Sixpenny Girl

by Meg Hutchinson

  ‘And he has, Livvy.’ Her smile reassuring, Saran resumed her seat. ‘Edward,’ she looked at the man dressed slightly incongruously in the clothes given by Jairus Ensell, clothes no nail-maker could ever have afforded, ‘the barn stood nearest to the canal, could that make a suitable warehouse?’

  ‘I ’ad a look at it yesterday – beggin’ your pardon for not askin’ –’ Edward paused until a wave of Saran’s hand told him he had caused no offence. ‘Seems there couldn’t be a better place, not to my mind; it ’as plenty o’ space and within ’alf a dozen yards them nails can be on a narrow boat and off to anywheres you’ve a mind to send ’em.’

  ‘And the nailers, would they be willing to bring their nails here to Brook Cottage?’ The question was Luke’s.

  Despite the heaviness weighting his heart since the loss of his children, he smiled. ‘Edward Elwell weren’t the only man to carry a sixty-pound load of iron strip from Brummajum and almost the same weight back again in the form o’ tacks or nails, and neither is ’e the only one will be happy to do business wi’ a nail master who will deal fair wi’ him.’

  ‘You said almost the same weight of iron is returned.’

  ‘That be right, lad.’ Edward nodded. ‘Account ’as to be teken o’ waste, the iron rod be worked until the last piece be too little to handle, that be waste; and every man reckons it to be fourteen out of every sixty pound.’

  ‘Does the nail master absorb the cost of wasted iron?’

  ‘You’d see the stars shine in the daytime sooner than you’d see that! No, wench,’ he answered Saran, ‘each worker stands his own loss, though some of ’em welds together the fag ends o’ the iron rods so as to offset some o’ the loss, but the work involved teks valooable time and them nails as is made from welded bits ’ave to be sold as sub-standards, for which the nail master pays no more’n a quarter of the price.’

  ‘But there is always some left unused . . . what becomes of that?’

  ‘The fogger teks it, reckons ’e be doin’ a man a favour, and it be a case of letting it be carted away or ’ave it pile up around the feet, and nailshops be small enough places to work in wi’out piles o’ rusting iron clogging every corner.’

  ‘And the fogger . . . the middleman, what does ’e do with it?’

  Saran listened to the question she had not thought to ask. The man was once more showing in the boy.

  ‘Teks it to the nearest iron foundry and sells it, scrap iron can be melted down and reworked.’

  A double gain. Saran’s glance dropped to the book lying closed beneath her hand. Was it any wonder nail-making was profitable for all except the nailer himself ! Looking again to Edward she said, ‘Any man who brings his waste iron to us will have the weight recorded and suitable payment given.’

  ‘With respect, wench, I must point out summat it seems you ain’t thought on. Every man I spoke with was in favour o’ bringing his work to you but each one as does will lose his forge and his bellows for they be the property o’ his nail master and wi’ them took from him a man can’t work.’

  Maybe the owner would sell, and if not . . . ? She would cross that particular bridge when she came to it.

  ‘The warehouse near the canal . . .’ she switched the conversation back to the starting point, ‘there is another building close beside it, one I think – given a little work – would become a comfortable house.’

  ‘Ar,’ Edward nodded, ‘it’d be comfortable enough forra prince.’

  ‘Oh I wouldn’t dream of offering it to a prince,’ Saran smiled, ‘but I am offering it to you and Livvy.’

  Watching the man later, his arm supporting his wife as he helped her to the stairs, Saran remembered the words she had brushed aside: ‘each one as does will lose his forge and his bellows’

  Bridges were sometimes rickety and sometimes they collapsed beneath the feet!

  ‘The world is changing and we must change with it or go under.’

  Only part of his mind was on what his employer had told him as Gideon nodded goodnight to Luke, watching the lad sprint through the works’ gate eager to be home.

  ‘Be you off an’ all, Gideon lad?’

  ‘Not yet, there’s a job I want to finish.’ Gideon smiled at the gatekeeper stood sentinel at the works’ entrance.

  ‘You does more’n your share in that there works, but then John Adams don’t be a bad ’un to work for, he’ll see you right, I don’t doubt. Let me know when you be done.’ The gatekeeper limped away, his wooden leg stomping heavily on the ground.

