‘Look, Albert,’ he explained. ‘I’m not going to leave here. I’ve always wanted a home of me own … a proper home. I’ve got a picture of it in me mind. But it’s more than a rented house and I’ll not get it yet. If I’m going to set up in work on me own I’ll ask your dad if I can stop here … take a room … give up ostling. Anyroad, I’ll know by tomorrow.’
Oliver hardly slept. He tossed and turned on the palliasse, thinking of the morning. He had to sell all the bundles. If he didn’t? He’d promised to buy from Partington’s. There’d be no money. But if he was successful he’d go to the other mills and buy burlap canvas for rug-hooking and velveteen for coats and suits … Bill Grandison had promised to take him to Manchester for plush and Utrecht velvet and to Leek for printed Indian silks … if he didn’t fail. No, he wouldn’t fail. He must try to remember the words he’d rehearsed, ‘Ladies. Look at the pretty ribbons. Braid for your bonnets.’ No, it was the other way round … ‘Ribbons for your bonnets.’
When dawn broke he dressed and pulled the loaded cart out of the coach shed. He’d brought bread and cheese down to his room the night before and he ate without appetite, for the tight knot of excitement in his stomach had dried his mouth.
It was cold. He looked anxiously at the little patch of sky he could see between the high sides of The Pheasant and the walls of the yard, fearful that rain might keep people away or ruin his cloth.
It was going to be dry. The clouds were high and light and there was a small breeze moving them along. The cart creaked and bumped over the cobblestone yard and the bigger setts of Rivergate but there was nobody else about so he kept to the centre of the narrow road.
‘Oliver!’
Oliver looked behind him. He was being followed by Albert. He stopped and waited. ‘You’re out early,’ he said.
‘I waited up. To see you go,’ Albert replied, then added in a rush of words, ‘Oliver, can I come in with you? I’ve got a bit of money put by. It’ll help you buy more. You don’t need to tell me now. Only I didn’t want to ask you afterwards – when you’ll know if you’re going to sell the stuff. I don’t want you to think I’m only interested in the money. I’ll come up with you today though and keep a lookout. See as no one pinches nowt.’
Oliver set down the cart, looked at his eager friend and considered. ‘I’ll be shouting, like the candle-maker does. I’ve got to be heard.’ Albert showed no dismay at the prospect. ‘Right! Come on! Let’s see if we can get a stall.’
Albert grinned broadly and took a handle of the cart. It was easy going up the steep street with two pushing and they reached the market place to find the manager already there, putting up the wooden frames for the traders’ stalls. They had to wait for an hour but they were lucky. They were the first in a line of casual sellers who came to the market occasionally. One of the regulars didn’t turn up and they were allotted his stall, right by the gates of St Michael and All Angels, where people from both the Wallgate and Churchgate had to pass.
They set out the stall under the curious eyes of the other traders. There were no stalls selling remnants or ribbon and Oliver knew that they would be spared the spiteful tricks some stallholders used towards their rivals. He was no threat to the men who sold cloth by the yard.
He took loose ribbons and tied them to the corner posts where they would flutter gaily above the heads of the customers.
As soon as eight-thirty struck, Oliver went to the front of the stall. There were a few early shoppers about and he strode up and down, as the candle-maker and the baker did. He put his head high in the air and called out, ‘Ladies! See the pretty ribbons and braid! Buy some for your bonnets. Only a few pence a bunch!’
Women approached the stall cautiously. Oliver saw them frown and pick up his bundles. Then they put them down again and walked away. They looked at him as if he were something strange and they scurried off, lifting their hems off the cobblestones, as if they were too busy to dawdle.
Why were they walking away? He wanted to ask them, ‘Why didn’t you buy, ma’m?’, but he held back, pretending he hadn’t seen their hesitation, striding up and down the length of his stall, now shouting, now holding his breath, waiting for the first sale. It appeared that they weren’t sure. Had he made the prices too low? Or too high? He continued to call his wares. ‘Three penny bunches of ribbon and braid. Fine cotton pieces at sixpence a bundle.’
