Gert gulped, didn’t like the idea of seeing the monster again. She was genuinely frightened, jumpy and ill at ease. ‘Eeh, Mrs Crumpsall, I don’t know as I’m rightly up to it. I’ve been . . . having nightmares. I’ve got so as I don’t want to go to sleep. When I’m awake, I can tell meself I’m all right, only your dreams have a mind of their own, don’t they?’
‘Call me Ivy and call me daft, but if you stand next to me, he’ll know you’ve told me. Scared to bloody death of me, he is, and not without cause. I’ll tell you summat else and all – a few others who got interfered with have come forward. With their children – his children.’
Sally was his child. Gert closed her mouth with a snap, commanded the words to go away. She would never tell this lady that Sally was not a Crumpsall. ‘How awful,’ she managed.
‘He’s got to pay. We fixed it so he’ll pay.’
Gert rose unsteadily and picked up her handbag. It was no use sitting here waiting for Christmas, she told herself. The man had to be punished – ruined if possible. ‘Paradise’ll close, then,’ she remarked.
‘No.’ Ivy stood up, threw the shawl around her shoulders, smoothed the spotless apron. ‘It’ll change hands, lass. Six months from now, yon mill will be working full pelt.’
‘But how?’
‘Just watch,’ Ivy told her. ‘Watch and learn that the ordinary people can have power. It’s just a matter of grabbing the reins and taking over. Oh, and knowing somebody with a bit of money and clout helps. That bad bugger stands no chance. No chance at all.’
Tom replaced the receiver, sat down in Joseph’s favourite chair. The Heilbergs were downstairs running the shop while Tom completed a list of tasks that covered two sheets of paper. He ticked off another item, picked up the phone yet again, asked for a London number. ‘Perry!’ he exclaimed. ‘How are you?’
‘Fine. I’ll see you tomorrow. Is everything going to plan?’
Tom grinned to himself. ‘Listen, are you sure you’ve got a suit that fits?’
A laugh drifted all the way from Regent Street into Tom’s ear. ‘Tom, that’s below the belt.’
‘Yes, and make sure you have belt and braces, old chap. I’d rather you wore something that fits above and below the meridian. Any news about the other business?’
‘Done.’
‘Nutty?’
‘He’s delighted, Tom. Doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Good of you to pay for his mother’s funeral. Nutty’s never forgotten the day you came and gave him a fiver. A fiver of mine, I believe?’
Tom nodded to himself. ‘You’ll get it back if the suit fits.’ He thought about poor old Nutty with his damaged face and hands. Nutty Clarke would be coming up with his wife and family for the wedding, would be staying on to mind certain interests while Tom and Maureen went to Africa, while Ivy and Sally continued to gain health and strength in Hampshire. ‘See you tomorrow, then,’ said Tom. ‘And no loud ties – none of those kipper things you used to sport. Remember, you’re the best man at my wedding.’
‘I’ve always been the best, Tom. At long last, my superiority will be recognized.’
Tom Goodfellow severed the connection, pondered awhile, sat quietly with the Heilbergs’ treasures all around him. He ran his eyes over pieces of Austrian crystal and German porcelain, admired a ‘school of’ Monet and a tablecloth of Spanish lace. It was a calm place, a beautiful room for two beautiful people. This was what he wanted for Sally and Ivy. Peace and prettiness. They would find that in Hampshire, would be able to visit Rose Cottage several times a year.
He smiled, considered all the other people who would be involved in his schemes. Tenant farmers would be owners of a few acres; Goodfellow Hall could become an orphanage, a place of sanctuary for unloved children. Oh, Sally. Little Sally, whose father had died, whose mother had absconded, had no need of a place in the Hall, because she was loved by so many. How many times had she visited him in Paradise Lane? How many times had she described the home of her dreams? ‘But I’ve bigger dreams for you, Sally,’ he muttered before leaving the room.
‘Cup of tea, Tom?’ asked Ruth.
He shook his head. ‘No, thank you. I’m going off to watch the pantomime. Are you coming, Joseph?’
The pawnbroker continued to stack boots and shoes in a corner of the shop.’ No. I am no
tricoteuse.
You may cut off his head, but I shall not look at the blood.’
Ruth came to stand by Tom. ‘Me, I shall come,’ she announced. ‘Because we need to be witnesses.’ She looked at her husband. ‘Will you change your mind, Joseph?’
‘No.’ He straightened, ran a hand through his hair. ‘You go and do what needs to be done. Ruthie, if you go you go. I cannot stop you. But it will not be pleasant.’
