense, as experimental as things that were happening elsewhere, but Edith Wadsworth did not think of it as such. To her it was in the nature of a private gamble, and one that would do well to remain buried.

She first noticed him harnessing a frigate for the regular run to Ipswich, a casual replacement recruited by waggonmaster Duckworth to fill a post vacated by a waggoner unable to pass an inn.

He did not come within her experience of waggoners, a man in his mid-twenties, perhaps a year or so younger than herself, and she was struck by his bearing and good features, gipsy features she would say, for he was very dark, with crisp, curly hair and an effortless way of using well-developed muscles. He was impudent, too, show ing his white teeth in an evaluating smile as they exchanged glances when she crossed from office to stables to discuss the parcel run to Harwich. When she was back at her desk she looked him up in her book, finding that his name was Wickstead, Tom Wickstead, and that he had once been a stablelad at Newmarket.

The records did not help her much. The name Wickstead did not suit him, for there was a suggestion of the Latin about him and he seemed old for a stablelad, unless he had been employed in some other capacity in the inter val. From her perch in the office she was able to study him at leisure, noting his masculinity and deciding, with a grim smile, that he was almost certainly a wencher but an engaging one, of the kind likely to make a strong impression on women. Then she forgot him in order to give her full attention to Beckstein’s letter.

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Beckstein, a goldsmith and gem merchant, was in a fair way of business in the territory. She had handled his goods in the past but they had been low-value consignments, sporting trophies, flat plate, and clocks, passed on to Vicary in The Bonus for transit to London. This latest proposal was something that needed thought, a packet of uncut diamonds consigned to The Hague via the Harwich packet, a routine shipment, no doubt, as far as Beckstein was concerned, but the first of its kind entrusted to her and possibly a tryout on his part. Beckstein’s agent asked her to quote, allowing for generous insur ance rates, and it crossed her mind that if the terms were attractive this would not be the last high-value goods they carried, for Beckstein did a good deal of Continental business. On the other hand, no haulier liked to handle precious stones and if it had been a matter of taking them overland by waggon she would have declined to quote.

The established rail service, however, made a difference. Sealed in a small-parcel bag, the jewels would be safe enough, and might lead to more of Beckstein’s Harwich-bound traffic. She worked out a rate, keeping it as low as possible but pointing out that it was safer to send high-value goods without special insurance. In her experience there was security in anonymity, even for small packages.

She marked the letter “urgent” and sent for Duckworth, one of the few who had accepted her promotion philosophically. He said, when she explained the possibility of landing other Beckstein commissions, “I’m not sure I’d want ’em, Miss Wadsworth. Hauling gunpowder and high-grade china is bad enough, but packages of that kind are freight that could keep a man awake o’ nights. Why doesn’t Beck stein send ’em to Harwich by special messenger?”

“I can make a guess at that. The messenger would need an escort and both would have to be thoroughly trustworthy. He’s probably lost jewels en route in his time and is changing his policy. Our respon sibility would end with delivery to the purser. They would go straight into the ferry safe and you can depend upon him having made inquiries concerning our reliability. ”

“They should have satisfied him,” Duckworth said. “We’ve never lost a parcel yet. But wouldn’t insurance run high?”

“Not the way I would arrange it. It would go as an ordinary pack age marked

‘Fragile’ and we can send someone along to make the actual delivery. This is a sprat to catch a mackerel and I mean to get his contract if it’s possible. I’m quoting and I’ll let you know whether we land him or frighten him off.”

“Aye, do that. But for my money I’d as lief see someone else get the job.” He went out shaking his head like an old collie and Edith pon dered the reluctance of men to vary the pattern of their day-to-day routines. Once a man GodIsAnEnglishman.indd 473

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passed thirty, it seemed, he was deaf and blind to adventure, and thinking this she glanced once again at that handsome young spark in the yard, now rolling casks up the steep incline of a plank as casually as though he was pitching marbles.

The post, and a rush of business, drove Wickstead and Beckstein out of mind. It was not until the following Thursday, the day before the weekly parcel inn, that she remembered either of them again. Then Beckstein wrote, accepting her quotation and saying that packages would be delivered by hand from three of his branches in time for the evening train. He must have taken her point about insurance, for he made no mention of it and Edith thought, glee fully, “I’ve netted him, and that’s another feather in my cap, for Duckworth would have let him slip away.” She was clipping the letter on the file when she happened to take one of her wardress peeps into the yard to see how things were shap ing there, and it was as well she did. A load of cast-iron drainage pipes, piled high upon a man-o’-war, were stacked in such a way as to ensure that the load would slip at the first gradient. She called, “Hold that dray, Bastin!” and went into the bright sunshine where three waggons, the flat, and two frigates, were standing in line await ing their turn at the weighbridge.

