‘Yes please, Papa.’
Eliot settled the child on the rug with his toys then went back over to the sofa to sit beside her, hands hanging loosely on his knees, his gaze never leaving Callum. ‘I want it to be right for him. For Tyson’s to be a good, strong business. For his future to be secure.’
‘Sure and it will be.’ Kate curled her feet under her and listened enraptured as he began to talk, to speak of his plans for the business, explaining how he hoped to save it from the current depression it seemed to be in by buying a new warehouse.
‘We’ll keep certain classic lines always in stock, so that our customers won’t have to wait quite so long for fresh supplies. We need to keep their loyalty, and if they feel we have stock ready and waiting, we’re more likely to get it.’
Kate was touched by his willingness to share these thoughts and dreams with her. Could he possibly be taking her seriously at last? ‘You should consider designing footwear yourself. Aren’t you the clever one with your pencil and eye for colour?’
He gave a disbelieving chuckle. ‘Maybe I will one day. Who knows? For now, I shall stick to the tried and true lines, for safety.’ The smile faded, to be replaced by a frown. ‘You know there are murmurs of war in the Balkans, that Europe is in crisis. We’ve had the assassination of the King and Crown Prince of Portugal, and the arms race continues to gather momentum on all sides, one can only assume for good reason. Do you understand something of this, Kate?’
She looked at him with blank incomprehension. ‘Not much, but I hear talk in the kitchen.’
‘As if that isn’t bad enough, Tyson’s has been badly hit by Charles’s overspending, by my having to bail him out of the near bankruptcy of his new firm, and now by his untimely death. Somehow, we have to claw our way back from all of that and strengthen our position before whatever is about to happen in Europe, eventually erupts. It isn’t going to be easy.’
Kate was silent for a long time, striving to understand what he’d said, to appreciate his confiding in her and to comprehend the implications. ‘It won’t help the business having that evil monster as foreman.’
Eliot gave a low groan. ‘Don’t spoil this moment with that old chestnut. Not again, Kate.’
‘Old chestnut is it? I can see why it pays you to turn a blind eye, making a fat profit out of the outworkers in order to rescue the company, but what about my friend Millie? She’s trapped by that nasty little toad.’
She was on her feet now, needing to get this worry off her chest once and for all; to let her anger explode instead of having it fester inside her head as it had done for so long. She wanted to see that nasty, no-good Swainson who’d robbed and pawed her, beaten up Dermot, and was now practising his wickedness on Millie, get his come-uppance at last. ‘You think not? You think he isn’t an evil little shite, do you? Then listen to this. I’ll tell you about Ned Swainson, so I will, and you can decide for yourself if he is or not.
‘The fact of the matter is that Millie, that’s her name, me friend. She’s in dead trouble. I doubt ye’ve ever met her but she took over my outwork after I came here, and Swainson is up to his old tricks again. Worse, he’s making her pay for the privilege of working for Tyson’s in ways he shouldn’t; ways I wouldn’t care to describe to a gentleman such as yeself. But ’tisn’t right, and the man should be punished for abusing a woman in that terrible way.’
For once he let her speak without interruption. She told him bluntly all about Millie, what she’d been forced to do in order to earn a crust to feed her babies, and still he said nothing. ‘So what the bleedin’ hell are ye going to do about it, eh?’ Kate challenged him.
Chapter Nineteen
Swainson had believed himself to be safe. With Charles gone, there was no one now to point the finger and cast any blame in his direction. He’d got clean away with his part in the fraud, which made him chuckle with pleasure. Admittedly the factory was struggling, going through some hard times, and Charlie Boy topping himself hadn’t helped one bit. He’d been ready to object if he’d been asked to take a cut in wages, although he wouldn’t have protested too much had men been laid off, so long as his own job was safe. So Eliot Tyson telling him, with polite but cool detachment in his tone, that perhaps it would be best if he were to find alternative employment elsewhere, was like a bolt from the blue.
‘I shall give you an excellent reference, do my utmost to assist you to find something which suits. And you can have more than the usual week’s notice, a month if you need it, but I think it best if you go.’
