Katy's Men

by Irene Carr

  Katy said, ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Spargo.’ But she did not retreat.

  Vera, mollified, said, ‘That’s better.’ Then remembering: ‘What did you want, anyway?’

  Katy ventured, ‘I think I could do the books for Mr Spargo. I worked in an office for three years before I came here.’

  ‘Did you now?’ Vera raised her eyebrows. ‘I wonder why you left?’ But she did not press the matter when Katy remained silent, but glanced at Arthur and told him, ‘You might as well give her a try.’

  He protested, jowls wobbling, ‘What — a lass?’

  ‘Why not?’ demanded Vera. ‘If I can run this business better than you, the lass could well manage better than the feller you sacked. Besides, she’s on the doorstep and she’ll be cheaper.’

  That appealed to Arthur. ‘Aye, all right.’

  So the next morning Katy carried out her normal duties of cleaning out grates and lighting fires, sweeping and dusting. But before the men arrived for work she was seated at the desk under the window in the office. She found that all she had to do was follow the ways of her predecessor. Inside of a week, Arthur was satisfied. ‘Right, I’ll keep you on. You can work for me instead o’ the missus.’

  There was a brief argument when Katy insisted she should give up all her housework. Rita wanted her to continue with some of it but Katy found an unusual ally in Vera, who ruled, ‘The business comes first. We’ll be taking on another lass as a maid and she will do the housework. Until she arrives, Rita will have to cope.’

  Katy was closer to happiness than she had ever been since Charles Ashleigh had left her. It was as well she could not see into the future.

  Chapter Six

  ALDERSHOT. SEPTEMBER 1907.

  Corporal Matthew Ballard, Army Service Corps, stepped out of the barrack room onto the verandah and paused to look out over the bare expanse of the square. He squinted into the evening sunshine, watching the mounting of the guard with a bawling of orders and rattle of rifle drill. To one side of the square lay the vehicle park and the big sheds which housed the tractors and lorries . . . There were a lot of them because it was the job of his company to evaluate them for use by the Army.

  The file of men that was the guard marched off the square, heading for the guardroom and their duty. Matt started down the stairs, a tall, wide-shouldered young man now, with dark eyes and a thatch of black hair cut short by the Army’s barber. His parents had died of cholera in India and he had been raised by the Army in the Duke of York’s School at Dover. From there he had entered the Army Service Corps and worked on and with tractors, for some years in South Africa. He had returned to join this company when it was formed in 1903.

  He carried himself like the soldier he was as he marched round the square and out of the barracks. In the married quarters he saw Eunice Taylor, the pretty daughter of a sergeant-major, passing on the opposite pavement. He swung his hand up to his cap in a salute and smiled. Eunice blushed and returned the smile but Matt marched on.

  He found his friend in the married quarters. Corporal Joe Docherty, thin, leathery brown and a head shorter than Matt, stood by the horse-drawn cab at his front door. He grinned as Matt came up and said, ‘Off in a minute. Just waiting for the missus.’

  Matt nodded, ‘Aye.’

  Joe was an older man by ten years or more. He had taken Matt under his wing when the boy moved up to man’s service, and had been like a father to him. Joe was leaving the service partly because he had finished his engagement, partly because he had amassed a comfortable sum running a crown and anchor board, which was illegal in the eyes of the Army, but Joe had not been caught. Mainly he was leaving because his wife had said she was tired of living in a succession of married quarters and wanted to settle down. Now he said, ‘If you ever want a job, just drop me a line.’ Joe was going to buy a lorry and start his own business. As he put it, unconsciously repeating Ivor Spargo some three hundred miles away, ‘Shifting furniture or anything else, anywhere.’

  Matt grinned, ‘I’ll think about it.’

  Joe’s wife came out then, a pretty but faded woman. She had a smile for Matt and they all said their farewells, the two men monosyllabic, with nothing to say now because they had said it all before. They shook hands, then Joe and his wife rolled away in the cab and Matt strode away. He had a good idea where he would find Eunice.

  Chapter Seven

  SUNDERLAND. SUMMER 1909.

  Howard Ross was tall and strong, blond, blue-eyed and handsome and he came as Katy’s saviour on a fine morning.

