The World From Rough Stones

by Malcom Macdonald

  He knew then that his cheerful, go-with-him-twain strategy had been right. Prendergast was now slightly unsteady with the excitement. His tongue flickered rapidly from side to side and he stared at Stevenson as if he feared he might turn out to be a mirage. "Any dividend, eh? Eh? What? Fifty per cent? What about that? A thousand pounds?"

  John tried to look as if he'd been kicked hard but was nevertheless going to brave it out. "What about it?" he asked, breathlessly recovering his poise. "I said, did I not—we have done amazingly well. A thousand pounds—indeed, why not!"

  "Well…" Prendergast still seemed unable to believe it.

  "You may see the books now, if you wish…or I can bring them when I pay you. Yes, why not let's do that. It'll take a day or two before I can assemble that much."

  "My illness has been so expensive, you understand."

  Stevenson had been so obliging that the priest now seemed to feel he had to explain his demand.

  "To be sure, doctor. You have no need to justify this very reasonable request. It was I who was dilatory—all those weeks before your illness. Not"—he laughed—"not that you could have had a thousand then! Would next Wednesday do? Tomorrow week?"

  "Admirably! Admirably!"

  "And here comes the stage."

  They resumed their stroll toward the turnpike. "We'd best not meet here. Let's say The Gryphon at Littleborough, shall we? At half past two? It should be fairly empty at that time."

  "I look forward to it," Prendergast said. "You take it well, Stevenson; that I must say." He looked anxiously at the approaching coach.

  "I'll bring the money and the books."

  "Capital. Capital."

  "Perhaps you'll bring some news of any fresh contracts? To soak up all this extra cash I seem to have."

  Prendergast laughed and then hit his forehead, chiding himself for his forgetfulness. "Two canal extensions in Ancoats," he said hastily, hoping to finish before the coach drew up. He didn't want any of this to be overheard. "The Ashton-under-Lyne canal and the Rochdale canal. Both doing wharf extensions. Port Street…Mill Street…Cannel Street. Bid fifteen thousand, two hundred on the first, six thousand, eight hundred and thirty on the second. And if a man of your proven ability can't clear a shade over three thousand on that…"

  The braking coach drowned their laughter, and when they parted, it seemed they were once again the warmest of friends.

  John watched the coach out of sight and then, for no particular reason, looked up at Rough Stones. To his surprise he saw Nora framed in the doorway waving energetically to him; it could only be to him.

  With a lighter step than he had trod for weeks, he set off up the lane to the house—for, of course, he had no intention of parting with that much money to the priest. Not in a week, not in a year, not until he earned it. With each step he repeated, ritually, Ashton-fifteen-two, Rochdale-six-eight-three.

  "He's struck at last," she said when he reached the front gate.

  "You saw?" he asked.

  "I bless that telescope every day."

  "Oh?" he said. "What else does it show?"

  She hesitated before, with some bravado, she said: "I know where Thornton goes to relieve his feelings every day around this hour. One of these days he'll get tired of facing east and then I'll see the size of it."

  He laughed and looked up at the opened bedroom window, through which the objective of the telescope was just visible. "You…you'd best go up," he said. "This might be your lucky day."

  He had seemed on the point of saying something else. "All that exercise it gets," she went on. "Makes you curious."

  He was at a loss for words then, looking at her with a curious smile that, in the end, embarrassed her. And when he did speak it was to change the subject entirely. "Get pen and paper," he said.

  She told Bess to bring tea for them and then went with him into the best parlour, where the writing desk stood.

  "Write down: Rochdale Canal six thou', eight hundred and thirty and Ashtonunder-Lyne Canal fifteen thou', two hundred." He studied intently the effect it had upon her.

  "Oh!" she said brightly, "is he starting to earn his keep at last?"

  "He may be. He wants a thousand."

  She looked again at the figures. "On these? He must be reckoning we'll make at least three thou'."

  "Not on those figures. Not on those contracts," John said, still not taking his eyes from her. "He wants a full thousand now. Full stop."

  "He what?"

  "Now. Stage payment on Summit." His tone seemed to imply that Prendergast was actually being quite reasonable and that he intended to pay the demand. "He's given us eight days."

  Nora almost choked in rage and astonishment. "Eight! Eight days…a thousand quid! Big-bloody-hearted Prendergast!" Bess, entering with the tray, almost dropped it on hearing the words. Nora, nothing deterred, went on: "I'll give him a thousand bloody pounds! I'll give it him in cast iron weights—right at the junction of the Rochdale and Ashton canals." Bess left the room, exhaling audibly, upward over her face as if to cool it.

  At last, he permitted himself a smile as he reached a hand forward to squeeze hers. "That's my Nora!" he said. "Welcome home, love."

  She relaxed. "Eee!" she said. "I thought you were going to…the way you were talking! How much does he want then?"

  "Oh he wants a thousand, all right. That's no joke. And he wants it in eight days. But as far as I'm concerned, he can go to Manchester seafront and fish for it."