  Yes, John Adams would pay him for the extra hours. Gideon turned back into the empty factory. Unlike so many of the mine owners or nail masters who saw extra hours given to a job as no more than their rights. Would Saran Chandler develop the same attitude? Saran Chandler a nail master . . . it was preposterous, the whole idea was ludicrous! Whoever heard of a woman becoming a nail master, let alone one as young as she was; she had no knowledge of the trade and none of the world of business; it was a cut-throat world and the men in it would eat her alive. Hadn’t he tried to prevent such stupidity . . . tried to talk sense into the girl? Luke had grinned at the questions, answering, ‘It be a waste o’ breath. When Saran decides summat, it be decided.’

  Like she had decided to marry Jairus Ensell! Despite having told himself that was one decision made absolutely no difference to him, Gideon felt his heart twist. Taking the strip of red-hot iron from the forge he picked up a heavy hammer. Saran Chandler had made her choice, now he must make his.

  The door to the works closed behind him, Gideon glanced at the tiny hut that provided shelter for the old watchman. There was no need to disturb him, he would see the gate closed when he roused from his nap and realise the job had been finished and he, Gideon, had gone home.

  His boots making virtually no sound on the hard-packed earth that was the works’ yard he was almost to the gate when a sound had him standing still. A feral cat? There were plenty of them running wild on the heath. But that was no cat! He listened, muscles tensed, nerves alert. Cats could scramble over iron tubes and make no sound. Motionless, silent except for the throb of a pulse beating in his throat, he glanced about the yard. Blanketed beneath the night it lay still. He must have been mistaken. A day of never-ending hammers striking iron could play tricks with the hearing. He was half turned again towards the gate when, breaking free of cloud, the moon bathed the yard in a brilliant glow, gilding the pile of tubes stacked ready for collection, and on the crest of them a figure.

  ‘Hey!’ Even as he shouted, Gideon was running across the yard.

  Balanced on the tubes the figure twisted its head then both arms lifted as the metal beneath its feet moved.

  ‘Jump!’ The danger immediately obvious to him Gideon yelled, ‘Jump, you fool!’

  But the instruction was lost amid the clang of tubes moving and rolling, shifting beneath the figure which, losing its balance, fell backward beneath the tumbling mass of iron.

  ‘What the ’ell!’ Blinking sleep from his eyes the crippled gatekeeper stumbled from his hut. ‘What be gooin’ on, Gideon lad?’

  ‘A thief.’ Gideon was already tearing at the heap of fallen tubes, throwing them aside in his haste to reach a figure that might already be crushed beyond help.

  ‘A thief !’ The old man shuffled clear of flying iron. ‘But there be nowt ’ere for the tekin’ ’cept toobs or ironstrip and a bloke can’t carry enough o’ them on ’is back to mek ’em worth the trouble o’ sellin’.’

  ‘Well, that was what he was taking.’ Gideon straightened as he lifted the last tube. ‘Look for yourself . . . in his hand.’

  Stepping forward, the brilliant moon making it easy to see, the gatekeeper blew through gapped teeth. ‘Christ, Gideon lad . . . it be naught but a babby!’

  A little more than that but only just. What in the flicker of moonlight he had taken to be a crouching man was just a boy, probably younger than Luke.

  ‘Is he . . . is he dead?’

  The question tr
embled in Gideon’s mind as it had trembled on the other man’s lips. Was the lad dead . . . killed for a strip of iron! Lifting the boy carefully he carried him to the small hut, laying him on the makeshift table which almost filled the narrow space.

  Bringing his lantern closer the old man held it over a face streaked with blood, catching his breath as he looked. ‘I knows that lad,’ he said, ‘I’ve knowed ’im from the minute of his bein’ born and I knows he wouldn’t never thieve nuthin’.’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Course I does, and so will you. Look closer, Gideon lad, look past the cuts an’ the bruises then tell me what you sees.’

  Smoothing back the hair plastered to brow and cheeks, Gideon took the lantern, holding it closer to the small face.

  ‘Oh my God,’ he breathed. ‘Oh Lord, it’s . . .’

  ‘That be right,’ the older man nodded, ‘that there be Edward Elwell’s son.’

  ‘You bloody fool!’ Zadok Minch hurled the whip he had been holding against the wall, the leather of it leaving a blood-stained trail across its surface. ‘Why the hell did you let her bring it up?’

