Ruby McBride

by Freda Lightfoot

  ‘Why should that surprise you? Did you take me for some sort of harlot, just because I was brought up in the reformatory? Well, maybe I am. Maybe I have more experience than you think.’

  In one fluid movement of defiance she ripped open the buttons of her dress, pushing it back over bare shoulders to let it fall to the ground. She stood before him in her short cotton shift, her uptilted breasts revealing the outline of dark nipples beneath the thin fabric.

  He watched, mesmerised by her beauty as she turned from him and strode away, slender and graceful, into his cabin.

  Quietly, he followed her, and closed the door.

  Ruby turned to face him, giving no indication of the inner turmoil she was experiencing, save in the way her eyes flaunted her contempt and in the bravado of her words. ‘I’ll not make it easy for you.’

  ‘I very much hope, Ruby, that you will enjoy this as much as I.’

  If she did, she made every effort not to show it. Ruby bit down hard on any cry which he might mistake for ecstasy, for all her fingers clung tightly to his broad shoulders. And although she did not offer up her mouth for his kisses, when he claimed it anyway her lips seemed to open for him of their own accord, very much against her will. Even her skin seemed to flare with desire at his touch, causing her to react with a shameful wantonness, to beg him for more.

  He made no concessions to her innocence but took his fill of her, meaning to staunch his need once and for all, only to find, after that first climactic exorcism, that he could not resist loving her all over again. His greater gentleness the second time, was her final undoing. Ruby McBride, that stalwart of stubborn pride and fierce rebellion, crumbled beneath the onslaught of this tender passion and wept as he cradled her in his arms.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Bart stood on his soap box on the quay before his normally stalwart and loyal supporters, feeling close to exasperation. His carefully rehearsed speech on how he, together with a select band of workers, would approach Pickering and demand that he acknowledge the union and concede to at least some of the men’s requests: showers and lavatory facilities, safety procedures put into place, and a decent rate of pay, had been listened to with close attention. There’d been mumbles of agreement all round, rousing cheers at times. Some had been sufficiently stirred by his passion to call out the odd, ‘Hear! Hear!’

  But when he’d asked for volunteers to accompany him, it was as if they shrivelled before his eyes. Their faces seemed to close up, and they looked anywhere but into his eyes. Some sloped quietly away, leaving others hesitantly to express their appreciation of the baron’s efforts on their behalf but explain how they personally couldn’t do anything to help, for one reason or another. Their wife was sick, there was a child on the way or some relative had died. Less than half the excuses were genuine for not one of them was willing to be a member of this select band, or to take up the cause on behalf of their colleagues. Some offered no apology at all, but simply denounced the idea out of hand.

  ‘Waste of time. We’d get nowhere.’

  ‘Aye, and look what he did to Sparky.’

  ‘How can working men take on employers? It isn’t reasonable to ask’

  ‘He’d probably refuse even to talk to us.’

  ‘It’s not like there are other jobs we could go to.’ Tom Wright said. ‘All employers are as bad. And there’s a score or more chaps waiting every morning for work down at the docks. Maybe six’ll be taken on out of a long line of hopefuls. And every day it gets worse. The foreman always picks his favourites. You only need to get yourself a reputation as a troublemaker, or worse, a union activist, and that’s it. You’re done for.’

  The men all looked at Bart in aggrieved silence and he could guess what they were thinking: that it was easy for him to talk. He had a bit of money in the bank, and he wasn’t the one in danger of losing his job. Bart had offered Sparky some work on his own barges, which he’d finally accepted, once convinced it wasn’t out of charity and that he was genuinely needed. Bart suspected Aggie had had something to do with this change of heart. But it wasn’t in his power to give work to them all.

  It was Sparky himself who broke the silence which threatened to undermine the entire meeting. ‘Much as we might like to deny it, Tom’s right. Bosses hand out the work and we’re the ones who need it. There’s nowt we can do, and they know it. They’ve got us over a barrel.’