  "What's he done to earn it?" she said, the indignation growing once again. "Tell me one thing he's done."

  "He's kept hold of his tongue. Which, incidentally, is a bit more than Thornton's done. I think our fun-loving friend has imparted his estimates of our profit-to-date on this contract."

  Nora was about to explode again when she suddenly caught herself; a slow smile spread across her face. "And that's what's behind the Church of England's sudden rush, tumbling over here with his invoices hanging out!"

  "That was how I read matters."

  "So!" She laughed richly. "The honourable member for the antipodes thinks our likely profit to date is just three thousand! A mere three!"

  He joined her laughter then. "We'd better get the other eight down to London just as soon as maybe."

  "And, come Saturday, we'll have a thousand profit on the shop account— more, in fact. Take that, too." She sipped her tea. "That will make…just over seventeen thousand we'll have moved to Bolitho & Chambers. D'you think that's enough?"

  "I have no idea," he said with cheerful sincerity. "But it's going to have to be, isn't it! That…plus my tongue…and your bookkeeping—and your pretty eyes. Let's hope there's a touch of Thornton in him."

  She was not at all amused.

  "Just a touch," he said, trying to placate her.

  She looked steadily at him, still unsmiling. "Something short of a touch," she said.

  He cleared his throat and pulled out a pocket diary. "What day shall we go?" he said. "Eleventh? Eleventh of May?"

  "Is that a Monday?"

  "Aye."

  "Make it the twelfth. I'll see Charley Eade that Monday, then I'm done for the week."

  He smiled at her insistence. "Why not let Wardroper do it for once?"

  Immediately she darted him a suspicious glance. "Has he been getting at you?"

  "No," he said, truthfully.

  "He's always on at me to let him go; but I'm determined he shan't. And if

  ever I'm stuck…listen now, this is no joke…if I'm ever too sick to go, you're to go in my stead."

  "But why?"

  "There's no need for him to know about how we purchase—how much, where, and for what. He already knows everything necessary to his end of things. Keep him ignorant, we keep him dependent. I know it's not your way—you'd train half the world to do your work if you could—but it's mine."

  "So be it," he said. He was delighted to see how much of the old Nora had come back at Prendergast's bloodsucking demand.

 
"You still think I'm daft," she said, as if she believed his concession masked an accusation. "Well, next year, the year after, sometime soon, that man and his mates are going to open an equitable co-operative shop. What will we be doing then?"

  "How should I know?"

  "Exactly!"

  "Well!" he said, flabbergasted. "What does that prove?"

  "To me, it proves that we should do as little as we need until we know what we'll be doing then. There's only two sorts of people in this world. Us and competitors."

  He looked shrewdly at her but said nothing. Then, glancing again at his diary, he said: "The twelfth then. Tuesday. We'll go Tuesday, see Chambers Wednesday or Thursday, and whichever day we don't see him, we'll do something else. Come back the Friday. I'll write to Chambers tonight confirming the day. I wrote ten days back saying we'd visit him sometime in the month. What shall we do the blank day?"

  She looked at him, her eyes brimming with secret amusement, and then tried to think.

  "Come on," he said. "What were you going to say?"

  "I just had a passing notion—a fancy—to see what seventeen thousand gold sovereigns'd look like, all piled up."

  He laughed, sharing her delight. "What a thought! Eh—I wonder if Chambers has ever seen that much."

  "No," she chided. "To be serious, I should like to see the Houses of Parliament."

  But he shook his head. "There's nothing to see. The fire destroyed all the old palace. The Lords and Commons meet in a barn with very little public provision, and the new palace is only just begun. In fact…what's today? Yes, they laid the first stone of the new building this very morning."

  "Nonetheless, you asked me what I should like—and I should like to see the Palace of Westminster."

  "I bow," he said. "I bow. So be it. I shall also write to Fielden tonight to see if he can procure us tickets to the House."

  "I suppose we have a vote now?" she asked, on a sudden impulse.

  He had to think before he answered: "Eay! I don't think we do! We own no land. And the rule is for an occupier of a tenement at twelve pounds or more a year. Our lease here is for three hundred and sixty-five days and this is leap year! Hah! seventeen thou' in the bank and no vote! So much for Reform!"

  "What's to do with these figures?" she asked when they had finished laughing. "Rochdale and Ashton canals?"

  "I shall go to Manchester tomorn," he said, standing to leave. "I'll drop in at their offices and get the specifications and invitations to tender. Those…are the winning tenders. I imagine the others are already submitted."

  She ran upstairs after he had gone, hoping to watch him through the telescope; but her attention was distracted by a man on horseback, wearing a bright green cloak. He had reined in at the curve just this side of Stone House and was looking down over the workings with a curiosity that was far from passing or idle. She knew from the way he strained upright in his saddle that he was watching John to the very last visible step as he vanished below ground. And then, as if to confirm the object of his interest, he turned full face to her and looked directly up at Rough Stones.

