‘What about Mr Clough? My brother said he was rolling in money. Surely it’s in his interests to tide you over?’
‘He’s eager to see the back of us. I went to a clinic committee meeting yesterday and there’s a rumour that Lennox, the owner of the factory, wants our building.’
‘For factory premises? So the community would lose its clinic but get back its jobs?’
‘Apparently, he wants the building for a sweatshop. He’ll fill it with women, who’ll work every waking hour making artificial flowers and trimmings for clothes, and earn next to nothing for the privilege.’
She had never seen the point of offering sympathy. Practical help was of greater value. ‘Have you tried the Withington Fund?’
‘Never heard of it.’
‘Not many people have. It was set up when the old workhouse became a hospital. There are all kinds of rules attached to it, but it could be worth a try.’
‘I’ll look into it.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s a good thing Judge Rawley isn’t here to see how quickly the clinic might fail – though, of course, had he been here, Barnaby Clough would be toeing the line.’
Oh, the temptation! How she longed to say, ‘It was me all along. Whenever Robert showed an interest in a social project, it was because I nagged him into it. It suited him, of course – anything to throw his weight around. I can’t do anything under my own name because I have no influence. My brother denigrated me in front of his associates, so they had no opinion of me, and, shunned by Lady Kimber, I have no place in the community. But make no mistake – in every way that matters, it was I who provided the support you needed.’
The devil of it was, she could never tell anyone. Not to protect Robert’s reputation, but to protect her own, such as it was. Telling would make her appear petty. It might even make her seem a liar.
Better that people had no opinion of her at all than that they held her in contempt.
Mary couldn’t wait to see Charlie again. They ate toad-in-the-hole and she told him about the party, thanking him again for stumping up for the prizes.
‘Pleasure,’ he said. ‘You should write an article about it – the party, not the prizes.’
‘I can’t. It’s connected to the clinic. What were you doing while I was busy with the party?’
‘Aunt Christina’s friend Mrs Rushworth held a bit of a garden party. Very jolly. There were a few young boy-cousins, so we got up a spot of cricket.’
‘Sounds fun.’
‘It was. Talking of cricket, the governor’s going to watch W. G. Grace’s last match and he’s asked me to tag along. Can’t miss the chance to see the great man mash Dorset into the ground.’
‘How long will you be away?’ She wished she could take the question back. Did she sound clingy?
‘Don’t know exactly, a few days. Will you miss me? I hope so. I hope you’ll miss me very much.’
He squeezed her fingers under the table. Later, when he opened the door of the landaulet for her, he stole a kiss. Mary pressed closer, but he stepped away. They never had any privacy. They were always in the tea shop or in the motor, always on show, which was fine for friends but frustrating for a young couple on the brink of something more.
Were they on the brink? And if they were, shouldn’t she pull back? What a mess she had made of her personal life. First a married man, now the Kimber heir. But she hadn’t thrown herself at him, she honestly hadn’t. They had things in common; they had met at the agency; they had been friends before the possibility of anything more had arisen. And it had arisen, hadn’t it? Charlie had made that clear. It wasn’t just her this time, like it had been with Nathaniel. This time, it was safe to have feelings, because Charlie shared them.
Anyway, she wasn’t going to mope around in his absence. She had had a couple of articles sent back unwanted and she needed to get something accepted.
A letter was waiting for her at home. The envelope was typewritten. From Mrs Newbold, requesting An Autumn Walk, followed by the remaining seasons? Her heart quickened in anticipation. It would be the first time her work had been commissioned, a major milestone. Then she realised the envelope was too thick to contain a letter … It must be an article being returned unwanted.
No, it wasn’t. Inside was another envelope, addressed to Miss Fay Randall, c/o Vera’s Voice. She opened it and started to read. Her body filled with heat. She finished the letter and read it again to make sure.
It was the offer of an interview – for a job as a journalist.
‘I’m bored to death,’ said Evie. ‘Come and talk to me. All Imogen does is clean the house and sew pinafores.’
