Ivy bared her teeth in a mockery of a smile. ‘Eeh, you don’t get shut of me that easy, Mr Worthington. I’m one of them things that has to be took down brick by brick, you know.’ She glanced round the room. ‘Does anybody want to give their seat to this here important man?’
Nobody moved.
‘No respect,’ pronounced Ivy. ‘That’s the trouble with folk today. They show no respect for their elders and betters.’ She glared at Mary Shaw who was blubbering again into a handkerchief. ‘We just want you to meet a few of your kiddies, sir,’ continued the hostess. ‘That’s Roy, then there’s Pauline, Pamela, Amy and Lizzie. Oh, Donald couldn’t make it all the way from India, but he’ll call in to see you as soon as he gets a bit of home leave.’
Worthington’s heart pounded in his ears, seemed louder than the big steelworks’ hammers. He was in a corner, had been backed into it by more than a dozen enemies. The women were ugly, dried out and worn out, and some of the so-called children were practically adults.
‘He’s a big lad, my Donald,’ announced Phyllis Caldwell, determined to speak for her absent son. ‘For years he’s wanted to get his hands round your throat. After all that training for the army, he’s got muscles like Samson.’
Ivy smiled kindly upon Phyllis, turned the full glare of her attention on Worthington. ‘Com-pen-sa-tion.’ The syllables were clearly separated, as if she were speaking to a child of three or four. ‘Safety in numbers, you see. If they all go to court, you’ll need good legs to stand on, Mr Worthington. It doesn’t matter whether these folk win or lose, ’cos Roy and Donald will sort you out.’ She looked Roy up and down. ‘That’s a fine lad you’ve got there, Rita. How old is he?’
‘I’m twenty-six and I can talk for meself, ta.’ Roy’s eyes were fixed on the face of his biological father. ‘Mam suffered and so did I,’ he snapped. ‘So you’d best pay up.’
Ivy judged Roy to be a man of few words and hasty actions. ‘Leave him a minute, son,’ she advised. ‘Let him get used to being a daddy to so many. Happen we can find some of the others, eh? I reckon we might fill the Victoria Hall if we try hard enough. We could get a band in and have pie and peas.’
The youngest girl stepped forward, pushed her way past all the mothers’ chairs. She stood in the centre of the room, her face scarlet, bright blue eyes brimming with some indefinable emotion. All her life, Amy Saxton had been without a dad. Tilly had explained over the years that the man who had fathered her was married to someone else, but Amy had now reached the age when she could reason for herself. Every time a child at school had threatened to tell his or her dad about something, Amy had fumed. She had a dad, but she had been ordered by her mother never to approach him, had not been able to beg him to fight the many battles of childhood.
Worthington, dismayed by the girl’s penetrating gaze, shifted his feet and turned his head slightly. She looked like him. The bloody girl had his markedly convex eyes, his chin.
‘Are you my dad?’ she asked, though she needed no reply. If she were to turn now and look in the overmantel mirror, the answer would be there.
‘I am not your father,’ spat Worthington. ‘There is no proof, not for any of you.’
Amy stood her ground. ‘You were never there,’ she said accusingly. ‘When I got beat up, you weren’t there. The others had dads at home, but I didn’t. It’s better now, because some of the dads got killed in the war. I moved to another school and told everybody you’d been shot in France.’ She nodded, then put her head on one side as she studied this creature who had ignored and neglected her and her mother. ‘I wish you were dead,’ she told him. ‘Dead is better than not there, ’cos they can’t help being killed, can they? But you were here and you never helped my mam.’
A dreadful silence hung over the room. Maureen glanced at the clock, wondered where Tom had got to. She hoped with all her heart that Mrs Worthington would stay away from this terrible scene, yet she was glad that the lady was being informed about events. The mill owner was furious, and his wife needed to be prepared for repercussions. Where was Tom?
Ivy pulled Amy away from her father, told her to go and stand with her mother. Tilly wept softly until her daughter returned and put an arm across her shoulders. ‘I’m glad he never came to our house,’ pronounced the girl. ‘He’s not a nice man, Mam. Like Mrs Crumpsall said in her letter, he’s not worth knowing except for money.’
The centre of attention glared at Ivy. She’d set him up all right – and she’d probably got Prudence involved, too. No wonder the atmosphere at home had deteriorated – this old crone had, he felt sure, given Prudence her new-found ‘confidence’. Oh yes, Ivy Crumpsall was the one who deserved all the credit for this little scenario. And all because he’d chased her round the yard one evening donkey’s years ago. Unconsciously, he touched his cheek, as if remembering the blow delivered by Ivy Crumpsall’s neighbour, a smash across the face that had sent him reeling. He heard words he had almost managed to forget, ‘Keep your hands off Ivy Crumpsall, you filthy bastard, else I’ll set a full shift of my mates on you.’ She’d been a startlingly attractive woman, had never looked her age.