  Bart protested that this kind of defeatist talk would get them nowhere, but the argument continued to range back and forth, going round and round in endless circles, the most prevalent response being that everyone thought it a good idea to wring better conditions out of the bosses, so long as they weren’t asked to be the ones to do it.

  One man even insisted that it wouldn’t be patriotic to take any risk which might result in a strike. Most, however, were simply too hungry or too afraid of losing the work they did pick up in Pickering’s wharf, however irregular, to risk it.

  Giles Pickering owned one of the largest carrying companies in the district and though he could never be accused of philanthropy, there was no question that he possessed power. He was an important employer, rivalling the Ship Canal Company itself, far too big for any of them to take on.

  Their fear was palpable. It hung on the evening air like acrid smoke which Bart could almost taste in the back of his throat.

  Nevertheless, he persisted. ‘You should at least try. Can’t you see that? Don’t expect the government to solve your problems. Certainly not this Conservative government.’

  Tom, ever cautious, refused to accept this. ‘They’re holding a Royal Commission on Trade Disputes and Combinations. They mean to sort it all out. All we have to do is hang on to us jobs in the meantime.’

  ‘They’ll fudge it, as always,’ Bart argued. ‘They haven’t appointed one single union member to serve on it. Where’s the resolution to improve conditions for the working man? How is it that the wealthy employer is allowed to pay money into clubs and political organisations of which he is a member, but the working man is not permitted to contribute through his own union to the political party of his choice? It’s intolerable. If you want unions to be accepted and taken note of, if you want your working conditions improved, you’ll have to do it yourself. First on a local level and then nationally. There’s no other way. The truth is, if you don’t fight, you won’t win.’

  ‘And what about our childer?’ one man, known as Flitch, called out. He was a big, burly chap who worked as skipper on a Pickering-owned pair of barges. ‘They need an education, same as town childer do. What about his promise to get us a school for them?’

  ‘What good did schooling ever do anyone? Our childer need to know how to manage a boat to be sure of a safe future. What more do they want?’ Sparky countered.

  ‘We could all be out of work tomorrow if the Ship Canal doesn’t start making more profit,’ Tom warned. ‘So we have to tread carefully.’

  ‘But we could at least have some proper privies on the canal bank.’

  They were off again on another tack of grievances, more concerned now with the plight of their wives and children who travelled the canal system with them, moving from one local authority to another - Manchester, Cheshire, Liverpool, Leeds - so that no local inspector could quite catch up with them to check on how much schooling their children were getting, if any at all. And nothing got done to improve their lot.

  Bart listened with patience till they finally ran out of steam, then he held up his hands for quiet. ‘It’s no good grumbling when you insist on taking your entire brood with you in overcrowded, unsanitary conditions on board your boats. But if you want better provision for your families, decent lavatories, laundry, showers and washing facilities, which is all very laudable, you have to do something about it. So what is your decision? Do we send a deputation to Pickering, or sit back and take what he throws at us? Isn’t it time you aired these grievances directly to him?’

  A long and uncomfortable silence, then Flitch stepped forward, w
iping his hands on the back of his grubby trousers. ‘We all reckon it would be best if it came from you. We’re good at shifting stuff about, shovelling and lifting and managing our boats. You’re the one who thinks and talks well.’

  ‘You never thought before you spoke in your entire life, Flitch,’ Sparky yelled good-naturedly, and the big man grinned.

  ‘That’s what I mean. Not my line of country, thinking. I leave all that brain work to the wife.’ He glanced about at the other men who were nodding, just as if they had held a debate and come to an agreement. Bart could guess what was coming, and braced himself for it. ‘We’d rather you spoke up fer us. We reckon as how Pickering’d be more likely to listen to you. You’re one of his own kind like. So we wants you to be our spokesman.’

  ‘You want me to tackle Pickering on my own?’

  ‘Aye. With our backing like, but - aye - on yer own.’

