Mistress of Green Tree Mill

by Mistress of Green Tree Mill (retail) (epub)

  Lizzie was distressed. ‘It gives her power over me. I could feel her thinking that tonight.’ She did not add the most important thing – that the introduction of Alice into her dolls’ house had been an act of desecration.

  He understood, though. ‘I’m sorry, Ma. We won’t go there again. How did you know we’d been? We only went once.’

  ‘Her powder was on the dressing table. She shouldn’t use such unusual stuff. Its smell is quite unique. But how did you get into my house?’

  She was not going to mention Goldie unless Charlie did.

  ‘I borrowed your key. I had another one cut.’ He reached into his pocket and produced it, laying it on the side table by her hand.

  She lifted it with a sigh. There was no point raging at her son. He was incorrigible. Besides, how could she adopt a moral stance when she and Goldie were as bad – oh, no, not as bad, surely! Their case was different but she did not want to hear Charlie’s justification or hear him comparing his situation with hers. Instead she told him in a resigned voice, ‘Alex is my friend. I don’t want him to be hurt by my son. For God’s sake stop it now before things are out of hand.’

  ‘They’re out of hand already, I’m afraid,’ said Charlie sadly.

  She went to bed but lay sleepless with a sore heart. The story of Charlie and Alice appalled her, for her sympathies were entirely for Alex and she was far more angry against Alice than against Charlie.

  ‘That girl’s a temptress and a trollop who married for money and is bored with her bargain,’ she said aloud, and then in fright sat up in bed as the thought struck her that Alice might be angling to marry Charlie. Having the girl as a daughter-in-law – and a divorced one at that – was too awful to contemplate.

  * * *

  Her concern about Charlie so occupied her mind, Lizzie forgot that the following day was the twentieth anniversary of her taking over Green Tree Mill.

  She was surprised to find a small deputation of senior managers waiting on the office doorstep for her. An enormous bouquet of flowers was thrust into her hands and she looked at it in genuine astonishment until she remembered the date. Of course! It was 25 April. How could she have forgotten?

  ‘Congratulations, Mrs Kinge,’ said her mill manager, young Herbert Bateson, the son of her old friend, now retired.

  She looked at him with swimming eyes. ‘Give the mill a half day off,’ she said. It saddened her that none of the women workers were among the group who were celebrating her anniversary.

  ‘Your portrait has been delivered,’ said Bateson. ‘The men are hanging it now.’

  This surprised her too. Yesterday Ninian had said that he still had some touching up to do and she had not expected it so soon. How like Goldie to arrange for it to be sent to her as a surprise. She smiled at the thought that he intended her picture to hang in the Green Tree office beside the portraits of Mr Adams and his father.

  She followed the sounds of hammering to her office and paused stunned in the door because of the brilliant impact of Ninian Sutherland’s work. It glowed on the dim wall like a fire, its reds, oranges and searing yellows standing out in defiance against the blacks, browns and greys of the traditional portraits on either side of it. She looked at it and laughed. Then she turned to Bateson and said, ‘We must have an anniversary reception. We’ll officially unveil the picture then. Let’s start on the invitations.’

  Everyone who had been important to her through life should be at the party and Goldie’s name was on the top of her list. For once she was defying convention.

  Her list of business contacts was easily compiled – old Mr Bateson was to be a guest of honour and even Mrs Austen, the London wharf owner, received a card. Lizzie wanted to include people from every aspect of her life but it was difficult to find many family members any longer.

  Her father’s brother and his wife were both dead and their children scattered over the world. She had no cousins left in Dundee or even in Scotland. Davie and Robert had both died childless.

  Then she remembered that from time to time she received a brief note from Sam’s brother, who had risen to the top of the police force in Glasgow. He had transferred to Lanarkshire and was now Deputy Chief Constable of that county. She told her clerk to send an invitation card to him, Mrs Kinge and Mr John Kinge, their son, who was practising law after having served as an officer in the Great War.

  The knowledge of John’s solid success in life brought her mind back to Charlie, who had not managed to reach any rank higher than corporal and was showing no signs now of settling down to a worthwhile occupation.