The other stalls were busy now, people crushed between them, trying to attract the attention of the traders. If he didn’t sell his goods when there were so many buyers about then he never would. He watched the women stop at the other stalls and open their purses. But they didn’t stop at his and Oliver was starting to despair.
‘Albert,’ he almost wept, when above the noise of the market the church clock struck ten. An hour and a half had passed and the other stallholders were doing brisk trade. ‘We haven’t sold a thing. What can we do? Can’t you charm them, like you do the girls in The Swan?’
Albert grinned. ‘It looks as if I’ll have to, doesn’t it?’ he said. ‘Your shouting’s not got ’em flocking.’ He took the ribbons Oliver had been waving and placed them at the back of the counter.
‘Go and get us a bun each,’ he said, ‘then sit quiet at the back.’
Oliver walked away from the stall and found the baker calling his wares, surrounded by eager buyers and he marvelled at the man’s easy manner. He bought two Eccles cakes and, unable to face the deserted stall for a few minutes, he took his time returning, carefully noting the actions and words the others were using.
There appeared to be quite a crowd of people now in front of the church and Oliver had to push his way through to Albert. As he neared the stall his heart began to beat faster. Were all those women at his stall? Why were they laughing and smiling happily? What was going on?
He reached the front and now it was clear what the attraction was. Albert had a girl either side of him. He was holding a piece of gold braid against the hair of a blonde girl who was gazing into his eyes, transfixed.
‘Look at the colour, ladies,’ Albert teased. ‘See how the hair reflects the gold of the ribbon. Oh, my goodness. There’s not a rogue in the town could resist making eyes at a girl with gold ribbons on her bonnet.’
He was putting on his dandy voice, Oliver saw; the one he’d copied from the fancy-talkers who sometimes came to The Pheasant. And the women loved it. They were holding up bundles of braid, eager to buy, and the girls Albert had shamelessly flirted with stood near, waiting their turn to be complimented and noticed again.
‘The linen pieces make fine samplers, ladies. And your sewing-maids can make pillowslips from those pieces,’ Albert called to a pair of tired-looking women.
Oliver looked at the women in astonishment. They were flattered to be thought of as employers of sewing-maids. They bought a large bundle of cotton material each and exclaimed over their purchases in delight.
Albert caught his eye and jerked his head. ‘Come over and take the money, will you?’ he cried. ‘We mustn’t keep these lovely ladies too long. We’ll be chased out of the market by their jealous husbands.’
Albert was obviously enjoying his new-found access to young women. Oliver watched with admiration the way he’d flirt with three or four at the same time, each girl leaving the stall believing that she alone was the object of his attentions. He didn’t think he’d ever be able to draw a crowd of girls as Albert did, but he’d have to try.
He smiled at the girls who stood round Albert. He would never be able to match Albert’s chatter but … maybe if he gave them a flirtatious look? He glanced at a tall, dark-haired girl, over the head of the blonde one and saw that she had laughing eyes and was enjoying the exchange. He’d soon get the hang of it. But now he was too busy, selling the bundles, giving change, helping the matrons choose which purchase to make.
Halfway through the afternoon Oliver caught sight of Rosie Hadfield. She had a basket on her arm and was buying vegetables at the next stall. His body responded t
o the sight of her as it had to her nearness at the mill and he willed her to look his way but she moved on and when next he lifted his eyes she was gone.
There had not been a moment to spare since Albert started his chatter. It was four o’clock and the bundles were almost gone.
‘Have we any more under the counter?’ Albert asked.
‘No. We’ve sold them all. Everything,’ Oliver told him as he untied the ribbons and folded the empty sacks. ‘I’ll go and tell the market manager to keep me a stall for next Saturday,’ he said. ‘I’m going to get one on the Friday market as well. Your dad will find another stable lad easy enough. Do you want to come in with me?’
‘Aye,’ Albert said. ‘But I’ve not got as much courage as you. I’ll keep on as an apprentice for a bit yet. I’ll come out on Saturdays though.’
‘Do you know how much we’ve made?’
‘No.’
‘Have a guess.’
‘Six pounds?’