  The brave words faded into silence and Bart knew that they’d lost. Whatever argument he personally presented to their tyrannical employer, would be instantly rejected. They couldn’t have picked a worse representative for their cause.

  Bart’s request for an interview was turned down, not simply once but on three separate occasions. Finally, some six weeks after the meeting with the men on the dockside, Giles Pickering finally agreed to receive him.

  The two men confronted each other in the plush interior of Pickering’s office and it seemed for a while that neither was willing to be the one to broach the subject they were clearly there to address. The older man ostentatiously drew out his pocket watch to indicate that his time was precious and there was a limit to how long he was prepared to tolerate this imposition. Uninvited, Bart drew up a red velvet, button backed chair and sat down, spreading his long legs as he reclined in comfort upon it.

  ‘As arrogant as ever, I see.’

  Bart offered his crooked smile then leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. ‘Is it not possible for us to have a civilised conversation for once?’

  ‘That is entirely up to you, Barthram. You are welcome in my office at any time, as you well know. I’m sure I’ve never intended to cause offence by my actions.’ And in complete contradiction to these words Pickering continued, ‘Where are your lackeys, your mates from the docks? Don’t tell me they are trusting you to solve their petty problems?’ The mockery in his tone was unmistakable but Bart held on to his patience, albeit with difficulty, grinding his teeth together and clenching his fists in the effort required to stop himself from marching out of the door or, better still, planting one of them in the other man’s face and knocking that sardonic expression into Kingdom come.

  ‘Lackey’ was precisely the sort of word Pickering would choose. That or slave, minion or underling. He was a man who considered himself without equal. The cold, ascetic face with its trim beard and neatly clipped moustache, slick black hair which gleamed in the shaft of sunlight from the tall Georgian window, and the expensively tailored three-piece suit, broadcast loud and clear his good opinion of himself.

  ‘So get on with it. I can’t stand about here all day.’

  By way of reply, Bart pulled out a sheet of paper from his inside pocket, unfolded it and laid it on the desk before him. ‘Our list of demands.’

  ‘That sounds very like a threat.’ Pickering opened a humidor and took out a cigar. He did not offer one to the younger man. As he went through the business of clipping and lighting it, he scanned the paper before him. ‘Preposterous! Only a fool would agree to such demands. Schools? Showers? Safety precautions? By heck, it’s a load of namby-pamby nonsense.’

  ‘It may have slipped your attention but this is a new era, a new century in fact. The Victorian age is gone.’

  ‘Aye, and with it any sense of decency.’

  ‘These people are poor. If you, as their employer, can improve their living and working conditions, it behoves you to do so. They deserve better.’

  Giles Pickering blew out a cloud of noxious cigar smoke. ‘It behoves them to improve the state of their morals. If they’re in difficulties, it’s of their own doing. It’s not the responsibility of the state or employers to correct those evils, but themselves. Less profanity and drunkenness and happen they’d be better able to put a bit by.’

  ‘Out of what you pay them? Don’t make me laugh.’

  Pickering grew red in the face. ‘I had to make my own way in the world, so I don’t see why I should pity them what squanders their wages.’

  ‘You succeeded by being utterly ruthless and stepping on anyone who got in your way.’

  ‘It worked, didn’t it? Not that it stopped you behaving like some sort of plaster saint.’

  Bart stood up, thrusting back the chair as his patience came close to snapping point. ‘I knew I would be wasting my time. When have you ever listened to anyone’s point of view but your own? When have you ever cared who you hurt so long as you get your own way, in business as in everything else?’

  Pickering’s face creased into tight lines of fury. ‘So we’re dragging up old history now, are we?’

  Bart planted two tightly clenched fists on the desk as he leaned closer. ‘What you did to Alice was despicable! As for my mother. . .’

  ‘Get out! I’ll not be vilified in me own office.’

