Just after Christmas his father and mother, on the advice of his father’s doctor, had taken a house overlooking the sea at Lytham on the Lancashire coast. It was a pretty little fishing village, one street wide with no more than a handful of dwellings where the air was clear and wholesome. His father’s lungs, ravaged by forty years of the smoke and filth that belched from Manchester’s mill chimneys, spewing their foul fog over the whole city, obscuring the sky and covering every building with soot, had become so weakened that every winter his heart grew more weary as it struggled to cope with his efforts to scrape air into his diseased lungs. It was a mill worker’s affliction which cared nought for a man’s rank, whether he be owner or operative. The same engine fumes, the same factory smoke, the same six o’clock trek to the mill yard in the bitter depths of winter were killing him as they did them. He could barely speak at times as his exhausted lungs laboured to take another breath and so, reluctantly, he had given in to his wife’s agonised pleas to spend at least the winter in the small but elegant house on the seafront at Lytham, leaving his empire, if only temporarily, he made it plain, in the hands of his son. Their daughter, Millicent, went with them, since it would not have been deemed proper to leave a young, unmarried woman alone and unchaperoned in the company of only her brother.
It was raining, a thin drifting drizzle which misted the rooftops and partially obscured the busy traffic in a slanting pall of what looked like smoke. Pedestrains scurried along the pavements and across busy Moseley Street, jumping puddles, dangerously threatening to take out an eye with an injudicious umbrella. Those unprotected had their backs bowed, their heads bent into the rain, intent on getting wherever they were going with the greatest possible speed as though the quicker they moved the less wet they would become. The rain dripped from gutters and window ledges and the roofs of hansom cabs, forming great stretches of rainwater on the road. It sprayed up as vehicles sped through them, drenching even further those on the pavement who were not fast enough to get out of the way. There were heavily loaded waggons, drays, horse-drawn omnibuses, four-wheelers, even a curricle or two, for they were a great favourite among men about town, and as they cut through the downpour fists were shaken and the language was ripe.
At the top of the stairs he watched as she and Miss Williams paused, helping each other off with their waterproof capes, shaking their umbrellas, then smiling pleasantly at a member of his staff who hurried forward to unburden them. They seemed to think it quite normal, unaware that every man in the warehouse, from the humblest boy in the basement where the packing was done, the clerks in the offices who dealt with invoices and delivery notes, up through the floors where the sampling was done, to the senior warehouseman who was expected to supervise it all, had been charged with making the purchase of Miss Brody’s cotton yarn as smoothly flowing as possible.
Keeping among the crowds of buyers, and there were a great many, he followed the two women to the sales floor where his warehouseman had stretched a great sheet of clean white cloth on the floor and placed the finished pieces across it. She and Miss Williams walked round the edge of the cloth, and he was annoyed to see that the men who had come here to snap up as much of his cotton as they could cared nought for the fact that she was a woman, a lady, and did not politely stand aside to let her through. She was a woman trespassing in their world and though most of them were accustomed to seeing her by now, if she was jostled then it was her own fault, their attitude seemed to say, and Josh could do nothing about it. His own men he could order to treat her respectfully, to make room for her where they could, to protect her from the rough bustle of the male buyers but he had no power over the buyers themselves. He wanted to stride over to where she and Miss Williams were struggling to sample a piece of fine cotton, elbowing aside the men who were attempting to do the same. To tell her to go and wait in his office where his Mrs Duckworth would fetch her and Miss Williams a dainty tray of tea or coffee, while he himself would personally fetch all the pieces she wished to purchase, have them packed and delivered to wherever she wished them to go, which he knew by previous delivery notes was her home in Bury New Road. He wanted desperately to help her, to smooth her path, for he was well aware that this cotton crisis, this cotton famine had wiped out her successfully growing business. That she had returned all her machines bar one to the manufacturer in Oldham and that somehow she was keeping her family on this fraction of cotton she bought from him and made up into garments which Miss Williams sold on the market. There was not much he didn’t know about Nancy Brody. He was kept well informed by discreet men who had his ear and if she would have let him he could have made her life so much easier but he knew categorically that she would not allow it. So he did it secretly, making sure that whenever she came to his warehouse there was always something for her. That no matter how ferocious the struggle for his cotton became, she never went away empty-handed.
