Ivy responded to the raised eyebrow with a nod. ‘This one can be trusted,’ she told him. ‘She’s even abandoned her husband over what’s gone on. Aye, Gert’s all right.’
Gert smiled nervously at His Lordship, wondered whether she ought to curtsey. ‘I’m not like our Lottie,’ she informed him with a newborn shyness that owed much to Tom Goodfellow’s elevation in status. ‘I can be depended on – honest.’
‘Good.’ Tom looked left and right, saw Maureen approaching from Worthington Street. ‘Mrs Worthington may not come,’ he said quietly. ‘Perhaps she has had second thoughts.’
But she hadn’t. Prudence Worthington came round the Spencer Street corner in the company of the Heilbergs, Cora Miles and a dark-suited man who was a stranger.
‘That’s a lawyer,’ predicted Ivy. ‘They always have round shoulders, do lawyers. It’s with bending over and reading stuff.’
Tom wondered what Ivy’s reaction to Peregrine Fotheringay might be. There was no roundness to Perry’s stance, because the good man was too carefree to be poring over old deeds, wills and manuscripts. But for all that, he was a useful man to know.
The party turned into the mill yard, Joseph pausing for a split second to raise his black hat in Ivy’s direction. The little pawnbroker quickened his pace and followed his wife into the future. Within a matter of months, the looms and mules of Paradise would turn again. There was work to be done, and little of it was clean . . .
The owner of Paradise Mill glowered over a pair of halfmoon reading glasses. At the other side of his desk stood Prudence and a man called Sutcliffe. The latter was a lawyer with a lot of papers, a grim face and a tendency to stutter. ‘What is this man talking about?’ The question was directed towards the female with whom Andrew Worthington had shared a house for many years.
‘Divorce,’ she said calmly.
Worthington removed his spectacles and placed them on a leather-bound blotter. He decided now to address his wife’s companion, who was male, at least. The stutter was annoying, but it was no use talking to Prudence. Pru-dish, she should have been christened. Or Frigid, perhaps. ‘I’ve a mill to run,’ he barked. ‘No time for foolishness. There have been no divorces in our family. You will get precious little help from me,’ he informed the lawyer.
Sutcliffe remained motionless, made no comment.
‘Adultery,’ said Prudence quietly. ‘We have the name of one of your consorts, Andrew.’ She waved a hand in the direction of her lawyer’s papers. ‘The woman rents a cottage of ours on Halliwell Road. Well, she pays no rent, I gather. Her instalments are delivered in kind, I understand.’
Mildred, thought Worthington. Mildred would never talk.
Prudence read his thoughts. ‘The neighbours will testify with regard to your movements, as will the woman’s estranged husband. If this is not enough, I can find others.’
He was finished. He sat in a chair that had been his father’s, in a mill office that had been his father’s, and he knew that the people of Paradise, together with his own wife, had routed him. Paradise Mill was running at less than half its true capacity. A whole weaving shed and two spinning rooms were completely empty, while none of the other units could boast a full complement of workers.
Prudence narrowed her eyes. ‘What did you do to Mrs Simpson?’ she enquired, her tone deliberately sweet. ‘Mrs Miles – who will be staying with me, incidentally – called to see Gert Simpson, and was informed by a neighbour that Gert had returned from somewhere or other in a very sorry state, incapable of walking properly, her face bruised, her clothes torn. Mrs Simpson is staying with the Crumpsalls, I understand.’
Silence would be best, decided Worthington.
‘You raped her.’
Sutcliffe shuffled some documents, placed them in a cardboard folder.
‘I can get Gert Simpson to testify against you,’ continued Prudence. ‘You were seen on the evening in question. The same neighbour noticed you in the street, then saw Gert following you towards Wigan Road.’
‘Visiting her husband in hospital,’ blustered the seated man.
Prudence tapped the floor with the toe of her shoe, could scarcely believe that she was here and facing up to him, that she was experiencing very little discomfort. ‘Did she come to the house later, after the hospital visit?’
He bit his lip. He had been seen at the infirmary, had probably been noticed driving away with his passenger. There was nothing he could say.
‘I can get Gert to prosecute you,’ repeated Prudence softly. ‘She may well decide to do just that without my interference. But unless you give me my freedom, I shall make bloody sure that the case goes to court.’
She had never sworn before. The timbre of her voice was low, almost conversational. The woman was angry, so deeply furious that she dared not let her feelings rise to the surface. ‘Rubbish,’ he managed.