  She frowned. The thought of Charlie reminded her that Alex and Alice would have to be at the party. She must warn Charlie to be discreet because she was terrified in case Alex realized what a dangerous game was being played beneath his nose.

  It struck Lizzie that she had few friends. She had been far too busy working to form friendships with other women, too abstracted to spend time taking tea and gossiping. She realized she had missed a huge area of human experience, but it was too late now to change.

  Of course, her best friend was Maggy. She lifted her pen and put the maid’s name on the list… Miss Margaret Davidson.

  That evening, when Maggy as usual met her at the door of Tay Lodge, Lizzie handed over the square of cardboard in its stiff envelope. ‘This is for you,’ she said.

  Maggy looked at it with suspicion. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’m giving a reception in the mill and you’ve to come as a guest.’

  Maggy immediately protested, ‘Oh, eh cannae. What’d eh wear?’

  ‘I’ll buy you a dress. We’ll go to Draffen’s.’

  Maggy flushed scarlet to the roots of her hair. ‘Oh, no! Royalty goes to Draffen’s. It’s no’ for the likes of me.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. I want to buy you a pretty dress. You’ll have to do me justice at the party.’

  ‘Will you be asking Lexie?’ suggested Maggy tentatively.

  This was a question that Lizzie had been wrestling with because her half sister had cut herself off completely and never came to Tay Lodge any more.

  ‘I’d like to, but do you think she’ll come?’ she asked. She knew Maggy regularly visited Rosie and Bertha in their flat in the Hilltown which was shared with Lexie.

  ‘She might.’

  ‘Would Bertha come?’ After all Bertha was dear Georgie’s child.

  ‘Bertha might if Lexie’s there, but don’t ask Rosie. She’ll not come,’ Maggy offered.

  ‘I’ve written out cards for the girls too. Will you pass them on for me, please? Tell them I really want them to be there.’

  She received her answer in a little note the following night from Maggy’s hand. The girls would be at the reception. Lizzie was surprised at how pleased she felt when she read this acceptance, and her pleasure showed on her face. Recognizing it, Maggy was glad that Lizzie did not guess how much persuasion it had taken before she won Lexie and Bertha round to acceptance.

  It was a hard task coaxing Maggy into Draffen’s, and even harder to make her try on a succession of evening dresses in the mirror-walled changing cubicle. Lizzie had to stand at the cubicle door like Cerberus to turn aside any saleswoman who tried to interfere.

  ‘Dinnae let them in, dinnae let them see me,’ whispered Maggy in an agony of embarrassment. Eventually they decided on a pink satin dress with a short cape that covered her shoulders. Showing bare flesh was something she could not contemplate.

  At last it was the evening of the big occasion. Lizzie in her Poiret gown and Maggy, awkward in satin, stood in the hall of Tay Lodge waiting for the carriage and looked at each other.

  ‘Oh my but you’re braw,’ sighed Maggy in sheer admiration, dazzled by Lizzie’s glorious gown and her flashing jewellery.

  Lizzie reached out a hand to grasp her maid’s little paw and whispered, ‘You look grand as well. You’re really pretty.’

  A stab of compunction hit her as she remembered how she and Charlie had engineered it so
that Maggy would not leave them; how the maid had turned away love for their sakes. The stout little figure in pink was pretty, childlike and trusting still, though she was in her fifties now. Her mop of hair was lightly marked with strands of silver but her cherubic face was unlined and her eyes were as loving and trustful as a baby’s.

  ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you. You’re my dearest friend,’ Lizzie said with a catch in her voice.

  Maggy sounded husky too when she replied, ‘Dinna worry yersel’. Eh’m no’ going ony place.’

  * * *

  In the Green Tree board room, Lizzie stood in the centre of the floor while her guests thronged around and toasted her in champagne. Her ears rang with compliments – how well she was looking; what a fine portrait had been painted of her; how Green Tree Mill was one of the most profitable in the city. She glowed in triumph and her sparkle became even more marked when she turned to look towards the door at the arrival of Goldie.