Even in the mêlée that was taking place over the square of white cloth and the cotton pieces that had been thrown down on it, she managed to look elegant, womanly, a lady going about her business with the least possible fuss, among the squabbling crowd who were like schoolboys fighting over a bag of sweets, or so her curling lip seemed to say. She wore a gown of dusky rose wool, the skirts wide, the bodice well fitted to her high, firm breasts. Her waist was tiny, supple and there was a thoroughbred arch to her back. Her bonnet, a marvel of dusky rose satin, ruched under its brim with cream muslin, was small and at the back of her head her hair was drawn into an intricate chignon which made her cheekbones appear higher and caused her great golden eyes to slant upwards a little at their corners like a sleek and haughty cat. The hairstyle and the small brim of the bonnet served to detract from the scar on her cheek and there were more than a few gentlemen there who made it evident that when they had finished their business they would be glad to further their acquaintance with her.
She was having some difficulty in attracting the attention of his warehouseman who was busy in the middle of some altercation with two buyers who both, apparently, wanted the same pieces. A man in a tall top hat and a rather shabby black suit was doing his best to remove from her hands the piece she had evidently decided on and, without thinking, Josh strode round the periphery of the room and, shouldering aside the two buyers who were taking up his warehouseman’s time, spoke sharply to him, nodding in Miss Brody’s direction.
She saw it happen and at once she became still, like a young animal that has caught the scent of danger, even allowing the man with whom she had been arguing to make off with his trophy. She straightened up and over the edge of the crowd they looked into one another’s eyes and the message winged its way from one to the other.
So, it’s still the same then?
Oh, yes, will it ever be any different?
No.
Dear God!
It was glorious! It was a disaster!
He was the first to recover. Tearing his gaze from hers he spoke briefly to the warehouseman, nodding in her direction but without looking at her. The warehouseman nodded and, leaving the two gentlemen staring after him in disbelief, began to make his way towards her. As she watched Josh Hayes he disappeared into the crowd.
“Miss Brody,” the man said respectfully, as he reached her side. “Was yer wantin’ something? I can fetch it to yer if yer care ter go an’ sit on’t bench by’t wall. You an’ the other lady. ’Ow many pieces did yer ’ave in mind?”
She wanted to run after him, push her way through this seething crowd of so-called gentlemen, grab his arm and shriek at him that she had no need of his help, no need of his charity, no need of
any
man to give her a hand with her own business. She was perfectly capable of managing her own affairs and did not want his favours, but how could she? She desperately needed this cotton to keep Mary busy on her machine in the parlour which would lead to Jennet standing behind her stall on the market where she would sell what Mary had made. Working men’s shirts from the coarser, stronger fabrics, baby dresses and little nightdresses from the finer cotton. Well made and, to give them a little added something, the babywear beautifully embroidered with little motifs to appeal to a mother, done by Jennet of an evening. So she couldn’t afford her pride, her rage that he should feel the need to give her preferential treatment, nor the scalding knowledge of why he did it.
Realising with intense annoyance that she was trembling, she turned away and did her best to give her attention to the confused warehouseman. She was dimly aware that Jennet was holding her arm as though to keep her steady and she found she was glad of it. She had not forgotten that strange day when he had ridden her down, lifted her up in tender arms, held her and carried her home, then vanished from her life as though what had passed between them had not happened, or if it had, he himself had forgotten it. But she had been so wrapped up in the crisis which had hit not only herself but the whole of Lancashire that she had made herself believe she had no time for the softer things in life, and certainly when they extended to a man, to men who had absolutely no part in her life.