Swainson could sense that his employer was not relishing this unpleasant task, was clearly anxious to get it over and done with as speedily as possible. Yet what were the grounds for dismissal? What could Tyson have on him? It riled Swainson to think somebody might have been telling tales about him, whether they were true or not, he’d like to know who it was. He made up his mind to be as difficult as possible. He’d certainly no intention of going quietly.
‘And might I ask what offence I’ve caused, to be so summarily dismissed?’
Eliot had no wish to discuss so delicate a matter. He knew the man would simply deny it. There was no proof, after all. It would be Millie’s word against his. ‘Let’s say I’m making a few changes. If Tyson’s is to move forward in this new century, then we must dispose of old fashioned systems from the past. Allowing dust and dirt and disease, which naturally comes from working with leather, to be taken into people’s homes is counter-productive to that end. We must modernise.’
Swainson could feel a heat rising beneath his collar, spreading up his neck and jaw; a stink of sweat starting from under his armpits. Admittedly, he had no wife to go home to with excuses or explanations, no children who would suffer from his fall from grace, but he would suffer. He would lose face, and he couldn’t tolerate the thought of that. The men would laugh at him, saying he’d had it coming, and he wouldn’t be able to enjoy his little perks any more. Beaten by a mere girl from Poor House Lane. Oh aye, he could guess who had split on him. That little Irish whore with the big mouth. He’d seen her round the factory enough times lately, seeking the opportunity to spread her gossip. ‘So what have I done exactly? You’ve never had no complaints before. If this is about that lass from Poor House Lane, she’s had it in fer me ever since I chucked her. Had a fancy fer me once over, she did, but she’s not my sort. Don’t reckon she cared fer being cast off though, silly cow.’
‘I really have no wish to hear details of your past love life.’ It appalled him to think of Kate and this man together. What was he thinking of, letting himself be captivated by her? Yet he had to believe in her. He must. He thrust the picture from his mind as he got up from his desk to move to the window and look out over the factory buildings.
Swainson hated him for that proprietorial air alone. Most men of his class didn’t show the least interest in business, being content to take the profit and leave the dirty work to the employees. Why couldn’t Tyson be like that? Why couldn’t he keep his interfering nose out of what didn’t concern him.
Eliot cleared his throat before continuing, ‘You’ll be aware that I’ve endured more than my fair share of tragedies, but I still have my son to consider and, as I say, there are to be radical changes. I intend to build a warehouse for stock-holding which is the latest, most modern way of thinking, I believe. I shall extend the factory and, in the fullness of time, outwork will be stopped, and all manufacturing done within the factory itself.’
‘For which you do not think me capable? Why is that?’
A short pause and then Eliot turned to him with a bland and distant smile. ‘I think that perhaps we need new blood. Yes, that’s it exactly. New blood. New ideas. A new beginning. Trade has not been good, as you know, what with the increase in the price of leather, competition from America, and rumblings of war which has added to the scarcity of raw materials, not forgetting our own personal difficulties. Losing my brother leaves me responsible for his family too, you understand. Money is tight, so we m
ust do something fairly radical if Tyson’s is to survive.’
The man was lecturing him as if he, the foreman of this dratted factory, didn’t understand the first thing about the industry. ‘I know all of this and you do realise I could go to one of your competitors, or start my own enterprise.’
‘You must do as you think fit, whatever suits you best. Any future employer can come to me for the necessary character references. And of course you’ll be provided with a handsome bonus for your long years of service.’ There was a note of dismissal now in the tone, of wanting to draw the interview to a close, and nothing he had said gave Swainson one iota of reassurance. What kind of character reference would that be, he wondered.
‘I feel I must object, most strongly.’
‘I’m afraid there is no more to said on the subject.’
‘I could speak to my union. They’ll have something to say.’
Tyson’s frown deepened and his jaw set into a hard line. ‘That is not an action I would recommend. Matters could get even more – unpleasant – were you to make a fuss. Go quietly, Swainson, if you’ve any sense.’