‘So speaks the chairman of the board,’ laughed Ruth. ‘Come, Tom. We go now to see the death of an era and—’
‘And you come back in time for the meal,’ said her husband. ‘Or I shall send out a search party.’
Ruth took Tom’s arm and walked out of the shop with him.
When the door closed, Joseph sat behind the counter and looked at all the things that would soon be gone. Mrs Armstrong’s Easter costume rubbed shoulders with Ernest Wray’s Sunday best. A hunter with a cracked face ticked alongside a jackknife that opened bottles, peeled potatoes, took stones from the hooves of a horse. A statue of the infant Jesus in Mary’s arms sat under a glass dome next to Bernard Crompton’s prize-winning darts.
Joseph had loved this shop. He hadn’t enjoyed people’s poverty, had tried not to take advantage of their needs, but he had become something of a sage and mentor, a younger, masculine version of Ivy Crumpsall. Each item on the shelves, under the counter, in the safe and in the window had a tale attached to it. He would miss this business.
After a few moments’ thought, he took out his keys and locked all the cases, pulled down the window blinds and turned the sign to
closed
. He was going, he told himself, just to keep an eye on Ruth. When the walkout happened, Worthington might lose his temper and lash out at somebody. A sensible bystander was needed, he decided. And it was a lovely morning for a walk.
Paradise Lane was packed with people. They kept to the side where the houses stood, though, leaving the cobbled area and the pavement outside the mill as the stage for the central characters. These personae arrived in ones and twos, Maureen Mason emerging from number 3 at five minutes to twelve, her right hand gloved, the left and less affected member on display so that all might see the sun reflected in her diamond. Forcing it onto the scorched finger had been a bit painful, but Maureen was proud enough to bear that.
A couple of minutes later, Ruth Heilberg and Tom Goodfellow hove into view from Worthington Street, closely followed by the pawnbroker in his best Homburg. Although there were few clouds, Joseph Heilberg carried a rolled umbrella, looked every inch the affluent southern gentleman waiting for a London train. The two pairs sorted themselves so that Ruth stood with her husband while Tom put an arm across Maureen’s shoulders.
From Spencer Street, Rosie Blunt marched along with her husband dragging his feet behind her. ‘They’ll not be here,’ cried the old man. ‘Not with all these folk. We’ll have to go back to the Rec.’
‘The pigeons don’t live here any more,’ shouted Rosie. ‘They’ve moved house.’
‘I’m minding them for Tom!’
Tom left Maureen’s side and went to rescue Rosie. ‘Ollie,’ he said clearly and patiently. ‘In a few days, we’ll go to the pigeons.’
Ollie stared at Tom, the old eyes full of confusion. ‘Why? Have they lost their bloody wings? They should come to us, not the other road round.’
Tom drew in a deep breath, thought Rosie had a hard job here. ‘Ollie, take my word. Next week, you will see my pigeons again. In the meantime, go easy on Rosie, will you?’
A memory link stirred itself in Ollie’s slowly decaying brain. ‘Rosie? Go easy on my Rosie? It’s nobbut yesterday she chased me all down the gardens with the coal shovel. Have you felt the end of yon coal shovel?’
Tom nodded gravely. ‘Just once.’
‘Try a bloody lifetime,’ grumbled Ollie quietly.
The Town Hall clock struck the hour. Even Ollie Blunt was silenced, because the air of expectation that hung over the street was almost tangible.
Ivy emerged from her house, a three-deep crowd of women and retired men parting as if by magic or act of God to allow her through. Behind her tottered Gert Kerrigan-as-was, her face bruised, her walk affected not just by the silly shoes, but also by other kinds of pain.
The twelfth tone died away and the assembly fell into total silence, each man and woman contemplating the various reasons for attending these last rites. A few younger matrons sniffed away a tear or two, remembered their days as weavers and doffers, hoped their kiddies were all right for the moment with neighbours or grandparents. The faces of old men hardened as they recalled Worthington Senior, the devil from whom the current Satan had received tuition in the art of subjugating human souls. Had a bird dropped a feather during these moments, it would have hit the floor with a thud.
Ivy stood rigidly still, the edges of her shawl held tightly in one hand. How many of these people had waited for how many years? She felt the support behind her, as if it lifted her, guided and strengthened her. It would be a cold day in hell before Worthington showed his ugly mug in Paradise after this.