‘Seven pounds, thirteen and fourpence,’ Oliver said. ‘That should convince you that there’s a living in it.’ They took a handle each and pushed the empty cart back to The Pheasant.
‘It was a lark, wasn’t it?’ Albert asked, a huge smile splitting his face. ‘All those women round us.’
‘I was afraid we’d sell nowt,’ Oliver said. ‘If you hadn’t started them off I don’t know what I’d have done.’
‘Are you going to find stalls in the week then? Selling your Partington’s pieces?’ Albert asked.
‘Aye,’ Oliver assured him. ‘I’m going to every market I can. I want to make enough to have me own mill and I mean to get it while I’m young.’
‘You’re confident,’ Albert said.
‘So should you be. Leave your job. We’ll go to Stockport market next Tuesday and sell the stuff I’ll fetch from Partington’s.’
Oliver steered the cart into the stable yard of The Pheasant and set it by the wall. He leaned against it and grinned. ‘It’s neck or nothing for me now, Albert.’
Over supper Oliver asked Leonard Billington if he could live at The Pheasant as a paying guest. He’d take the worst room if he could have it cheap.
‘You can have the attic room next to Albert’s,’ Leonard said. ‘We can do without a stable-lad for now, as long as you’ll drive for Mr Grandison on Wednesdays.’
‘I will,’ Oliver agreed.
‘Do you think I should go in with Oliver, Dad?’ Albert put in. ‘I’d like to give up my apprentice work but I’m a bit wary.’
‘Go in with Oliver if you want to,’ Leonard Billington said firmly. ‘You have to take your chances when they come, and better now than when you’ve responsibilities.’
‘We’ll borrow the horse cart on Monday if that’s all right, Mr Billington?’ Oliver asked. ‘We’ll pick up the stuff from Partington’s and sort as much as we can for Tuesday in Stockport.’
Ma Billington brought plates of sausages and mashed potato to them and set them on the white-scrubbed table. ‘Now, you see our Albert doesn’t get hisself mixed up with them cheeky girls as go up to t’Swan will yer, Oliver?’ she demanded. ‘I tell ’im to take a leaf off you and ’ave a bit of pride. Some of them girls! Really!’
‘I’m all right, Ma.’ Albert chided her. ‘Stop yer fussin’.’
‘If we sell up on Tuesday, Albert,’ Oliver went on, ‘I want to take two more lads on. There’s three markets a week in Stockport and three here.’
‘You’re being a bit previous, aren’t you?’ Albert said.
Oliver roared with laughter at the expression. He’d not heard that one before. ‘A bit previous?’ he said. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It means you’re counting your chickens too soon,’ Albert replied. ‘Maybe all as wants remnants has bought ’em this week. Maybe they’ll have enough.’
‘They’ll not.’ Oliver gulped down the ale Mr Billington had set down for them. ‘They’ll tell their friends and their friends’ll want some an’ all.’ He wiped his mouth on his napkin. ‘I’ll buy proper stuff and rip it into lengths and let ’em think they’re getting bargains, if I have to. They like buying it this way. It sets their brains working, thinking what they’ll do with ’em.’
‘Aye. They’ll maybe find they can’t do anything with ’em and what happens then?’ Albert said.
‘Course they’ll buy,’ Oliver countered quickly. ‘D’you know how many dressmakers there are in this town? D’you know how many people have got sewing machines? They can’t resist if they think they’re getting something for nowt.’
‘Will you be able to get as much as you want now, Oliver?’ Leonard Billington asked.
‘Yes. Mr Grandison’s going to take me up to Nottingham. I can get lace there and folks’ll buy that all right,’ Oliver said. ‘But I’ll soon have sold all the ends. There’s not enough faulty stuff to be had. There’s money to be made, selling cloth. I saw what the others were selling and there’s none can get the stuff I can. Bill Grandison will sell proper cloth to me and so will the other mill-owners, if I get rid of their waste an’ all.’
Chapter Seven
Florence’s fifteenth birthday party had been the best she could remember. There had been an afternoon tea party with her friends invited to Suttonford. Grandfather had been at his most hospitable and Grandmother smiling when she’d been introduced to the young people in Florence’s circle of girlfriends. In the evening there had been dancing; not a real ball, those would come later, Mama said. But some of the good families in Cheshire had been invited: those with daughters and, more particularly, sons.