  His blue eyes were shining with good will as he gazed across the room at her. He could not hide his love and admiration and she glowed back at him, showing feelings which she had thought she would never experience again after the death of Sam.

  Oblivious to curious stares, she stepped towards him, and it was all she could do not to throw her arms round his neck and kiss him. Instead she took his arm and guided him towards the portrait on the far wall. As they stood in front of it staring up at the canvas, Lizzie let her arm with the snake bracelet circling its soft upper part, hang down so that her hand could touch his. For a second their fingers curved gently together and the palms brushed fleetingly. It was the touch of love and it brought such a rush of feeling to them both that they turned to face each other and smiled. Then she whispered, ‘What do you think of my portrait, Mr Johanson?’

  ‘It’s very like you. You look like a bird of paradise,’ he told her.

  They did not stand together for long but she glowed with love every time she glanced across the room to where Goldie’s curly head rose above the crowd. The strength of her emotion surprised her. Is it wrong to forget? Is it wrong to love again? she asked herself, but with a slight shake of her shoulders beneath the glorious gown, she cast such gloomy ponderings away and swept in among the throng.

  Sam’s brother and his family stood close together as if they were an island. Arthur was as solemn as ever and there was a look of Sam about him that made Lizzie’s heart lurch. His son surprisingly looked like Charlie – but a sobered Charlie, a middle-class, serious, well-meaning Charlie without the panache. She introduced the cousins to each other and was secretly amused at the marked resemblance when they stood side by side. If only John could pass on some of his application and moderation to her wayward son, she thought.

  In a far corner she found Ninian Sutherland standing beside Lexie and Bertha. It was a long time since Lizzie had seen either of the girls and she was surprised at the change in them.

  Bertha looked luscious, like a plump peach, with thick golden yellow hair and a fair skin. There was a strong look of her mother about her. The only sign of George was her mild blue eyes. She made a marked contrast to Lexie who was tall and very slim with a proud head like a well-bred racehorse. The flaming hair had been cropped short and the sculptured effect it lent to Lexie’s high cheekboned face was most effective. Freckles still glowed across the cheeks and the bridge of the nose, even a careful application of face powder could not hide them. Her lavender-grey dress was fashionably well cut and made of a good material. Lexie was an eye-catching woman and, watching her, Lizzie recognized what her stepmother Chrissy would have looked like if she’d grown in health and confidence.

  The red-haired girl and the dark-haired man looked as if they had been arguing. Ninian’s expression was aggrieved and Lexie so agitated that her freckles were standing out on her pale cheeks as if they had been painted on like a clown’s make-up.

  Ninian turned to Lizzie and said, ‘I believe this young lady and you are related, Mrs Kinge.’

  She smiled. ‘She’s my half sister.’ She put out a hand and stroked Lexie’s in a tentatively affectionate gesture.

  ‘She’s been telling me that artists shouldn’t accept commissions from rich patrons. They should be out painting the landscape or designing posters for the labouring masses,’ said Ninian shortly.

  Bertha looked embarrassed and Lexie looked thunderous.

  Lizzie hated to think of dissension breaking out in her happy party and she tried to smooth things over. ‘But what about all those famous Italian painters – what about Michelangelo? Where would he have been without rich patrons?’

  Lexie shrugged her thin shoulders and said, ‘That’s a bit far back in time. We’ve progressed since then! It’s too bad when money’s spent on portraits while working people are starving.’

  Lizzie put a hand to her brow in mock horror, irritation creeping in now. ‘Are you still talking about the starving masses? If some of them drank less and worked more there wouldn’t be so much to complain about. Don’t spoil my party by dragging in politics, please.’

  As she moved on to another group however she saw Ninian and her sister starting to argue again. In the excitement she forgot them and later, when the party began to thin out, she was relieved to find that they had disappeared.

  Chapter 29

  When they left the party at Green Tree Mill, Lexie was raging all the way home and Bertha found it difficult to pacify her.