Sutcliffe decided to earn his money. ‘Mrs Simpson was forced to inform her neighbour of the circumstances which led to her injuries, Mr Worthington. The lady next door did the shopping, as Mrs Simpson was too ill to go outside.’
Where’s the bloody stammer now? thought the man behind the desk. When the solicitor had introduced himself, he had come out as ‘Sut-c-c-cliffe’. The lawyer’s deep-set eyes were bright, mobile, seemed to be boring through the mill owner and into the wall behind his head. ‘I trust that you will see sense, Mr Worthington,’ concluded Sutcliffe. ‘Things might become quite messy, you see.’
Andrew Worthington stared at his wife. She would force him into destitution. Even if he fought old Spencer’s will, he could not win because Prudence knew too much. ‘The place is no use anyway.’ He swept a hand across the space between himself and his wife, pointed the index finger in the direction of the sheds. ‘No workers, no money. Do your worst.’
She nodded. ‘Sell it,’ she advised clearly.
‘I’ll not get much for it, not while it’s producing so little.’
Prudence inclined her head again. ‘I think it might be best if you cut your losses, Andrew. Of course, my father’s wishes must be upheld. Mr Sutcliffe is here to represent me in this matter.’
‘I’ll be penniless.’ The large man considered trying to appeal to her better nature, rejected the concept when he saw the set of her jaw. ‘The house is mine.’
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘But the other properties are joint, as is the business.’
‘So you’ve won,’ he snapped.
‘This is neither game nor war,’ she told him. ‘It was supposed to be a marriage. Whatever it was, we must liquidate immediately.’
Sutcliffe touched his client’s arm, led her to the door. ‘You will hear from me in due course,’ he said plainly before stepping outside. ‘G-g-good day, sir.’
Andrew Worthington picked up a huge onyx paperweight and hurled it against the door. It bounced off, hit a dark green jardinière, sent a crimson-crowned geranium spinning across the room in the company of shattered earthenware. His heart sounded loudly in his ears and breathing was difficult. It was as if some magnetic force had pulled all the oxygen out of the room. Soil and compost was deposited everywhere. A clock on the wall pronounced the time by giving out a solitary chime. Half past twelve. At half past twelve on a summer Monday, Andrew Worthington had been bankrupted.
He picked up his spectacles, pushed them into a pocket, breathed in and out, in and out, tried to slow his heart. A pain was spreading across his chest and into shoulders and arms. After tearing at his collar stud, he leaned back, waited for the discomfort to pass. It was his father’s disease, an ailment that had plagued Worthington Senior for many years. Angina. She was killing him. They were all killing him. A plot had been hatched and all the conspirators were just outside, some in terraced hovels, one with a title and a gobful of plums, one on the arm of a disarmingly astute solicitor with a slight speech impediment. ‘I’ll burn it first,’ he muttered. ‘I’ll tear it brick from brick before I’ll hand it over to Prudence.’ But there was no energy in the words. He had not the strength to fight, had not the stamina to defend himself, even. The mill must be sold; there was nothing else for it.
He walked to the window, thought about Victor. Would he be able to help? Would the youngest Worthington find some investors who might pull Paradise Mill out of its nosedive? No. No, Victor was a mummy’s boy. ‘She spoiled him,’ he spat. ‘I’ll get no co-operation from that quarter.’
At one o’clock, the ex-master of Paradise Mill left his post, walked down the stairs and through the yard, stood for a few seconds with his eyes glued to the massive frontage of the cotton factory. After a while, he swivelled and stared at the houses. Heilberg’s houses. The pain in his chest started up again, slim fingers of heat that probed his ribs and left him panting. Soon, he would die. With this certainty in mind, he climbed into his car and drove home. Whatever, he had no intention of going out whimpering. What was that quote? he asked himself idly as he drove up Wigan Road. Something about the world ending not with a bang? He smiled grimly. His own exit would be loud. And some would perish in the aftershock.
The wedding was over. Ivy had been disappointed, because the ceremony – if such it might have been called – had taken place in the town registry office. She’d bought a lilac frock, too, had caused a stir by wearing toning hat and gloves in darker purple. And it had all flashed by in seconds, a civil job with no pastor, no bridesmaids and no confetti. Maureen and Tom had worn their best clothes, but a very tall chap from London had turned up in a strange brown suit with too-short trousers and sleeves.
She stirred her tea, looked at the weird creature who was seated at the other side of her table. ‘What sort of a name is that?’ she asked. ‘I’ve never heard nowt like it.’