  ‘I . . . I’m sorry . . .’

  ‘Sorry!’ It rang around the elegant room. ‘Sorry be buggered, where the hell were you?’

  ‘I . . . I was cooking . . . my hands were covered in pastry when you rang.’

  ‘You be lucky your whole body don’t be covered in blood!’ Glaring at the woman who had been his wife for ten years Zadok tasted the sour dislike he had known since making her his bride, though for the first few months of marriage her father’s money had sweetened his tastebuds. It had set him up, paving a way which had led to his becoming, among other things, a nail master, a business which paid for his little excesses.

  ‘God Almighty!’ He kicked against a delicate spindle-legged table sending it tumbling to the floor, a dainty Staffordshire figurine it held crashing into pieces. ‘How many times . . . ? How many times have I said it? Never let nobody ’cept yourself bring it up. Don’t that be plain enough for you . . . be you so bloody stupid you can’t understand a simple order such as that!’

  ‘Zadok, I . . . I have apologised . . .’

  His small eyes seeming to recede even further into puffy sockets, long side-whiskers quivering from anger working the heavy jaw, Zadok swept a hand along the ornate mantelshelf, smashing porcelain into the stone hearth.

  ‘Apologies!’ he bellowed. ‘What bloody good be they, will they repay the cost of what be lost? Goods such as that don’t grow on trees, they costs a man money!’

  And what do they cost a wife? Trembling in fear of the whip lying against the wall, the terrified woman gave no voice to the thought. She had long ago learned it was for her own good to keep silent about many things.

  ‘Gone!’ He ranted on. ‘Twenty-five pounds gone and all on account of you not tekin’ note of what I says! God in Heaven, I ought to bloody well have you committed.’

  And take who in my place? The woman stood silent while the room reverberated to the sounds of breaking china and falling furniture. Who but a wife, a woman condemned by the laws of marriage to become no more than a man’s chattel, bound by the laws of the land which said she must obey without question, while it allowed him to take every penny which had once been hers. To be committed to an institution would be infinitely preferable to the life she was forced to live here in this house, having to aid a husband she detested and to stand by whilst he had a life she hated even more. But Zadok would never have her put away, beneath his ranting and raving, beneath his cruelty, lay the one thing which stayed him from signing her into total obscurity, the assurance her presence in this house provided, assurance that pronounced before the outside world that Zadok Minch was a caring, upright man faithful to his wife. A God-fearing man bent only on the business of a nail master.

  ‘Do you want me to . . .’

  ‘What!’ Zadok’s clenched fist drove heavily down on a sideboard setting bottles rattling in their silver holders. ‘What could I possibly want you to do, you whose brain has no competition with that of a corpse? Just see this place cleaned up afore I come home!’

  Caught by the heavy frame pushing her aside Zadok’s wife fell, striking her head against the carved oak sideboard. Pausing only to look he strode from the house.

  Edward Elwell’s son! Gideon looked at the pale blood-streaked face, its eyes closed. What on earth was he doing here, hadn’t that governor said the Elwell children were no longer inmates of the workhouse?

  ‘Do he be dead?’

  The old man’s question chasing his thoughts, Gideon brought his cheek closer to the still lips. ‘No.’ He straightened, handing back the lantern. ‘He’s breathing though it be shallow.’

  ‘Thank the Almighty.’ The gatekeeper crossed his chest with a forefinger of one hand. ‘But there be bound to be bones broke, that were a might o’ iron tumbled about ’im. I don’t think he should be moved ’til the parish doctor ’as teken a look at ’im.’

  And reported his whereabouts to the Board of Governors who, if the lad had indeed been given over to some businessman, would simply hand him back. Rejecting the idea, Gideon ran a hand gently over the boy’s limbs. He had worked many years in the tube trade and witnessed more than one accident where men had been injured by falling tubes or red-hot iron, and he had learned how to recognise broken bones.

  ‘There’s no sign of anything broken.’ He turned to the man watching him. ‘Maybe we should wait before disturbing the doctor.’

  ‘You thinks that be wisest?’

  ‘I do.’ Gideon nodded, hoping the older man would raise no objection. ‘But should the lad not be conscious in a few minutes then I’ll run along to Holyhead House and bring the doctor here.’