  ‘Oh, come on, Auntie,’ she coaxed. ‘You’re only angry because it’s your sister who’s queening it up there. She’s no worse than any of the other mill owners.’

  She called Lexie Auntie as a joke because they enjoyed surprising strangers with their unusual relationship. Bertha was not only older but she was also far more mature-looking than Lexie. The madcap aunt was the one who got into scrapes and was always in trouble at work. Bertha had the job of smoothing over the disputes she caused.

  ‘You were awful hard on that artist chap. You should be a bit more careful what you say to folk,’ she now complained.

  Lexie snorted. ‘Him! He’s Sooty’s son. He’s as bad as the rest of them. We should never have gone to that party at all.’

  Her companion shrugged. ‘Why not? Some folk would envy us the chance.’

  ‘More fools them. The union lets the bosses away with too much. I’ve a good mind to stand as a union representative and stir them up,’ said Lexie angrily.

  Bertha grinned. ‘You don’t like anything better than making speeches, do you? A union representative’s just the job for you.’

  The girls were both working at Brunton’s and next day they attended a union meeting where Lexie was elected as one of the mill’s union representatives. She was well known in activist circles already because at every opportunity she turned up at strike meetings, even those of other mills, where her red hair and the bright green hat she always wore made her words remembered.

  Rosie, who was still working in Brunton’s spinning shed, approved of Lexie’s unionizing activities. ‘You’ll stir them,’ she said. ‘They won’t know what’s happened to them now. Don’t let any of them off with anything – not even your sister at Green Tree.’

  Many of the union organizers were Communists and Lexie was still going to party meetings. When she arrived in a smoke-filled little hall one night she was astonished to see Ninian Sutherland, the portrait painter, among the crowd listening to a wild-eyed, tousle-haired young man from Glasgow, an impassioned orator who told his audience that even if force was necessary, even if blood ran in the streets, the workers’ cause must triumph. Cheers and thumping of feet recorded their approval at the end of his peroration and Lexie’s hands stung when she finished clapping. Jostling among the crowd heading for the platform to congratulate the speaker, she found herself next to Sutherland.

  ‘I hope you’re not a spy for the bosses,’ she snapped.

  ‘I hope you’re not going to report all this back to your sister,’ he retorted.

  ‘You’re
more suspect than me. The last time we met you were drinking champagne and taking money for painting a mill owner’s portrait.’

  ‘It wasn’t her money, but that’s no concern of yours.’

  ‘You speak gey fancy but you’re no gentleman,’ said Lexie angrily.

  ‘I don’t want to be a gentleman,’ he told her.

  ‘You’re not a Communist?’ It seemed impossible.

  ‘Why not? You haven’t a monopoly on a desire for fair play,’ was his reply.

  ‘But people like you…’ Her voice trailed off.

  ‘People like me? You mean people from big houses with rich families shouldn’t be Communists. That’s rubbish. Communists aren’t all guttersnipes.’

  She bristled, longing to hit him, but suddenly he laughed, saying, ‘I caught you there, didn’t I? You’ll have to sharpen your barracking technique if you’re going to be a politician, Miss Mudie. You can’t step down from a platform and punch a heckler, you know. You have to learn to fell them with your tongue.’

  Lexie was a good loser and she laughed back, lights dancing in her eyes.

  The tall man looked at her with interest and said, ‘Let’s make peace. Where do you live? I’ll walk you home.’

  At the foot of her tenement stair, he put a hand on her arm and said, ‘I want to paint you. You’re like a leopard – all lean and lithe and spotted.’

  ‘You’ve a taste for painting the Mudie women,’ she said.

  ‘You’re different. Your sister’s sensual but you’re sensuous and dangerous. Will you sit for me?’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ she said and slipped away into the darkness of the stair.

  There was no dictionary in their flat, so the following evening after work Lexie went to the Blackness Road library where she looked up ‘sensual’ and ‘sensuous’. As far as she could see there was not much to choose between them – sensual meant voluptuous, even unchaste; sensuous meant being concerned with the feelings of the senses, a luxurious yielding up of oneself to physical enjoyment.