‘Well?’ asked Ivy. ‘Cat got your tongue?’
‘I’ve nothing to say.’ She looked her age now, all right. Though there was vigour in her stance, strength in her tone . . . He folded his arms and waited. They couldn’t keep him here for ever. It was tantamount to kidnapping. If he stood his ground, he would get through it. He gritted his teeth, concentrated on breathing steadily.
‘A hundred pounds apiece will do for now,’ declared Ivy. ‘A hundred for each mother and the same for every one of your children. After that, a fiver a month will do. You can send Donald’s to Phyllis and she’ll save it for him till he gets leave. Aye, you mun get a Bolton Savings Bank book for your lad,’ she advised Phyllis. ‘It’ll set him up when he leaves the forces.’
Worthington’s face was colouring towards magenta. ‘You’ll not get away with this,’ he shouted. ‘I’ll give not one penny piece. My lawyer will see to that.’ He inhaled, searched for words, searched for an exit from a room that was crammed with people and with hatred. ‘These slovenly bitches are nothing to do with me,’ he shouted. ‘I’ve never touched a woman who wasn’t willing.’
A snort escaped Ivy’s lips. ‘Oh aye? And I’m the Queen of flaming Sheba.’
Worthington glared at Ivy. She knew. Ah yes, she knew him far too well for comfort. Unable to look any longer into the old woman’s unflinching gaze, he turned on the rest of the company. He would stick to his guns, all right. ‘Sue me,’ he spat. ‘Go on – you just try it and see what—’ The remainder of his words were amputated as he was shunted further into the room by Joseph Heilberg, who moved quickly away from the opening door.
‘Sorry,’ said Tom to Joseph. He entered fully, stood between Joseph and Worthington. ‘Good evening, sir.’ He took a card from his pocket and placed it in the mill owner’s hand. ‘Were you discussing lawyers? Well, there is my solicitor’s card. He liaises with these people.’ A second square of printed matter changed hands. ‘Those are my northern representatives, though Marsh, Marsh and Fotheringay of Regent Street in London will, if necessary, be willing to take on the case for these good people.’ He smiled benignly upon the gathering. ‘Good evening to you, also,’ he said. ‘I am so pleased to meet you all at last.’
Worthington’s fury could no longer be contained. ‘What the bloody hell is this to do with you?’ he demanded of Tom.
Tom remained cool. ‘A good question, sir. When I came north, it was my intention to publish a paper about the industrial revolution and its effects on cotton factors. It was for a doctorate, you see.’
Worthington, who had little time for the products of universities, curled his lip into a snarl.
‘My father, Lord Goodfellow of Oakmead in Hampshire, was keen on education, you see.’ He tried not to laugh as he deliberately dropped the title into the arena. His father hadn’t been keen on anything or anybody – unless the ‘anybodies’ turned out to be women who couldn’t run very quickly. ‘I studied your mill, sir, found it to be . . . wanting.’ Tom stopped for a moment. This awful man reminded him of his own father and of Jonathan, too . . . ‘The workers in the Paradise Mill are not being treated fairly. Others in your position have installed certain basic comforts and amenities, but you are lagging behind the times. In fact, the progress made in your factory since the revolution is virtually nil.’
Worthington swallowed audibly into the small silence that followed. A lord. A bloody lord with bloody London lawyers. No, this wasn’t kidnap – it was blackmail. Yet he felt himself deflating, was being diminished by Goodfellow’s presence. Even without the title, this bloke was not to be taken lightly. He had breeding and brains, was of a different class, a level of society that was feared and even revered by Worthington and his kind.
Tom carried on. ‘These other ladies and young people have suffered in a different way. We are here to attempt an equable settlement that might preclude the need for court proceedings.’ He smiled benevolently upon his victim. ‘I suggest you sleep on this, Mr Worthington.’
‘No time for sleep,’ snarled the purple-faced man. ‘Things to do in the mill, yet. Things none of the idle workforce can do, Your Lordship. As for this lot . . .’ He swept a none too steady hand across Ivy Crumpsall’s parlour. ‘The demands will be met.’ These five words emerged quietly, as if he had difficulty in allowing them to find a way out. Completely routed for the first time ever, he turned to leave.