  Bart strode to the door, pausing with his hand grasping the brass knob as he recalled the real purpose of his visit. This wasn’t the moment to pursue personal vengeance. He must save all of that for later. The time would come. What mattered now was his mission, his promise to the men. He took a deep, steadying breath and again turned to face his adversary.

  ‘All these men are asking for is a fair rate of pay and decent conditions for themselves and their families. It doesn’t all have to happen overnight, but some sign of goodwill on your part might help to prevent further trouble in the future.’

  The older man’s face grew florid and blotched with temper. ‘Don’t you threaten me with talk of your bloody strikes. I’ll sue anybody who damages my business. If men aren’t hungry, why would they work? That’s all I have to say. Nothing more!’

  ‘And I have nothing more to say to you, Father. Nor ever will have.’

  Kit had never expected the baron to be an easy quarry. Somehow or other, no matter what the risks involved, he needed to devise a workable plan, one that rid them of Barthram Stobbs but kept his working boats. Kit could make good money out of those barges. He said as much to Pearl night after night. Not that she listened.

  ‘Who cares about a few boats? Money is far more useful. Hasn’t that sister of mine managed to get her hands on any yet?’

  Frowning, Kit explained the difficulties; that although Ruby was eager enough to leave her husband, she was less keen to rob him.

  Pearl gave a derisive snort of disbelief. ‘Don’t tell me your charms are failing? I’ll accept that sister of mine always did have a mind of her own, but you should have had her eating out of your hand by now. I’ve been waiting all year for that bright new start you promised me. The fancy frocks, a place of our own, money to jingle in my pocket. How much longer do I have to wait?’

  ‘Not much longer, Pearl. Not long now.’

  ‘The waiting won’t be worth it if all we get at the end is a pair of bloody barges. A string of working girls to earn us brass would do us more good, so’s I don’t have to turn tricks any more. Mind you, I’d be that sorry to pack it in. I take pride in me work, I do that. And you aren’t the only chap what fancies me, Kit Jarvis, don’t think you are. Happen it’s time I came out of hiding and tackled Barthram Stobbs meself. I’m good at squeezing a bit of cash out of a bloke.’

  ‘No, Pearl. It’s too soon. The minute Ruby finds you she might simply take you to live with them in that poxy little house on Quay Street. There’s nothing she’d like better than having you under her thumb again, all safe and sound. She talks of little else, spends every minute she can searching for you when she’s not working on the boats.’

  ‘And I’m sick of not daring to
go out and about as much as I’d like. She’s stubborn is our Ruby, and if she keeps on asking for me, she’s bound to come upon one of me gentlemen sooner or later. Then the fat will be in the fire.’ Pearl shrugged her shoulders, nearly bare in the flimsy nightgown she wore, and sauntered over to the dressing table to pour herself a tot of gin. ‘Mebbe I should let her find me. I could happen get my hands on the money a lot quicker.

  Kit sat chewing his nails, annoyed with her for stating the obvious, a fact he was well aware of and worried him constantly. The last thing he wanted was for Ruby to find Pearl too soon, let alone discover how she earned her living. She’d consider it her duty to save her sister. And Kit’s need for the money Pearl earned him was far greater. It was the reason he insisted she stay indoors as much as possible, at least until he had his hands on something more substantial and long-lasting, like those barges. Even Pearl’s beauty wouldn’t last forever. But she was right, they couldn’t go on like this for much longer. One day their luck would run out. But first, he had to work out a plan.

  ‘He’s a slippery character is the baron, and no fool. He’d be sure to get suspicious if you suddenly turned up out of the blue and then started wheedling him.

  Pearl tossed back the gin and refilled her glass. ‘We have to do something. We can’t afford to hang about.’

  ‘I know. I know. I’ve never missed a trick yet, and don’t intend to start now. Not after everything I’ve gone through, and all because of your sister. She owes me good and proper, I’ll tell you that for nowt. All we have to do is put our brains to steep and come up with some way to lighten the baron of enough of his wealth to see us in clover, without him ever suspecting he’s been robbed.’