‘Show some respect,’ said Nathaniel. ‘You’re lucky to have her caring for you.’
‘I don’t mean to be ratty, but I’m a rotten patient. I do appreciate her, truly.’
‘Tell her, not me.’
Why did she do this? Why did she always put him in the position of being the sensible one … the spoilsport? But her boredom was a good thing. It showed she was recovering.
‘I’m tired of resting. I’m sure I could have managed to go on Imogen’s picnic.’
‘She had enough to do without worrying whether you were about to collapse in a heap.’
Evie pulled a face, looking for all the world like the pigtailed little horror who had plagued him to death when they were children.
‘I wish I could go with you this afternoon. God, listen to me. I sound like the worst kind of brat.’ She put on a childish whine. ‘I want to go on the picnic, I want to go to the meeting. But I do. I’m desperate to be up and about.’
‘Save your energy for coming up with more ideas if this one doesn’t get taken up.’
‘Are you suggesting the Withington people won’t snatch your hand off in their eagerness to fund my brilliant idea?’
‘Your idea,’ said Nathaniel, ‘is a corker. And so are you.’
‘Really? I thought I annoyed the hallelujah out of you.’
‘Evangeline Brewer, you cause me more anxiety and frustration than everyone else put together, but it was pointed out to me recently that we share our crusading spirit. I’d be a hypocrite if that hadn’t made me think again about you.’
Evie smiled and her face, still thin from her ordeal, brightened, restoring her old self. Nathaniel felt his lips twitch in response. He made sure to keep the smile on his face as Evie’s smile widened into a cheeky grin, forcing himself to concentrate on her saucy expression, not the gap where two back teeth had been knocked out. If he could get his hands on the brutes—
‘In that case,’ she said, ‘you won’t mind if I go to Alexandra Park this afternoon. There’s an event on where I wouldn’t mind bashing a placard over someone’s head.’
‘Very funny. I may not be a hypocrite, but I’m still your big brother whose job is to protect you. Besides, you wouldn’t get to the garden gate before your legs caved in.’
Inside the enormous building, with its echoing stairwells and the windows set high in the walls, Nathaniel and Alistair were shown to a spacious room with a long table down the centre. Two rows of chairs stood over to one side. Four of the seats were occupied by men with notebooks.
‘Gentlemen of the press,’ murmured the clerk who had shown them in. ‘If you’ll take your places on this side of the table, the members of the fund committee will join you shortly.’
Nathaniel nodded to the reporters. Would they write up a story of success or failure later on?
A door at the far end opened and the committee filed in, five smartly dressed, affluent-looking gentlemen in their fifties and sixties. They took their places, putting down papers in front of them. A sixth man came in carrying what looked like ledgers; he sat at the end of the table.
The man in the middle bestowed a brief smile on the room.
‘Good afternoon, gentlemen. I am Alderman Fordyce, chairman of the committee.’ He introduced his colleagues. ‘And seated at the end is Mr Lockwood, clerk to the committee, who will answer any technical po
ints that arise. We’re here to discuss the proposal put forward by Doctors Brewer and Cottrell. Mr Lockwood?’
The clerk addressed the journalists. ‘When the workhouse closed, a fund was established to provide assistance should a community be struck by events that, in former times, would have led to many of the people needing to enter the workhouse. In such a case, funds may be released to support a local project to assist the community for a limited time.’
‘We have read your proposal with interest, Doctors,’ said Alderman Fordyce. ‘The floor is yours.’
‘The community in question relies heavily for employment on a local factory, which is about to shut down,’ said Alistair. ‘We seek funding to employ these men to improve their local area. This will keep the community afloat while they seek employment elsewhere.’
‘So, they’ll be labouring on your project and also seeking work?’ said Mr Shaw. ‘We don’t pay men to look for jobs.’
‘Payment will be by the hour for work done on the project,’ said Nathaniel.