  ‘What have we got today, Katy?’ demanded Arthur Spargo as he entered the office. Outside in the yard the men were harnessing the horses and starting up the other vehicles. There was a throbbing of engines, clatter of horses’ hooves and the rumble of ironshod wheels of the carts on the cobbles of the yard. Katy could sniff the mingled smells of the petrol driven lorries, the hot metal odour of the coal burning steam tractors with their little ashpans slung beneath the engines, and behind all the ammoniac reek of the stables.

  Katy turned to Arthur from her desk under the window, ‘Here are the job chits. It’s a full turnout today, everything out on the road.’ She handed him the slips of paper, each one detailing the job to be carried out by either a cart, a steam wagon or a petrol-engined lorry. Spargos now had two of the latter, bought at Vera Spargo’s urging.

  Arthur barely glanced at the papers because during the past two years he had grown to rely on Katy, though she was still only eighteen. She kept the books and correspondence neat and tidy and could always find whatever figure or document Arthur wanted. She read the trade magazine, Motor Traction, which the Spargo men barely glanced at but Katy learned thereby. She was brisk and efficient on the telephone and had even learned how to price a job so as to get the business but still make a profit. Now Arthur asked, ‘What about bills?’

  Katy pointed her pen at one of two neat piles of invoices. ‘I’ve done those — and I’ll have finished the others before long and then I’ll take them to the post.’

  Arthur grunted acknowledgment and waddled out of the office — he had put on a lot of weight in the past two years. Katy got on with her work, glancing up occasionally to peer out of the window when the carts, steam wagons and lorries rolled out through the gates, on their way to their work for the day. All the drivers waved to her as they went by. Katy was popular with them, and not only because she worked out their pay and overtime correctly, but because she always had a smile for them at the start and end of the day.

  Because of her involvement in working out their pay, she had made a claim for better pay for herself and had it granted, in part at least. Katy had pointed out that young male clerks were being paid fifteen shillings a week. Vera Spargo had reluctantly agreed to pay Katy ten shillings a week because she was being fed. That was twice what she had earned as a maid. She knew she was still underpaid and so did the Spargos, but for the moment she was content. While her father still got his ten shillings a month, Katy was able to live frugally but also to save a little. That was important because she planned to escape from the Spargos. To do that she needed enough money to pay for lodgings until she found work elsewhere and there was no knowing how long that might take. She was still fearful of the charge of vagrancy — and the workhouse.

  At mid-morning Vera Spargo came to the office, as she did each day, to ask, ‘What’s going on?’

  And Katy told her what work was being done and where: ‘Vic is shifting some furniture for a couple in Hendon moving to Bishopwearmouth, Jim’s lorry is taking a load to Durham . .

  Vera listened intently to the list of jobs and their prices and at the end nodded grudging satisfaction: ‘That sounds all right. Now, I’ve got a carpenter coming to do some work on the house, a feller called Howard Ross. He’s not been here before, so when he comes you direct him round to the kitchen door.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Spargo.’

  So Vera went off with a curt nod and Katy returned to her work. She still had respect for, and fe
ar of, Vera and acknowledged that she ran the business, rather than Arthur. But Katy also knew, from her reading of Motor Traction, how a yard like that of the Spargos should be run. Vera was better at it than Arthur but was still far from perfect. The general untidiness was just an example of the sloppiness. Poor and infrequent servicing of the vehicles was another . . .

  An hour later Katy heard the clip-clop! of trotting hooves and a pony pulling a smartly varnished trap passed between the entrance gates and was reined to a halt outside the office. Its driver jumped down and came to stand tall at the open window. With his blond hair that crinkled and his blue eyes smiling he reminded Katy, with a pang, of Charles Ashleigh. But it was a very slight pang; time had healed. And this was not Charles but a young man called Howard Ross. He wore overalls and carried his tools in a brown canvas bag. ‘I’ve come to do a job for Mrs Spargo.’

  Katy returned the smile and leaned over her desk to point a slim finger: ‘You’ll find her up at the house. She’s expecting you, but go round to the back and use the kitchen door.’

  He asked, ‘Are you Mrs Spargo’s daughter?’

