‘That’s altogether different.’
‘And besides,’ he added with a wry smile, ‘I fight scarcely anyone now.’
She looked at him sadly, watching him stirring his coffee into swirls. Could he not see that it would never do? Philip, so pleasant and kind, so sensible – and so conventional, from his smoothly parted, butter-coloured hair and high collar to his polished boots. He would always follow the correct road; he was born to do so. Whereas she . . . she might well have a stormy path in front of her, but at least she might have lived on the way.
He said seriously, ‘Laura, I think you should take this opportunity.’
There was something he wasn’t telling her, which was not like him. Philip and secrets didn’t go together.
‘And what if the opportunity isn’t one this Mr Ainsley Beaumont would wish to take up? He may not think I’m suitable – for one thing, I’m not qualified. Not to mention the fact that he hasn’t even seen me.’
‘Apparently it’s nothing very specialized, and he doesn’t need to see you, he says. Not if you are someone recommended by us. We’ve acted for him for years, he trusts us implicitly and he’ll go by what we say.’
Despite the nonchalance he tried to assume, the ‘we’ as he said it sounded a trifle self-conscious. With the Arroway part of Carfax, Arroway and Carfax having long since occupied a place beneath a marble slab in the churchyard, and the senior Carfax, Philip’s father, being seriously afflicted at the moment with gout which had resulted in having himself driven down to Bath for a month’s Spa-Cure, Philip was finding himself solely responsible for making the firm’s decisions for the first time.
‘Think about it, Laura. But don’t rely entirely on me; I suggest you ask your uncle’s advice.’
‘I don’t think I need to do that,’ she returned, somewhat sharply, but then she smiled. ‘I’ve rather learnt to like making my own decisions, you know.’
And instantly her mind was made up. Sorting out books hardly sounded as exciting a prospect as she might have wished, but perhaps Philip was right, and something peaceful like that was what she needed, a period in which to take stock after the rough and tumble of life in the Stepney house.
Two
Laura had come into the childless lives of Lillian and George Imrie at the age of eighteen months, after both her parents had been killed in a railway accident, when an express train in which they had been travelling had collided with a stationary one, a disaster in which fourteen people in all were killed. She dutifully kept a photograph of them on the mantelpiece in her bedroom, one given to the Imries by an old cousin, the only relative the dead couple had had between them, a woman who was herself now deceased.
They disappointed Laura. An uncompromising pair, both looked as though they might never have been young. It seemed impossible to believe that the stony woman looking out of the frame had produced any child, much less her, Laura, and although she had to admit that must be where her sharp chin had come from, she did not care to think of anyone who could wear a hat like that being her mother. That was a thought she was a little ashamed of, however – it sounded too like one of Lillian’s sillier sentiments. And yet . . .
Lillian was easy-going and affectionate, not troubled too much by uncertainties such as wondering what she might have become had her life been otherwise. Married as she was to a good man whom she loved and respected, she could not conceive of any woman wishing any other existence. Her time was fully occupied with an endless social round and, since George was a senior partner in Imrie’s bank and a wealthy man, indulging her passion for spending his money. She had a beautiful skin, a wasp waist and a fine bosom, and spent many hours being measured and fitted for clothes which would enhance all three.
What Laura proposed to do was totally beyond her comprehension, ‘Yorkshire!’ she cried, as if it were the last place on earth fit for human habitation. ‘Dear child, you can’t think what it’s like up there!’
‘Goodness, I’m not committing myself to being there for life, Aunt, or even for very long. For the next few weeks, or for however long it might be, I’ll just follow my nose and take whatever comes, and hopefully enjoy the experience.’
‘Then I hope you are prepared to enjoy being frozen to death. When I was up there that time with your uncle for the grouse I cannot tell you how simply glacial it was.’