A door in one corner of the mill yard opened slowly and a man emerged, some packages clutched to his chest. The contents of a locker built up over the years – old shoes, wrapping paper, a cracked cup, the lid from some long-lost billycan. He was followed by another, then a third. Suddenly, the larger exits were thrown wide, and a tangle of people thrust its way out, separating into individuals as soon as the yard was reached. Like the observers outside the gates, these escapees stopped and stood in deathly silence, most eyes raised towards the boss’s window.
Ivy Crumpsall sauntered forward, her walk deliberately slow and casual. He would be working hard up there, she thought. He was probably on the phone trying to cull employees from surrounding towns, because many of his workforce had already left Paradise. Well, she would get him to show his face, would make sure he saw the past laid out before those bulging eyes, his future in rags and tatters that defied any kind of darning. ‘Worthington?’ she called. ‘Come on, show yourself.’
A window shot upward. Worthington poked his head through the gap, stared down at the yard. ‘What the bloody hell’s going on?’ he yelled.
‘They’re off,’ answered Ivy. ‘To Ainsworth’s and Kippax’s and Swan Lane – they’re going for an extra bob or two and a canteen dinner and a boss as does a fair imitation of being human.’ She could not keep the glee from her final words. ‘They’re off to where the union’ll look after them, to proper mills where owners recognize unions as a step forward.’
‘Who rattled the bars of your cage?’ roared the man at the window. He paused, did some counting of heads, knew that his mill would close today for lack of labour. ‘Get back in here,’ he advised them none too quietly. ‘And we’ll talk about pay.’
‘And a canteen?’ asked Ivy.
He glared at her. ‘None of your business, Mrs Crumpsall.’
Joseph Heilberg spoke quietly to his wife. ‘Ruth, go to the end of the lane and see if anyone is coming. What was planned may prove unwise. Also, the timing is important.’
Ruth nodded, went off to keep watch along Spencer Street.
Ivy fixed hard eyes on the man she loathed, then turned away and beckoned Gert. When the two women stood together, Andrew Worthington’s face twisted itself into a horrible grimace. He could say nothing, do nothing. They were in it together, these common female creatures who should be allowed no power, no say in the world of industry. He cursed the day when he had first seen Ivy, damned the evening when he had last encountered Gert.
Ivy took Gert’s hand, guided her back into the lane. ‘That’s our bit done, lass. And thanks for being so brave. With the two of us stood there, the bugger knew he’d lost.’
The former employees of the Paradise Calico Company filed through the gates for the last time. They were greeted and congratulated by onlookers before separating to go back to hearth and home. Many were led away by family members who had come to lend encouragement, and not a few walked towards a crate of ale. After all, a free weekday afternoon was going to be a novelty.
Ivy, Gert and Tom lingered while Rosie guided Ollie back into number 2. The little woman stood with her arms folded against the inevitable when Ollie found a bird to chase. Joseph walked towards Spencer Street, and Maureen was swept towards Worthington Street in the company of a gaggle of chattering doffers who wanted details of the wedding and a closer look at the ring.
Worthington glared down at Lord Goodfellow. ‘Why?’ he cried. ‘What have I done to them?’
In that moment, Tom almost understood the man, almost pitied him. But almost was not enough, because a picture of Maureen’s scorched hands shot through his mind. No, Tom must feel no guilt, no sorrow. There were the poor illegitimates to think of, and their mothers, too. ‘You have despised them,’ he replied eventually. ‘You’ve used their women and cast them aside, then you’ve underpaid everyone, left them to work in archaic and filthy conditions. What do you expect from them – respect? You’ve been your own undoing, Worthington.’
Now that the free show was all but over, the audience began to melt away like snow on the first day of spring. Ivy, Tom and Gert remained while Rosie finally tracked down her frail husband and propelled him back into their house. ‘Do you think she’ll come?’ asked Ivy.
‘Who? Who’s coming?’ Gert’s fear showed in small, frantic movements of her eyes.
‘His wife,’ replied Ivy.
Gert swallowed. ‘Mrs Worthington?’
‘Aye.’ Ivy folded the shawl about her chest, felt chilled in spite of the summer heat. ‘She’s a word or two to say to him.’
‘He’ll bloody kill her,’ muttered Gert.
Tom shook his head. ‘The lady won’t be alone. It seems that when old man Spencer allowed his daughter to marry, he made sure that his investment in the Paradise Mill would be returnable – with interest – in the event of any marital difficulties. What a wise man he must have been.’ He looked at Ivy, wondered whether he was saying too much in front of Gert.