He nodded, wiped his mouth with a hanky that had seen better days. ‘Nor have I. My father was probably to blame.’
‘Any brothers and sisters?’
‘No.’
‘Well, there’s a bit of luck,’ declared Ivy Crumpsall. ‘Because there’s not a lot of names as would fit with Featheringay.’ Only a slight twitch of her lip gave away the fact that she was aware of her mistaken pronunciation. ‘Mind, John would have been better. Or Joe or Jim. But Perry-green’s a gobful on its own, isn’t it?’
He grinned. ‘I’m used to it. Now, I want you to sign a couple of papers, Mrs Crumpsall.’
Ivy sipped at the tea, eyed him warily. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing, lad.’ He looked as if he didn’t know whether it was Tuesday, Easter Sunday or breakfast time. ‘And I’ll have you understand here and now that I’ve never directed nothing before.’
Perry sighed. Of late, life had become extremely busy. Tom Goodfellow and Joseph Heilberg, together with a handful of investors from the south, were preparing to buy Paradise Mill. Prudence Worthington’s share would be easy to acquire, but her husband’s portion was going to be a problem.
‘Is it legal, what you’re doing?’ asked Ivy.
Perry shrugged. ‘Legal, yes. Mr Goodfellow and Mr Heilberg are investing money in a workers’ co-operative. Initially, you and they will form the board, though the employees will, in time, have the opportunity to buy shares in their own company. At that point, they will elect representation, so the board will be expanded.’
Ivy chewed absently on her lower lip. ‘I’m getting on,’ she said. ‘Me old bones are creaking with age.’
Perry grinned cheekily. ‘Borrow an oil can from Paradise. Believe me, you still have a lot to offer, in spite of your years – probably because of your age. You are all to be in this together, Mrs Crumpsall. Mr Heilberg, Tom and yourself will supervise the running of the workers’ co-operative. Really, apart from a bit of welfare work, your sole responsibility will be to look at the books in the company of an auditor. There will be meetings, of course, but there won’t be a lot for you to do. Mr Heilberg will be running the show—’
‘And the workers are going to get bonus shares and seats on the committee. Aye, you’ve told me all this once. But where’s the money coming from?’
‘That is not your worry.’
Ivy bit into a biscuit. ‘I can answer me own question if I think on. A lot of it’s Tom’s money. He’s using what his dad left him. Well, some of it. He’s saving most of the land and property till he finds his sister. But I’m putting no money in, Mr Featheringay, ’cos I haven’t got none.’ She awarded him a hard look. ‘You really should do summat about that, Perry-green. I mean, Tom’s changed his family name back to Marchant, and he said it were easy. He’s plain Mr Marchant now. If he can get rid of Goodfellow, why don’t you have a go at shifting your daft name?’
‘I like it.’
He was as daft as a cat with fleas, she told herself. Couldn’t sit still, always messing about in his pockets, didn’t want to have a decent handle. ‘You’re crackers,’ she informed him.
‘Eccentric. It’s deliberate.’
‘Is it?’
He nodded soberly. ‘With a name like mine, I’ve had to be eccentric—’
‘Then alter it, get a new one.’
He smiled. ‘I’m too eccentric to have an ordinary surname.’
‘Like I said afore – bloody daft.’
He leaned back, started rocking in the straight-backed dining chair. ‘Back to business, Mrs Crumpsall. You will be consulted. You will be valued for your expertise.’
‘Eh?’
‘You’ve lived in these parts for some time. You know the workers, you know cotton. We’ll need you to see that things run smoothly.’ He heard Tom’s voice, remembered every word. ‘She’s a character, Perry. Even a few weeks ago, none of us would have expected her to stay alive for much longer. Hampshire has enlivened her, but she needs reasons, work, responsibility and respect. Not a great, fat job, but a niche of her own.’
‘I’ll be useless,’ she declared.
Perry noticed a glimmer of hope in the fading eyes. ‘You’ll be wonderful. You can listen to their troubles, go to their homes and give advice. Without you, we are a bit stuck.’
He talked lovely, she thought. A haircut and a shave would have been nice, but he was all there with his lemon drops. ‘You should sack your tailor,’ she advised him. ‘And give that suit to one of Tom’s farmers. It’d look a treat on a scarecrow.’
Peregrine Fotheringay stopped rocking, threw back his head and howled with glee. He wasn’t used to such forthrightness. She was a grand old girl, half-granite and half-velvet. ‘I must go. The offer will be made in half an hour. I am to meet with Worthington’s lawyer.’