  Katy kept the smile in place while thinking, No, thank God! She said, ‘I’m just the clerk. There is a son but no daughter.’

  ‘Ah!’ There was an involuntary hint of disappointment in that exclamation, but he stood there another second or two, appraising, then said, ‘I’ll see you again.’ He waved and vaulted easily into the trap and the pony walked on up to the house.

  Katy watched him go. She was used to young men eyeing her appreciatively, and cautious. Ivor was still a lurking presence but he was now involved with the latest maid, Betsy, a buxom, giggling girl — as he had been with the succession of maids who preceded her. There was no young man in Katy’s life, nor had there been since Charles Ashleigh. There had been offers but she had declined them all. Quite apart from Vera’s ruling against ‘followers’, none had attracted her. But now she thought this tall, blond stranger was good-looking . . . And he had said he would see her again . . . She was smiling as she turned back to her work.

  Howard Ross, as he skirted the house, thought dispassionately that it was a pity there was no young girl of Spargo’s with money to add to her attractions. He combined his work with profitable philandering, seeking work in houses where the plain but wealthy daughters — or wives — could be persuaded to buy him handsome presents. But business wasn’t everything, and one day when he was in the mood he would come back here for the girl in the office. Besides, in the past year he had built up a sideline which paid much better than an occasional silver watch or cigarette case.

  *

  Matthew Ballard, now a sergeant, stood in his colonel’s office in the barracks at Aldershot and refused to be persuaded or tempted. ‘No, thank you, sir.’

  The colonel urged, ‘You have an excellent record and have done sterling work in this unit evaluating vehicles for the Army’s use. I can assure you that you would soon be promoted to warrant officer if you signed on for a further engagement. You would have an excellent future in the Corps.’

  ‘I understand that, sir, and I’m grateful. But I have already committed myself.’

  His commanding officer sighed, ‘Very well. I respect your loyalty to an old friend and wish the pair of you all good fortune.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ And Matt saluted and marched out.

  Joe Docherty had written, ‘I know your time finishes about now. My offer of a job is still open but now I need you. Betty passed away a month ago and I’m left with little Beatrice. On top of that I haven’t been too well lately and can’t cope with the work on my own. So if you want to do yourself and me a good turn, now’s your chance.’ Matt had seen a lot of service with Joe Docherty and could not resist this appeal.

  He got down from the train in Sunderland on a wet evening and found Joe renting a comfortable house in Monkwearmouth. It was one of a terrace but each had its own front garden and all were well cared for, with clean lace curtains at the windows and smart paintwork. Matt rapped with the shining brass knocker and the door was opened by Joe. He had a wide grin for Matt, shook his hand and pulled him inside then took his suitcase from him. ‘Matt! It’s great to see you! Come on in.’ He led the way into a sitting-room filled with furniture and edged through it to the armchairs set either side of the fireplace. ‘Make yourself comfortable. I’ll just tell Alice that you’re here —’

  He broke off there because a young woman in a worn, dark brown dress and white apron appeared in the doorway. Her hair was drawn back tightly into a bun and she snapped impatiently, ‘I heard the knock and came as quick as I could! I haven’t got two pairs of hands and I was in the kitchen getting the supper.’

  Matt saw a flicker of exasperation cross Joe’s face but then it was gone. He said, ‘I was in the hall when he knocked. This is Mr Ballard. Matt, this is Alice. She’s mainly here to look after Bea but she cooks as well and she’s got a meal ready for you.’ He smiled stiffly at Alice, ‘That’s right?’

  Her lips twitched in reply, ‘I’ll be ready to serve in ten minutes.’ Her thin smile moved to Matt, assessing, taking in the tall strength of him, the dark good looks. Her eyes widened.

  Joe laughed, ‘So we’ll have a quick one while we’re waiting. How about a scotch and ginger ale, Matt?’

  ‘Fine.’ Matt thought that he and Joe had always drunk beer before because it was all they could afford. As Alice left the room he also thought that Joe had done very well for himself: a nice house, business of his own that was flourishing and a cook/nursemaid. But Joe himself was not doing so well. To Matt’s eyes he looked to have a yellowish tinge and to have lost weight.