This occasion was one which was not often referred to by Lillian. Since neither she nor her husband normally moved in circles where Saturday-to-Monday grouse-shooting parties were usual, she had expected it to be a grand social occasion, one where she would make new and interesting friends. She had not bargained for the miserable, cold and wet affair it had turned out to be; much of the time spent standing behind the men on the soaking heather, applauding them as they shot as many birds as they could from the sky, while at other times the women in the party showed such excessive politeness to her she was made very much aware that she was not of their exclusive world. George had been under no illusions as to the reason for the invitation, which he knew was solely motivated by the impecuniousness of their host and his own ability to alleviate that circumstance, and it was no surprise to him that the weekend had not come up to Lillian’s expectations. But he was sorry for her and future invitations were not accepted.
Laura laughed now at her aunt’s renewed efforts to dissuade her from the horrid prospect she envisaged. ‘I shall scarcely be out on the moors all day, I shall be working for most of the time in a comfortable library.’
‘Cataloguing books, yes! Is this all your education has been for?’ cried Lillian, doing an about-face. She had known no good could come of it, though she had known Laura too well to do more than tokenly object: opposition was only too likely to strengthen her resolve. In private, she had confidently asserted to her husband, ‘She’ll never stick it for more than a month or two at most, mark my words, George.’
George had by no means been so sure. Women were very different now from what they had been in Lillian’s younger days, and in general he supported the idea that they should be well informed and educated if they so wished, though he had his doubts when it came to some of these fearsomely clever New Women, riding bicycles in bloomers and demanding the vote. But he believed that the very fact that Laura had set her mind on this course would make her see it through.
‘I did think that when you left that college,’ Lillian continued with a sigh, ‘I might have more of your company. But I suppose you’ll do as you wish, as usual.’
‘Oh, really, I don’t know what all the fuss is about.’ Laura was beginning to feel exasperated. ‘I shall be here, back home, long before the end of summer.’
‘We would never have been allowed to do this sort of thing when I was a girl. Going to goodness knows where, doing heaven knows what. You’ll be joining Eva Carfax and those women next.’
‘I’ve no intention of joining Eva,’ Laura replied shortly. Philip’s sister was her oldest and dearest friend, and they had few secrets from each other. At the moment, however, Laura was finding Eva, with her frustrated ambitions to become a journalist and her new-found enthusiasm for the Women’s Movement, a little too intense. The Women’s Social and Political Union which she had joined came up ‘at every verse end’ as Philip said, and Laura was in truth as glad of the respite from her as her brother was, since she had been ordered to accompany their widowed father on his recuperative trip to Bath. ‘Oh, do buck up, Aunt! I shall be home again directly, and meanwhile I shall do perfectly well, trust me.’ She fastened those clear, candid hazel eyes of hers on her aunt’s face and smiled. Lillian did not feel reassured.
Laura was fiddling while Rome burned. She was already twenty-one and it was high time she got rid of all this nonsense about being independent and doing good works, and got herself launched into society – by which Lillian meant finding a husband. Not Philip Carfax, however. Philip did not enter into the equation. He was likeable enough, but not one to fasten one’s hopes on. Besides, Laura would run rings roun
d the poor boy.
‘Well, at least all this will stop you going down to that terrible place in Stepney—’ she began, incautiously voicing her thoughts.
‘Please. Don’t.’
The dangerous spark in Laura’s eyes should have been warning enough. ‘Dearest child, it’s all very well for your friend Ruth to waste her life making cabbage soup and scrubbing floors for these women, she has her religion – and I’m sure these Quakers are wonderful from what one hears, but all the same . . .’
‘Aunt Lillian, the women scrub the floors themselves!’ Laura took a deep breath and held on to her temper. ‘And if only you could see what a difference living in that house does for them, even for a short time, you would not say any effort was wasted. Maybe you should come down one day and see for yourself before you make judgements.’
‘Yes, well, there’s no need for that, I’m sure,’ Lillian said, barely repressing a shudder. ‘Oh, by the way, there’s a box of clothes in my dressing room. Cox has been sorting through my wardrobe, it’s nearly Easter and I shall be needing my new spring fashions . . .’ She caught a glimpse of Laura’s expression in the mirror, coloured slightly and had the grace to look ashamed. ‘Well. Well, of course, they can be sold, I suppose.’