She recognised the carter as one who had made no secret of his resentment at taking orders from a woman and now, called to account for slipshod loading, he scowled like an overgrown schoolboy.

“They’m on’y going as far as Oundle,” he growled. “Where’s the sense in using chains?”

She noticed then that the drivers behind him were watching her, probably to see if Bastin’s obvious truculence would cause her to back down. It had the opposite effect and she snapped, “I don’t give a damn whether they’re going a hundred yards.

You’ll fasten them more securely than that. There are humpbacked bridges between here and Oundle, and your whole load will likely finish up in Willow Brook. Pull out of line,” and she swung herself on to the floor of the flat as Bastin, swearing under his breath, jerked his leader left to make way for the frigate behind.

It might have been bad luck or the sullen force he exerted on the bridle, but the load began to slip just as she stood upright. She heard a shout of warning from behind and then, amidst a vast clutter, she jumped clear as the pipes spilled over the tailflap, crashing down on the cobbles with a din that set every horse in the yard rearing. A length of pipe hummed past her head like an enormous arrow as others poured down either side, like logs spilling over a dam. She crouched there on her hands and knees, fury at such manifest incom petence submerging every other instinct, even that of self-preserva tion. Then, half-rising, and conscious of GodIsAnEnglishman.indd 474

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a sharp stab of pain on her knee, she realised how she had avoided being buried under the load. Wickstead was braced against the rear of the waggon, supporting the tailboard with his shoulder. He looked, she thought, like a statue of Atlas, arms half-raised, feet planted astride, sustaining what must have been a crushing weight, and it seemed to her that he remained like that a long time while other men ran in to take the strain and Bastin backed his team on to the bridge, so that they were able to force the flap into an upright position and check the cascade.

He was beside her then with his arm about her waist, and even the shock and dismay of the accident did not deprive her of the pleasant sensation communicated by his firm, strong touch. He said, breathlessly, “You hurt, ma’am? You fell very heavily,” and she said, breathlessly, “I’ve cut my knee. That’s all, thanks to you,” as Bastin came pranc ing up, his face white and his expression confused as he mumbled, “Gordamme, Miss Wadsworth, I made sure you was gone! There’s two ton or more up there and when I saw you fall…” but she interrupted, saying, “See to your vehicle and load up again. I’ve seen men crippled for life by sloppiness of that kind!” and then her knee began to smart horribly, and she saw blood on her shoe buckle and said, addressing Wickstead, “Give me a hand into the office,” but he replied, gallantly, “I’ll carry you, you’ll need that cleaned and ban daged,” and before she could protest he had whisked her off her feet and was shouldering a way through the waggoners who had con verged on the spilled load.

There was nothing she could do about it. His grip, although gentle, was very firm, and suddenly the narrowness of her escape caught up with her so that she felt lightheaded but very comfortable there, with her head against his chest, and one hand about his neck. He marched into the office, kicking the door shut with his heel and looking round for somewhere to put her down, but the moment they were alone she felt shamed and her anger against Bastin mounted for put ting her in such a ridiculous position. She said, “Set me down, for Heaven’s sake…I’m not hurt…” and he obeyed her but reluc tantly she thought, for his hands lingered a moment under her thigh and below the swell of her breast. She sat on her swivel chair, half-expecting him to go and then wishing that he would, for she wanted to lift her skirt, roll down her stocking and staunch the flow of blood from her knee. He must have noticed her embarrassment for he said, with a pleasant smile, “Don’t be shy, ma’am. I’ve got five young sisters and over at Newmarket I worked for a vet. Let me look at it for you’ve had a rare shock.

There’s running water out behind, isn’t there?” It seemed ungracious to refuse and suddenly she stopped feeling ridiculous, thinking it rather pleasant to be fussed over for a change. “There’s a first-aid box GodIsAnEnglishman.indd 475

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above the sink,” she said, “I bought it the week I took over but it didn’t occur to me I’d be the first to need it,” and he nodded, going into what had been the scullery of the cottage before it was converted into a yard office.

She took advantage of his absence to lift her skirt and petticoat and roll down her bloodsoaked stocking. Contact with the cobbles had jarred the knee badly, and there was a wide area of grazing on the cap. She rested her leg on the visitor’s chair and dabbed the wound with a handkerchief, hearing him run water into a bowl, and calling, “It might have been worse! Just bruising and a bad graze. I’ve a good mind to sack that idiot. Suppose his load had slipped in the town and killed half-a-dozen people?”

“Swann would have had a very long lawsuit on his hands,” he said, reappearing with the bowl and the first-aid box, setting the bowl on the floor and the box on her desk. “Keep the leg stretched out, ma’am, and don’t worry, I won’t touch it. I’ll squeeze the rag.”