  They sat down by the fire and Joe leaned forward to say eagerly, ‘I’m really glad to see you, Matt. I’ve been doing the best I can but I can’t work like I used to. There’s lots of jobs I could pick up but I’ve had to let them go.

  Now you’re here — but I’ll take you down to the yard in the morning and you can see the business.’

  They chatted about old friends and places while they waited for their meal and it was all of twenty minutes before Alice entered, simpering, and announced, ‘I’m ready to serve now.’ The drab brown dress had been replaced by a newer, smarter affair in pale blue with a noticeable décolletage and her hair was now piled on the top of her head. Her smile never faltered all the way through dinner.

  The next morning Matt went with Joe to see the yard. It lay down by the river and was reached after walking through long streets of terraced houses built for the shipyard workers. The shipyards were close by with their towering cranes and the battering noise of the riveting hammers. The children running in the streets were ragged or wore patched clothes and some were barefoot in the summer weather. Joe muttered, ‘We were brought up like this but I want something better for my daughter.’

  They came to padlocked gates set in a high wall and painted with the words: J. Docherty. Haulier. Joe used a key to unlock the gates and then swung them open. The yard inside was square, cobbled and half the size of a football pitch. Matt saw, on the left-hand side of the yard, a stable and a shed or garage. A cart and a lorry stood before these buildings on a square of concreted hard-standing. Joe pointed to the lorry: ‘Dennis three-ton flatbed —’ He broke off and laughed, ‘But you can see that! I can’t tell you anything about lorries!’ Matt shrugged modestly and Joe went on, ‘I’ve got a canvas housing I can rig on it if I’m carrying furniture. I just use the horse and cart for local, small stuff.’ The horse hung its head over the stable door, watching them. Joe explained, ‘The garage is big enough for both the Dennis and the cart and I put them inside during the winter. I don’t bother this time o’ year, though.’

  Matt stroked the horse’s nose but his eyes were on the Dennis. It could have been cleaner. He asked, ‘What about maintenance?’

  Joe flapped a hand, ‘She’s due for a service but I haven’t been too good these last few days.’

  Matt thought this was not like the old Joe Dochert
y. His gaze shifted to the building on the right side of the yard, opposite the garage and back from the gate. It had two floors, with windows and a door facing him. While curtains sagged at the upstairs windows, those on the ground floor were uncurtained and Matt could see a desk inside. He nodded at it: ‘Is that the office?’

  Joe agreed, ‘Right. Come and have a look.’ They crossed the yard and Joe slid his hand into a crack between doorstep and door sill and took out a key. He grinned, ‘Always keep it there.’ He turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door, then apologised, embarrassed, ‘Sorry, it’s a bit scruffy in here. I haven’t had time to clear it up lately.’

  The desk was littered with papers, the old swivel chair was dirty and the bare floorboards needed sweeping. There was a thin layer of dust over everything and a cobweb hung in one corner. The office ran back for some twenty feet but a counter bestrode it halfway. There was a flap that could be lifted up to let people pass behind it. The walls past the counter held shelves, empty and dusty. Joe explained, ‘I think the place was used as a store of some sort at one time.’ He nodded at the stairs which ran up one wall to the floor above: ‘There’s a couple of rooms up there. Not a stick of furniture, but they could be a bedroom and kitchen — there’s water and gas laid on and a kitchen range. Not that I’m suggesting you live up there. You’ll bed and board with us — if you’re taking the job?’ He stopped then, racked by a fit of coughing. When he got his breath back he muttered, ‘I’ll have to have a drink.’

  ‘I’ll take the job.’ Matt grinned and shook Joe’s outstretched hand.

  Joe grinned back at him. ‘I knew you wouldn’t let me down. Come round to the Frigate and we’ll drink to it.’

  It was early in the day so when they got to the Frigate Matt settled for a cup of coffee, but Joe had a stiff rum with his and stayed on when Matt left. He started work that day by cleaning up the office, but soon he was out on the road every day, driving the Dennis. Meanwhile Joe handled smaller jobs with the horse and cart, or more often sat in the office and dealt with the paperwork. He was incapable of physical effort for very long.