And that was it, the end of the line with Tyson’s, cast off and dismissed like a pair of worn out shoes, to be replaced by new blood! Swainson was almost choking with rage, for he knew well enough who to blame for this decision, who to hold responsible. She’d had her revenge after all, the scheming little minx. Oh, but they’d find they couldn’t cast him off quite so easily.
Fanny tied a sacking apron over her skirt, picked up the first candlestick and the bottle of silver cleaner with a weary sigh. The aunts were constantly finding her things to clean and her fingers were sore with all the scrubbing and polishing she had to do these days. The work seemed endless. She’d leave this place tomorrow if only she could persuade Dennis to go with her.
Mrs Petty sat opposite, comfortably ensconced in her housekeeper’s chair with her skirt tucked up above her knees and her feet soaking like fat white fish in an enamel bowl of salt water. There was just the pair of them in the kitchen, Ida having gone off to see old Askew and bring in the vegetables for the evening meal. In theory, this was supposed to be Fanny’s rest hour after lunch, but Aunt Vera had insisted the silver be polished now, without delay.
‘Clean enough to see my face in it, Fanny,’ she’d instructed.
‘Silly old besom. Who’d want to see her vinegar face in owt, sour as an old pickle.’
‘What was that, Fanny?’ Mrs Petty opened her eyes, dragging her mind away from the blissful warmth of the water soothing her bunions.
Realising she’d spoken her thoughts out loud, Fanny quickly improvised, remembering a tidbit of information she’d heard from Dennis only that morning. ‘I were thinking of what a pickle we’d all be in if the factory closed. We might all lose us jobs then, eh?’
‘Don’t be foolish, girl. The factory isn’t going to close, and no one’s going to lose their jobs.’
‘Dennis told me only this morning how there’d been a threat of another strike. That Jack Milburn and his cronies, Bill Grigson and Tom Perry, weren’t they the ringleaders responsible for the last one? Well, they’ve threatened to call another if Swainson isn’t reinstated.’
Mrs Petty leaned forward, all ears. The last thing she wanted was to risk losing her position, not when she was so close to achieving that little house she’d set her heart on, on the Fylde coast. Trouble at the factory had a nasty habit of rebounding on them all. ‘What’s this about a strike? Don’t garble , girl, draw breath and tell the story proper.’
Fanny set down the candlestick, glad of the distraction and began to relate her tale. ‘Dennis says that Jack Milburn were waiting fer t’master t’other morning, that pock-marked face of his hard as iron, demanding to know why the foreman had been dismissed. The master looked a bit flabbergasted like, Dennis said, but he didn’t deny it and Milburn said he didn’t recall the subject being mentioned or the union being consulted on the matter.’
‘And why should he care?’ Mrs Petty tartly enquired.
‘Milburn says he might be the foreman but he’s also one of them, one of the workers; “Swainson might have his faults but the men are used to him. Gives us a fair hearing when we need one.” That’s what Jack Milburn said.’
Fanny had adopted a masculine tone of voice, rather fancying herself as an actress. Mrs Petty put a stop to it. ‘Get on with it, girl. Fair hearing indeed. Did Mr Tyson not tell him that there are some who would disagree?’
Fanny eagerly nodded, enjoying her performance. ‘That’s exactly what the master said. But Milburn puts on that snarl of his and says the men can’t be held responsible for folk what don’t like him.’
‘Nasty piece of merchandise, that Milburn. Stoke up trouble in a barrel of herrings, he would.’
Fanny lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘Dennis said that at this point there were a snort of laughter from someone at the back of the crowd. Then one chap, Billy Branthwaite, says, “And some women are mighty grateful for his care and attention.” Can you believe it? What a thing to say?’ Fanny’s eyes grew round with excitement. ‘Course, Dennis says that Jack and his mate Bill Grigson are probably in cahoots with Swainson over nice little sidelines they’ve got going for ‘em, and other little jobs they do for him, like seeing to that Irish lad that time. You know, Kate O’Connor’s brother. Gave him a right pasting, apparently.’
Mrs Petty had forgotten all about her sore feet as she listened with avid attention to Fanny’s tale. ‘Is this some yarn yer spinning me girl?’
‘Nay, it’s gospel truth. Jack Milburn doesn’t bat an eyelid over these ribald comments about Swainson, says how the men were quite happy with him, that no one’s bloody perfect.’