  She almost pulled away, guilty at being caught spying; but experience and her own eyes had taught her that the telescope was not remarkable at that distance and that a person behind it, in the dark of the interior, was as good as invisible. So she endured his apparent scrutiny without flinching, and she looked long and hard at him. He was certainly interested in John and in this house. And he was certainly handsome, with dark, deepset eyes above prominent, almost feminine cheekbones, and full but finely chiselled lips—all framed in ringlets of glossy black hair. It was a face of contradictions—at first sight sensitive, delicate, even frail, yet closer inspection revealed an arrogance in the eyes, a firmness in the mouth, a strength in the line of the jaw.

  He turned from his scrutiny of the house and looked at the line of shafts now being widened into ventilation chimneys. Then, all very leisurely, he faced south and set his mount toward Littleborough at a slow trot. She recognized the horse, too; a seven-year-old washy chestnut mare with the near hock partly stockinged; a hack from the stables in Littleborough. She was going to Littleborough tomorrow, in any case. It would do no harm to make one or two inquiries.

  McGinty, who was considered the quidnunc of the Walsden end of the valley, had never heard tell of the fellow when she described him the following day. It ruled out any chance that he had come from, or stayed in, the Vale. So she rode over to Littleborough in the afternoon.

  Clifford, the ostler at the livery there, remembered the man, for he had dealt with him himself. A Mr. Dow, of London. A scholar, he had said, with an especial interest in civil engineering and modes of transport.

  "Did he say why he had come here? I mean why to Littleborough?"

  "'E said it were th'Blackstone Gap brung 'im. Ye could see all three modes there side-be-side. Canal, turnpike, an' th'railroad."

  She went next to the Royal Oak, where, according to Clifford, the mysterious Mr. Dow had stopped the night. Nancy Spur, the landlord's wife, assuming that Nora's interest was romantic, because of the visitor's handsome physique, found no difficulty in breaking her husband's rule not to talk about guests to outsiders— and in any case, Nora could hardly be classed as an outsider. Mr. Dow was a Mr. Nathan Dow and he had given his address as c/o Benjamin Tighe, Calthorpe Arms, Gray's Inn Road, in Holborn. He was a great dandy, though he came with a servant, and he had three trunks of clothes and only stayed two days. And that was funny because there'd been a mix-up because his luggage hadn't got his initials but his cousin's. But she couldn't remember now what the initials on the trunks had been. Then one of the maids said it was C—NC—she remembered that because she said his cousin must be called "Cow" and he hadn't laughed. Oh but wasn't he handsome!

  Nora left Littleborough satisfied with her day's inquiries. Mr. Dow was just a handsome, passing stranger. They could forget him.

  The following Tuesday—a week before their London visit—they got the second jolt of the earthquake that was to shake them from their measured circular tour. It was just past midnight and they had been asleep three hours when she awoke with a strong conviction that something was wrong; all her senses came swiftly alive. She felt across the bed to nudge John awake. But John was not there.

  There was a creaking on the stair.

  "John?" she cried.

  "Aye!" It was he who had been creeping up the stairs; now, relieved at being able to walk normally, he came into the room.

  Meanwhile, she had noticed that a flickering red light was playing on their bedroom ceiling. One of the hovels below must be on fire! She sprang from the bed and crossed swiftly to the window. Her hand flew to her mouth and she breathed sharply in, not believing, not daring to believe, what she saw. "John!" she cried out. "The shop! The offices—it's all burning!"

  She turned frantically to him. But he was smiling! Grimly, it is true, and with a savage kind of satisfaction, as if he were already assured of a triumph—but he was smiling. He lifted something into the light. His shotgun!

  "Are they still there?" he asked and stooped to peer through the telescope, which was set for her height. He smiled again, the same grim smile.

  "Who?" she asked.

  He left the room quickly. "See for yourself," he said. "It's taken them four months to drink down enough courage for this. Don't make a sound and don't come after me."

  Nora scanned the burning site with her telescope. She saw many figures, all young men, darting around and among the flames, but it was quite a while before she saw one she recognized—Richard Redmayne, the one whose spur John had taken at the Christmas Eve party in the Hall. He stood with one or two of his mob, arms folded, watching the fire consume their business. He smiled like a universal benefactor.

  She raged and fumed alone there in the bedroom. How she wished telescopes would work in reverse, so that she could line it up on him and discharge her pistol down it, being certain of hitting him. She began to dress—or, at least, to cover
herself as much as propriety would require, buttoned up or no. Did John really think she would stay obediently up here? And what the hell did he mean tiptoeing around the house while the offices and the shop, the entire plant of John Stevenson, Contractor, went up in smoke? And why were those young ruffians standing there as if no danger threatened?

  In shawl and dress, a limp and cumbersome thing without its petticoats, she slipped out through the front door and, hitching it up to her knees, tripped silently down the lane to the turnpike. At the bottom an urgent Sssss! made her flatten against the hedge.