‘Very well. Continue.’
Alistair resumed. ‘There is waste ground that can be turned into a playground by clearing the rubble, laying cinders, and building swings and a sandpit, and there are empty buildings that can be turned into a bathhouse and a wash house.’
‘So you have a community of plumbers?’ asked Shaw.
‘No, sir. Certain work will have to be done by tradesmen and everything will be supervised by a foreman. It’s in the costings.’
‘When we set up the clinic,’ Nathaniel added, ‘the local men helped prepare the building, so we know they can do what we propose.’
‘Furthermore,’ said Alistair, ‘the local school building is in a poor state and we plan to improve it.’
‘An ambitious project, Doctors.’
‘But achievable,’ said Nathaniel.
‘We should discuss the clinic,’ said Mr Lightfoot. ‘This situation with the factory closure means you’ll lose your Deserving Poor Committee funding.’
‘But if the Withington Fund supports our project,’ said Alistair, ‘the clinic will once again be eligible for that funding because the men will be employed.’
‘We understand,’ said Mr Richards, ‘that there is a plan to open a new factory in place of the clinic.’
‘Not a factory, sir – a sweatshop. The workers will be women and the pay will be pitiful.’
‘We know what happens to women in these places,’ said Nathaniel. ‘Some go bald from carrying heavy boxes on their heads. Many ruin their eyesight struggling to do close work in poor light. Industrial injuries are common and working hours excessive.’
‘Nevertheless, the women will have jobs, so the community won’t be eligible for funding through us.’
‘General philanthropy is not in our remit,’ said Alderman Fordyce. ‘Our sole interest is the workhouse question. Would these people in previous times have been sent to the workhouse? This new factory, however undesirable, means that they would not. You have made an interesting proposal – a compelling one, if I may say so – but it doesn’t fulfil our terms.’ He looked from side to side, gathering the glances of his fellow members. ‘We must reject your proposal.’
It was all Nathaniel could do not to leap to his feet. There was a commotion as the door was thrown open. He felt a burst of irritation. Just when he needed to fight back! He looked round, ready to glare the intruder into silence.
In the doorway stood Helen Rawley.
Chapter Sixteen
As she talked with Mr Gladwin, Mary was aware of her interested smile, her outward poise, even as she battled against a whirl of emotions that threatened to drown all possibility of intelligent conversation. She had felt this way ever since she woke at some ridiculously early hour. By rights, she should be exhausted by now, but she felt exhilarated.
Mr Gladwin, the proprietor of The Gentlewoman’s World, a silver-haired gentleman with a full set of whiskers, had offered her a position.
‘I like the pieces you wrote for my periodical, Miss Randall – Maitland, I beg your pardon – and I made it my business to see what else you’ve written. I admire your writing and I’d like to employ you.’
It was wonderful, yet at the same time dreadfully upsetting. The offices of The Gentlewoman’s World were in Sussex. Her parents would never agree. But she was over twenty-one and if she insisted … would she insist? The thought of going so far away was scary – but exciting, too. How would she feel in months – years – to come if she turned down this opportunity?
‘Our readers are more genteel than those of Vera’s Voice. They appreciate the finer things. We’re planning a series of articles on England’s country houses. As a spinster, you would be free to travel to various places to work on these.’
‘That sounds interesting.’ She kept her voice level when inside she was whooping for joy.
‘Should you accept my offer, I’d ask a lady member of staff to find you suitable lodgings before you arrive.’
‘Thank you. You’ve given me a lot to think about.’
‘I appreciate this has taken you by surprise. Here’s my card. Perhaps you would write to me by this time next week with your decision.’
As she left the Midland Hotel, she felt punch-drunk. The opportunity was dazzling, but it involved leaving home. Was she prepared to do that? She hadn’t said a word to her parents about this interview and Mr Gladwin hadn’t referred to her family. He had treated her as though it were her decision alone.
Climbing aboard the omnibus, she pictured railway journeys through the countryside, visiting wisteria-clad stately homes. What a way to earn her living!