‘Language, Fanny.’
‘Sorry Mrs Petty, but that were Jack Milburn what said that, not me. Then he reminds the master how it wouldn’t do the factory no good at all if there were to be another strike. “Happen you underestimate the strength of feeling among the men,” he says. Then asks if he’s had any complaints from the women outworkers, and t’boss says he hasn’t. Course, who would listen if they did complain, Mrs P? Men never do listen, do they? My Dennis might as well be deaf, blind and dumb for all the notice he takes when I talk to him.’
‘Get on with your story, girl. What happened next?’
‘Well then Milburn smiles, if you can call it a smile. With them nasty yellow teeth he looks more like a ferret. Says he’s heard of no complaints. Not one. “What about you lads?” he asks, turning to his mates, who of course all back him up.’
Fanny puts on a sneer in imitation of Milburn’s expression. ‘We’d advise you to let him keep his job then, Mr Tyson, for the sake of the company. All right? Best all round, wouldn’t you say?’
‘And is he going to?’ Mrs Petty breathlessly enquired as she attempted to lift her feet, now gone quite cold, from the bowl and dry them off.
‘Well he must, don’t yer reckon, since he don’t want the firm to go under, and seeing as how he’s knocking off the nursemaid. So how can he blame Swainson for doing the self-same thing?’
‘Mrs Petty knocked the bowl flying as her feet crashed to the floor in shock, sending water splashing everywhere. He’s what?’ She really should put a stop to this impertinence forthwith, but hardly able to catch her breath or contain her curiosity, she could only warn, ‘Mind what you say, lass. You’d best have proof for such an accusation.’
‘Oh, I’ve proof all right. Saw her wi’ me own eyes, didn’t I? Coming from his room one morning, naked as the day she were born.’
It took no time at all for this delicious morsel to fly all around town and once more Eliot felt the cold shoulder of hostility. Whatever he had suffered previously was nothing by comparison. On that occasion the rumours had been entirely untrue, a complete fiction devised by Lucy’s malicious tongue. This time he knew that he had no defence. He was guilty. He had indeed taken the girl to his bed. He could not deny it. Friends he had known for years crossed the
road rather than speak to him. Customers cancelled orders, Whineray asked if he might wish to consider resigning from the Town Council, which Eliot bluntly refused to do. Even his own servants either froze him with the ferocity of their disapproval or sniggered behind their hands.
Never having been the kind of man who took advantage of those in his employ, Eliot still couldn’t believe how very stupidly he’d behaved, and deeply regretted his actions. The girl seemed to have bewitched him and he couldn’t get her out of his head. Perhaps it was time that he at least get her out of his house.
It was a day or two later, a crisp autumn afternoon and the aunts were out, either ‘going visiting’ or ‘paying calls’. Kate was playing hide and seek with Callum on the lawn. There weren’t many places to hide and she didn’t allow him to go anywhere near the outhouses but he was still of that age when, if he had his eyes covered and couldn’t see you, he believed he couldn’t be seen either. Kate would count to ten, pretend to hunt for him and then catch him, swing him up in her arms and kiss his plump, flushed cheeks. His floppy woollen beret which she had knitted herself and was meant to keep his head warm in the winter sunshine, would slide off and roll away, and then they’d both chase it, pop it back on and start all over again.
‘Catch me again, Mammy. Catch me again.’
Ever since Amelia had died, she’d allowed him to start calling her by that name again, so long as they were alone. It was their secret.
The game came to an abrupt halt when she saw Eliot striding across the garden and, grabbing Callum up into her arms, she set off quickly in pursuit. There were matters she still needed to discuss with him: not only whether or not Callum was to be sent away to school as the aunts had threatened, but also Millie’s situation and whether he had done anything about that yet. This seemed as good a moment as any.
Kate caught up with him beneath the rose arbour. He used often to cut roses to bring into the house for Amelia during her long illness, and now he hovered uncertainly, clippers in hand, seemingly trying to decide whether to cut a few late blooms or not.
The Girl From Poorhouse Lane Page 23