‘Yes, of course they can, Aunt, and thank you. The money will be appreciated,’ Laura said, getting up to kiss her. Lillian was really very good and kind, and it wasn’t her fault that it had not even entered her head that thin silk gowns, dainty cambric underwear and delicate shoes were unsuitable wear for penniless women for whom a warm skirt and a pair of resoled boots was the highest luxury they could hope for.
Unusually, Lillian joined her husband for the substantial breakfast he took to fortify himself before setting out for business, albeit in her wrapper and with her hair still in its night-time plait. The serious business of bathing, dressing, being laced into her stays, having her hair done and generally being prepared for the busy day ahead needed time and concentration.
She eschewed the porridge, nibbled on a piece of toast and sipped her tea while she screwed up her courage to mention yet again the matter that was constantly on her mind.
‘I do wish Philip Carfax hadn’t put this idea into Laura’s head,’ she began.
George set his coffee cup down and reached for more toast. ‘Philip Carfax is a fine young man,’ he replied, without taking his eyes off The Times.
‘Well, yes, there is no question of that. Though one does wonder, sometimes, if there is enough – if he isn’t a little too – well, sedate. For Laura, I mean.’
‘You know what they say about judging a book by its cover.’ George turned over the front page of the newspaper with a crackle, propped it against the coffee pot and addressed himself to his second egg. Lillian sighed.
‘George, you are not listening.’
‘Oh, yes, I am.’ It was an art he had long since perfected, allowing Lillian to rabbit on while he pursued his own thoughts. ‘You want me to put my foot down and tell Laura she mustn’t embark upon this mad escapade. Well, Lillian, I’m not going to do any such thing.’
George Sandford Imrie was a successful and distinguished banker. The most important things in his life were his business, his passion for Japanese art and the well-being of his wife and the child whom he had almost forgotten wasn’t his own daughter. Laura, from the moment he first lifted her wriggling little body into his arms and she had pulled his moustache, stuck her finger in his ear and then planted a wet kiss on his mouth, had been the apple of his eye. He was not a man, however, for making a show of his affections. He thought that was evident enough in the provisions he made for domestic comfort, for the general welfare of his wife and Laura and the freedom he allowed them with money – so long as they did not exceed in extravagance. In return he expected, and usually got, an ordered life and a household that ran smoothly. He did not like being assailed at breakfast with something which had already been chewed over until there was nothing left of it.
‘My dear Lillian,’ he said at last, folding the newspaper and pushing back his chair. ‘Laura is twenty-one. She is basically a sensible young woman, if a little too impulsive, but if she’s going to make mistakes, there is nothing you, or I, or anyone else can do to prevent her.’
It was evident to Lillian she wasn’t going to get the support she needed. She ought to have known it was as little use arguing with George as it was with Laura. ‘That’s all very well, but it’s what Philip is up to that I’m worried about.’
‘And why should Philip be up to anything?’
For a moment they looked at each other. Then George reached out and gently touched Lillian’s unpowdered morning cheek. ‘There’s nothing to worry about, my dearest. How could there be?’
Three
As her train lurched over the points some ten minutes before it was due into Huddersfield station, Laura closed her book and stood up to peer into the mirror above the opposite seat, hoping there were no smuts on her face. She could not see any, but still dissatisfied with her reflection, she tried to pull the brim of her brown peach-bloom felt hat to a more becoming angle. It was not a very nice hat, and she couldn’t think now what in the world had compelled her to wear it – except perhaps a vague feeling that she ought to tone down the effect of the rest of her outfit, which was very nice indeed, although it was saxe-blue in colour, a shade hovering uneasily somewhere between blue and grey. That had been Aunt Lillian’s fashionable choice, not hers, but whatever Laura’s reservations about the colour, it couldn’t be denied that the cut of the garments was superb. Up here, in the wilds of Yorkshire, might it not be considered . . . a little too smart? It was too late to do anything about that now, however. The train, precisely on time and in great clouds of steam, was already panting and hissing into the station, where she had been told someone would be waiting to meet her and convey her to Wainthorpe.