She knew what Lilian would say: ‘Given up on getting married, have you? A spinster travelling around – they’d never expect a married woman to do that. You might as well have “On the shelf” tattooed on your forehead.’
Something caught her eye through the window. The bus was passing Alexandra Park and a rally was in progress.
‘It’s them votes for women females,’ a man’s disapproving voice declared. ‘See them placards? Daft buggers. I’d crown ’em with their flaming placards, that’s what I’d do.’
She hadn’t known a women’s rally was planned, but what luck that she was here, her trusty notebook in her bag. She rose and moved down the aisle. She was going to take advantage of the moment. It was what journalists did.
Helen lurched into the committee room. Pain was eating her hip but she mustn’t let it show. Were Messrs Clough and Saunders behind her? She couldn’t look round to check. She might topple over. Reaching the table, she grasped the edge and leant against it, angling her body forwards, as though leaning towards the committee was part of the urgency, though really she needed the support. The doctors had come to their feet, the other men had half risen, clearly unsure whether to show courtesy to this madwoman.
Doctor Brewer grasped the back of his chair, ready to bring it to her. He knew, damn him. He could tell she was in pain. She must say her piece before his gallantry showed her up.
‘Allow me to introduce myself.’
‘If you’ll permit me,’ said Doctor Brewer. ‘Miss Rawley, may I present Alderman Fordyce, who chairs this committee, and …’ He rattled off some names. ‘Mr Chairman, this is Miss Rawley, sister of the late Judge Rawley.’ He waved a hand, indicating behind her. ‘Mr Clough, Mr Saunders.’
She channelled all her strength into her voice. ‘I must address the meeting.’
‘You’re too late, madam,’ said Alderman Fordyce. ‘The committee has made its decision. Funding is denied.’
‘Then we’ll withdraw, with our apologies,’ came a voice from behind her – the smooth tones of that lawyer fellow, drat him.
She started to turn, but the movement caused the pain in her hip to erupt into a blaze. She shut her eyes, then forced them open. Show weakness? Never!
‘May I offer you my seat, Miss Rawley?’
Doctor Brewer had positioned his chair for her. She made a point of b
estowing a gracious nod before she sat, holding herself rigid on the way down so she couldn’t crumple. As her hip was relieved of the burden of her meagre weight, there was a single moment of blessed relief before pain flared, storming into every corner, bringing a twist of nausea with it. It would subside in a minute.
She had evidently ruffled Alderman Fordyce’s feathers.
‘This meeting is concluded, madam.’
‘Then reopen it.’ She mustn’t let the pain speak for her. ‘I apologise for the intrusion, but it is imperative you hear me out. You said funding was denied. Why is that?’
‘You can read about it in the newspapers,’ said Mr Shaw.
‘I’m sure Alderman Fordyce will indulge the sister of the High Court judge whose influence was instrumental in setting up the clinic.’ Although she twitched the corners of her mouth into a suggestion of a polite smile, she didn’t crinkle her eyes. It would be good to think she could appear intimidating, but they probably saw her as a worn-out busybody.
Alderman Fordyce’s glance flicked across the room and, without turning her head, Helen looked that way, too. Ah, those men must be reporters. Good. They were paying rapt attention. They had probably been bored rigid before her arrival, poor devils.
Mr Lockwood cleared his throat. ‘It would be inappropriate to award funds in this instance. The men of the community may be about to lose their jobs, but the women will be employed instead. Hence this community would not in former times have been reduced to workhouse status.’
‘Besides,’ added Mr Shaw, ‘when the clinic closes, who would lead the proposed project? Communities of this sort need leadership and while no one doubts the benevolent intentions of the good doctors here, why would they interest themselves in the community once their clinic shuts its doors?’
‘Good point,’ said Mr Clough from behind Helen. She narrowed her eyes. He wasn’t going to worm his way out that easily.
The Poor Relation Page 17