A military band, whose regiment was stationed in Chester, had played for them and Florence, in palest blue silk, her hair put up and ivory fan dangling from white-gloved wrist, had whirled to the waltz and cavorted in the gallop with the best young men the county could offer.
She and Mama were still full of the excitement of it late the following afternoon when they returned to Churchgate House. Mama was going to help her select patterns for her summer wardrobe as soon as she had dealt with the letters.
The curtains were drawn early and Florence was seated at Mama’s desk under the brightest lamp. Mama sniffed in annoyance at something and Florence looked across the room at her. ‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘You will have to decline this invitation yourself, Florence. The letter was addressed to you.’
‘Really, Mama. You have no right to open my letters …’
‘I have every right, Florence. Invitations to a ball should not be sent to a young girl. It is incorrect and in very bad taste. It shows that the sender does not know the proper course. Invitations should be addressed to a girl’s mother or chaperone. Not to the girl herself.’ She crossed the room and placed the card in front of Florence. ‘Refuse it. And let me see your reply before you post it.’
Florence stared at the invitation. ‘But, Mama. It’s from Elsie Henshaw. She wants me to go to her birthday dance.’ She looked up and saw that Mama’s face was stony. ‘Surely I don’t have to refuse simply because the Henshaws don’t know the right way to address an invitation.’
‘You are being difficult, Florence,’ Mama said. ‘I don’t wish to discuss it. You shall not go.’
‘But – Mama! The Henshaws are a good family. You’ve met Elsie’s mother. You spoke to her at dancing class. You were being charming …’
‘I was being polite, Florence.’
‘But the ball is to be held in the Town Hall, Mama. Everyone will be there,’ Florence pleaded. ‘Uncle Bill and Aunt Lucy are going. Aunt Lucy has accepted her invitation.’
‘The Henshaws are mill-owners. It is expected that Lucy and Bill will go.’
‘Then surely … You said yourself that Elsie had a winning way.’
Mama’s voice rose ominously. ‘Of course I did,’ she snapped. ‘But her background is unknown. She needs winning ways. These people are adventurers, Florence. Ill-bred and clumsy.’
Florence hated to upset Mama but was driven to a
rgue with her. ‘How can you say such things? The Henshaws are rich, they want nothing from us. They have a fine house and more servants than we have. Two carriages. Elsie wears gowns from London and Paris.’
‘They are upstarts. You only need look at them. They are hoping to be accepted by us.’
Florence could not believe that Mama really meant what she was saying. ‘How can you say so? How can you possibly look at people and know … know at a glance what they are about?’ she demanded.
‘They are large and loud, like beasts of the field. In their dress and their manners they reveal themselves. The finery of their house is a gross exaggeration of good taste and try as they will to ingratiate themselves their overtures must be discouraged.’
Florence wanted to cry. It was plain that Mama’s mind was made up. ‘Will I ever be allowed to make my own friends?’ she asked.
‘You are expected to exercise restraint, Florence. For a girl in your position … It is intolerable that you ask for explanations.’
‘What is my position?’
‘You are Sir Philip Oldfield’s granddaughter. You will remember that whenever good nature drives you into foolishness.’
‘And what is expected of me?’
‘It is expected that you will move in the right circles. That you will uphold the family reputation. And that you will marry well.’
So that was it. She must be seen with the sort of people into whose families she would marry. Her preferences were not to be taken into account. If she mixed with the right people then she would marry one of their sons. Did they hope, with her marriage, to see the end of their financial troubles, for Suttonford could no longer support the family’s extravagant lifestyle?
She would not be used in this way. ‘So now we have the truth of it,’ she said in a cold voice. ‘I’m to marry well. To please whom?’
Mama was pale with anger. ‘You are fifteen years old. You are about to take your first steps into the adult world. You have been allowed to put up your hair, to voice your opinion on matters that don’t concern a girl of your age …’
The Runaway Page 7