“Nancy,” Jennet whispered, “are you all right? Only everyone is looking at us. Will you not move to the bench as the warehouseman suggests and let him bring the pieces over to us?”
“I will not be beholden to him, Jennet,” Nancy hissed, wishing it could be true, glaring about her at the men who, seeing her turn, all looked hastily away. It would create bad feeling now that they knew Josh Hayes was favouring her – a woman, and what might they deduce from that? – but there was nothing to be done about it now. She had her cotton and so, for a week or two, they would be safe. They had a life. The wolf was still at the door but there would be food on the table and coals for the fire. The rent would be paid and money for new boots for Kitty would be found. They managed, the four women, with what they had, wearing boots and last year’s gowns, patching and darning, but the child grew so quickly, three years old already and her boots were too small for her before you could turn round from having just laced her into them. Little dresses could be let out, pieces put in, hems let down, but boots were a different proposition altogether.
“I know, dearest.” Jennet’s voice was soothing as she helped Nancy to the bench just as though she were an old woman. She felt like an old woman at times. Scurrying frantically here and there, from this place to her place on her knees at the inn, from the market stall where she helped Jennet, who was not really cut out for shouting her wares, having been brought up to be quiet and retiring, then back again to the house to give Mary a hand. Life had become one long and constant tussle so that at night, though she was bone-weary, her body aching, her mind unable to switch itself off, she tossed on her bed from the moment she got into it until the moment she got out of it. She would savagely envy Mary who slept peacefully beside her, secure, she supposed, in the knowledge that she, Nancy, had it all in hand. Dear God . . . Dear God, let the war be over soon. Let the cotton come flooding in and let me forget the man who has just given me a few weeks’ respite.
The rain was still falling, though in a steadier, heavier downpour as his mare walked dejectedly along Bury New Road. He bent his head to keep the rain out of his eyes but it only ran off the brim of his hat in a small waterfall so that he could barely see and down the back of his coat collar, soaking through to his shirt. He wore a waterproof cape but the water just ran off it into his boots but somehow he couldn’t find the interest even to care. Jesus, what was he to do? She lived in his heart, in the pure agony of his mind and in his soul and no matter what he did he could not seem to wrench her out of it. He’d tried everything, even taking up with a certain attractive woman who lived in Cheetham Hill, the young and neglected wife of an elderly gentleman with a small engineering firm whom he had met in the way of business. He had been invited to dine and the young wife had made it perfectly clear to him that his attentions would not be unwelcome and though it had satisfied his physical needs he found it most distressing at times, just when he was about to penetrate her, to see Nancy Brody’s scarred face on the insides of his closed eyelids.
He hunched even deeper into the chafing collar of his cape and so deep was his misery he did not even turn his head when he passed the small house where the woman who was in his thoughts lived. Goddammit, he would have to do something soon. He wanted more from life than a furtive hole-in-the-corner affair with a lonely and deprived woman who was the wife of another man, and though his pleasure in his boy, his love for him and the boy’s love which was returned was a sweet joy to him, it was not enough. He wanted a wife, more children, a proper home, not the luxurious hotel his home had become since his mother and father left.
God almighty, he was cold and soaking wet. He wished he had taken up the gentleman’s practice of carrying a hip flask of brandy with him. A good swig would put some fire in his belly and sustain him until he got home to a hot bath and a hot meal; but then why should he wait until he got home? There was the answer just across the road in the shape of the Grove Inn where he could take a glass of brandy and sit by the leaping flames of a good fire. He had taken a glass or two there before and his mare would be looked after in the landlord’s stable which had been there, and still stood, since the days when the premises had been a coaching inn.
The boy took his animal, promising to give her a rub down and a handful of oats until the gentleman came for her and to take his time since it was dry and warm in Mr Ainsworth’s stable. He pocketed the sixpence Josh gave him and, whistling through his teeth, began to rub down the mare with a handful of straw.