  Was his decision the right one? Gideon watched the old gatekeeper fetch a blackened kettle from the brazier which burned outside the door of the hut and pour hot water into an enamelled basin. Taking the piece of wet cloth the man handed him he gently wiped the blood from the boy’s face, his mouth tightening as purple bruises showed dark against the skin. These were not the marks of a newly occurred accident, bruises took time before they showed like these.

  Beneath the gentle sponging the small body stirred and the eyelids flickered open.

  ‘It’s all right, lad, you’re quite safe but you had a bit of a mishap so just stay still a while.’

  Fear, stark and desperate, flared in the swollen eyes and for a moment it seemed the boy would try leaping from the table.

  ‘Gideon be right, you needs lie still, Joseph lad.’

  ‘Gran’father . . . Gran’father Bates . . . ?’

  ‘Ar, lad,’ the old man took the trembling hand, patting it gently, ‘it be Gran’father Bates. You be ’ome, son.’

  Brewing tea beside the open brazier Gideon and the gatekeeper talked quietly.

  ‘’E don’t be kin to me,’ the older man said, his voice low, ‘but I been friends wi’ his folk and there’n afore ’em, that be the reason of both Livvy’s little ’uns calling me gran’father.’

  It seemed the workhouse did let the boy go but what of his sister . . . was she also taken, as Ensell was told, or was she still there, as Saran was told? Gideon glanced through the open door to where the young boy still rested. There was something not right in all this . . . something not right at all!

  ‘I don’t think he is seriously hurt.’ Gideon returned his glance to the older man who handed him a tin mug filled with hot sweet tea.

  ‘Me neither, though it be a miracle what wi’ all that iron tumblin’ round ’im.’

  ‘Some of the tubes crossed each other, preventing most of them actually landing on the boy, but nevertheless it is a miracle.’

  A crutch under one arm his crudely fashioned leg resounding on the wooden floor, the old man entered the hut, asking as he went, ‘Be you awake, Joseph lad?’

  ‘I . . . I want me mother!’

  ‘An’ you shall go to ’er but first tek you a sup o’ tea, it’ll ’
ave you feelin’ better.’

  Obediently, the boy reached for the cup held to him, a cry of pain becoming a groan of agony as Gideon’s helping arm passed around his back. Handing the cup to the gatekeeper he bent over the boy.

  ‘Joseph, the pain, show me where you feel pain.’

  The small face glistened with moisture. ‘Me back . . . it be me back.’

  The fingers and toes moved, arms, legs, neck all moved independently, which indicated no serious harm to the spine. Gideon breathed a sigh of relief.

  ‘I be sorry to cause you trouble.’ Clenching his teeth against the effort, the boy sat up. ‘You . . . you won’t tell me mother I were stealin’? I . . . I just wanted a piece of iron rod and I would ’ave brought it back, honest I would.’

  ‘You have caused no trouble.’ Gideon smiled kindly. ‘But why do you want an iron rod?’

  ‘Ar, Joseph lad, why steal a bit of iron rod?’

  Tears welling on to his cheeks the boy answered, ‘I . . . I wanted to do to ’im as he done to me . . . no, no, Gran’father Bates that don’t be true . . . I wanted to do more’n that, I wanted to kill ’im!’

  ‘Kill!’ The old man looked aghast. ‘Who be it you wanted to kill, lad?’

  Whimpering as he removed a tattered shirt Edward Elwell’s son slid to his feet. ‘The man who done this,’ he muttered, ‘I wanted to kill the one that done this.’

  25

  ‘I was not expecting you.’

  ‘I don’t need make no bloody appointment!’ Zadok Minch glared at the attractive face, its painted mouth pouting affectedly.

  In a voice soft, melodious and above all careful, the slender figure dressed in a deep-violet taffeta housecoat caught with lilac ribbon over a matching silk nightgown answered, ‘No, my dearest, of course you need make no appointment, it is simply that I could have prepared something . . .’

  ‘This be my house, paid for by me, same as everything in it . . . and that includes you!’

  Throwing his coat aside Zadok stormed up a curving staircase.

  As you are making perfectly plain! The thought adding no smile to generous lips, the attractive figure followed him, heavily ringed hands lifting taffeta skirts and revealing beaded satin slippers.