Laura had never before been further north than St Albans, to spend occasional weekends at the home of her college friend, Cicely. This part of Yorkshire they called the West Riding was a mystery to her, despite some conscientious revision of what she’d been taught about the northern woollen trade of which Huddersfield was a great centre, and what role the West Riding had played in the Industrial Revolution. She had listened to Ruth Paston on the iniquities of the old child labour system in the textile mills. She’d read again about those machine-breakers they had called the Luddites, who had believed those first machine looms would rob them of their livelihood. She had also done her best to disregard the comments of all those who had learned she was to pass some time here, to the effect that its inhabitants were hard-headed folk who called a spade a shovel and lived years behind the times.
Now, however, as she emerged from the station in Huddersfield, she was taken aback by an immediate impression of the town’s solid Victorian prosperity. Surrounding her were substantial buildings of dressed stone, heavy with importance, and a railway station that would have rivalled London’s Euston in its neoclassical splendour. The place was busy with motor-driven delivery vehicles and motorcars, one of which had broken down (as motors everywhere were still apt to do) impeding the passage of several more reliable horse-drawn vans and carts. Smartly painted dark-maroon and straw-coloured double-decker electric trams, crackling and sparking from their overhead poles, rhythmically clanged and swayed their way down the tracks set in the road, just like London trams. And as it became obvious the people in the busy streets were no less well dressed than similar people in any other large town or city, she could see her own fears about being overdressed as ridiculous and rather patronizing.
But then, there came the matter of her mode of transport to Wainthorpe.
She stood at a loss beneath the station’s Corinthian columns, her luggage at her feet where the porter had dumped it. No one appeared to be waiting for her. But within a minute or two an elderly man approached, wearing a black coat turning green at the seams, with an old-fashioned billycock on his head, a large red-spotted handkerchief
round his neck and a pipe stuck in his mouth. Without removing the pipe, he asked her if she was Miss ‘Arcourt, and when she said she was, with an unsmiling nod he picked up her luggage and took it towards – not one of those up-to-date motorcars she might have expected from a rich man with a library full of books – but a little horse-drawn trap. Was this the mode of transport deemed suitable for one who was after all, only to be an employee? An indication that Mr Beaumont, her new employer, was tight-fisted – or merely one of those northerners she’d been warned about, who hadn’t yet entered the twentieth century and felt that hardiness was next to Godliness?
Oh, well! Gamely, she clambered up beside the driver, a surly individual whose uncouth accent she had difficulty in understanding, who gave his name as John Willie Sugden and after that seemed to feel he had no need to prolong the conversation further. The trap was open to the elements, and he made no move to pull up its hood, but it was smartly painted, the chestnut coat of the little horse between the shafts was glossy and well-groomed and there were leather cushions on the front seat next to the driver. Morosely, Sugden indicated a folded woollen rug, evidently intended to throw over her knees, and shouted, ‘’Ey-up, Jinny!’
It was not long before she found those agreeable first impressions of her new surroundings were to be distinctly reversed. Scarcely was the town centre left before – hey presto, the trap was being driven straight into just the sort of heavily industrialized area she had expected, but was still not properly prepared for. Truly, as they drew deeper into it, she began to feel as though she had been plunged into another world. A pall of smoke and vapour mingled powerfully with another, unidentifiable, disagreeably rancid odour. Engineering works, textile machinery factories, dye houses and all manner of other concerns ancillary to the woollen trade jostled with warehouses and corner shops, but overriding everything else were the towering mills – one every few yards along the road, it seemed. Square, fortress-like, many-storeyed and built of soot-blackened stone, they loomed over narrow rows and terraces of little grey houses, darkened with the same grime. A noxious river, the Neller, flowed alongside the road, beside that the canal, and every mill had its big iron gates bearing their name – telling the world they belonged to Bamforths, Hardcastles, Shawcrosses, a litany of repeated names. Each had its own tall, tapering chimney stack, no doubt meant to send the thick belching clouds of smoke and soot issuing from it above the tops of the surrounding hills, though the intention had not been conspicuously successful.
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