But Tom and Joseph blocked the doorway. ‘In writing, please,’ said the pawnbroker, a hand emerging from his breast pocket. ‘Your signature.’
Tom obliged by offering his back as a suitable surface for the paper.
When the words had been scanned, Worthington added a flourish, then Ivy Crumpsall and Rosemary Blunt stepped forward as signatory witnesses.
Lord Goodfellow, when his shoulders were no longer required, faced the enemy and performed a neat bow. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said. ‘Your co-operation in these matters is appreciated.’
Worthington pushed the men aside and made for the lobby.
‘Oy!’ called Ollie.
The big man froze, one foot in the parlour, the other in the narrow passageway. ‘Yes?’
‘If you see any pigeons, bring them home, lad.’
The assembly waited until heavy footfalls had disappeared from earshot. Ivy, Rosie and Ruth burst into laughter that was completely beyond control. Tom grinned at Maureen, then the whole gathering began to giggle and guffaw, though few knew why they were suddenly amused.
Ollie, without knowing how, had gladdened all hearts by mentioning pigeons. He twisted and turned in his seat, saw all the happy faces, mistook the mothers’ hysteria for mirth. ‘Hey,’ he yelled. ‘Were that Worthington?’
‘Yes, love.’ Rosie mopped at her tears. ‘And you’ve sent him looking for pigeons.’
Ollie thought about that. ‘Nay,’ he announced solemnly. ‘Only place yon man would see a pigeon’s under a pie crust.’
While everyone continued to laugh away their tensions, Ivy went into the kitchen to brew tea in a huge pot borrowed from the Spencer Street Chapel. ‘Eeh, Ollie,’ she muttered to herself. ‘It’s right what they say – “out of the mouths of babes” – ’cos you’re a child all over again.’ The tears she dried had nothing to do with merriment.
He drove erratically up Wigan Road, his eyes glued to tram-tracks as if he needed a course to steer him homeward. His heart pounded frighteningly, and sweat coursed into his eyes, causing them to sting as he stared ahead. Ivy Crumpsall. If only he knew somebody who could put a stop to her once and for all. Simpson was useless. He’d started the fire on Wigan Road, had then turned frantic with terror after hearing about the Irishwoman’s burns. The man was in hospital now, his stomach affected by nervousness. Too much acid? Acid of the most caustic variety should be thrown into the face of that horrible, unsightly old hag. His flesh crawled when he thought of touching her. But Ivy Crumpsall hadn’t always been ugly, hadn’t always been old . . .
There was a hollow quality to the sound when he slammed the front door of Worthington House. He paused, listened, heard nothing. Prudence was probably upstairs, would be reading in her locked and bolted bedroom. On Fridays, Mrs Miles left cold meat and salad, so he noticed nothing new when he carried his plate through from the kitchen. His place was not set at the dining table, and he gathered that the ageing housekeeper had suffered a slight loss of memory again. She’d not been on form lately, would probably benefit from a talking-to. After taking silver from the sideboard, he sat to eat his solitary meal, hadn’t the heart to flick through the
Bolton Evening News
.
Six. He threw down his fork and took a draught of water. Six of his so-called children, the Crumpsall witch had found. That youngest one – he could not recall her name – was so like him. Any man who wasn’t blind would easily see the resemblance. He would have to pay up. The sums did themselves in his mind – he had always been good with numbers. With the mothers included, he’d have to lay out a thousand pounds to start with, then fifty pounds a month for life. Unless or until somebody died. God, he wished he could find some person to do a few unsavoury little jobs. But no. He had signed, had been witnessed. If any of that motley crew popped off, Lord Fauntleroy would be on to his lawyers quicker than sugar sliding off a shovel.
‘Damn him, too,’ he roared, his left arm sweeping plate, glass, silver and food from the table. He glanced sideways, watched a radish as it rolled beneath the sideboard. Lettuce decorated a skirting board, and slices of egg lay on the parquet, each one looking like a tiny sun peering through white cloud. It was her fault. This was all the doing of that cold bitch upstairs. If she’d been anything like a wife, he wouldn’t have needed to look elsewhere for comfort. As ever, he conveniently forgot that many liaisons had taken place before his marriage.
His face lifted itself until he was staring at the ceiling. Prudence bloody Spencer. How pleased Father had been about the alliance. Permission had been granted to name the streets Worthington and Spencer, then Paradise Lane had been born when the factory’s chimney had begun to wear the name ‘Paradise’ instead of ‘Worthington’s Fine Calico’. Why hadn’t Father bought the lane then? Why hadn’t he acquired the waste ground in the lower portion of the H?