The Castlefield Collector Read online

  ‘But don’t you think the strike is justified? Or do you believe the Earl of Balfour is correct when he says that no revolution in Britain is going to diminish foreign competition?’

  Nathan gave his wife a sharp look. It always surprised him how interested she was in politics, and how much of a radical she was. Yet on this matter they were, for once, in agreement. ‘I’m sure that is absolutely true, dear, but, like it or not, the strikers do have a point. Much as I am compelled to comply with the practice, I am aware that constantly cutting wages is not a long-term solution. The principle is unsound. How can we possibly reduce them sufficiently to match those in India? Even if we did, how would that increase productivity? If I’ve said so once when we’ve discussed this at the Exchange, I’ve said it a dozen times, we need to put a stop to this business of protective tariffs and level the playing-field.’

  He was on his feet now, stalking back and forth, stabbing the air with an urgent finger, as was his wont. ‘More importantly, we need to restructure the entire industry, to get all sections to pull together in order to eliminate waste and properly use spare capacity. We’ll never deal effectively with our competitors if we’re too busy squabbling amongst ourselves. If the industry is to survive, we have to make it more efficient and less of a blundering albatross.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ Evie interrupted, rather peevishly. ‘I believe we were discussing my new wardrobe and forthcoming engagement to Freddie, not the strike, nor the mill.’ She pronounced the word as if it offended her, stamping one small foot in order to gain her parents’ attention, although taking care not to spill her drink as she did so.

  ‘Can’t you ever think of anyone other than yourself, child?’ Nathan said, losing patience with her sulks, as usual. ‘It may surprise you to learn that while we sip our aperitifs before dinner, some people can’t afford to put bread on their table, let alone purchase ridiculous costumes they don’t need.’

  ‘Now you’re just being unkind.’ Evie let out a heartrending sob.

  Setting down her glass of fine sherry, Clara rose elegantly from the sofa and hurried across to put her arms about her daughter and pat her gently on the shoulder. Flushed quite pink in the cheeks, if there was one thing Evie hated, it was to be ignored. ‘Darling, you should remember that there will be no wardrobe, or lovely wedding for that matter, if the mill doesn’t survive.

  ‘I’m trying to make you understand that smoking suits and engagement parties are not the be all and end all in life,’ her father snapped. ‘Not when folk are starving and many mills in danger of going bump.’

  Evie’s wide, expressive mouth quivered and her eyes filled with tears. ‘Oh Pops, how can you be so cruel? It’s not my fault they are starving, so why take it out on me? You always have to spoil everything. I simply want things to be nice. It’s not every day a girl gets engaged, and I have to start thinking about my trousseau, or it will never be ready in time for the wedding. What is so wrong in that?’

  ‘Nothing at all, darling,’ Clara soothed. If challenged, she would freely admit to having spoiled Evie. Hadn’t Nathan told her so a hundred times? But after losing her first three babies, and with a largely absent husband, was it any wonder? ‘It’s just that Papa has other priorities and worries on his mind at the present time. You should try to see his point of view, at least a little, my sweet.’

  Evie set down her glass with a snap, almost breaking the stem. ‘Why should I? I think this strike business is absolute tosh. I cannot see what the working classes hope to achieve by it. They should be thankful they have employment at all.’

  ‘By our grace and favour, I suppose,’ commented Nathan drily.

  ‘Quite! And if you think I intend to sacrifice my wedding for the cause of the Great Unwashed, you are utterly mistaken.’ Evie’s shrill voice rose on a note of near hysteria.

  Clara shook her head in despair. ‘Oh, Evie darling, no one is asking you to. In any case, I’m sure this threat of a national strike will all blow over and soon be resolved. Then we can get back to choosing delicious things like bridesmaid’s dresses, the cake, and what sort of wine we should serve.’

  ‘Champagne of course!’ Evie screamed. ‘Don’t you know anything?’ And in a frenzy of temper and tears, she fled to her room.

  ‘Oh dear, this is all very bad timing for the poor girl.’ Clara put a hand to her heart and cast an anxious glance at her husband. He rarely had much patience where Evie was concerned. The pair seemed to rub each other up the wrong way. But how handsome he still looked with his tall, imposing stature and not an ounce of excess fat, for all he was forty-nine. Apart from his hair, which had gone prematurely grey from all the worry of the mill, he seemed not to have aged at all. His face was square, the features seeming to comprise a series of horizontals. The mouth was still firm, even if the eyebrows were more often than not drawn into a constant frown these days, the blue-grey eyes frequently narrowed as he shrewdly assessed the situation.

  Clara was flattered by his taking the time to explain things to her. He rarely shared his worries over the business, shouldering any difficulties without complaint, feeling the responsibility to be entirely his. On the whole, he’d been a tolerant and generous husband, if somewhat neglectful at times as he spent most of his waking hours at the mill.

  But then Clara knew that she’d been a disappointment to him, failing to provide him with the son and heir he’d so badly needed. They managed well enough, she supposed, carrying out their respective duties and living quite comfortable, if largely separate lives, as most couples did. She with her painting and her poetry, and he with his club, his ‘good works’, and of course his cronies at the Cotton Exchange.

  ‘The mill is safe, isn’t it, my dear?’ Clara asked, needing reassurance that her allowance was in no danger of diminishing. ‘I’m filled with admiration for what you’ve achieved without a scrap of help from anyone. Your father would have been so proud of you, but I’m also aware that there have been immense difficulties, and still are.’

  Nathan gave a grunt of annoyance which might pass for agreement. Somehow he felt as if he was losing his edge; his ability to cope with these latest troubles. ‘If we don’t win back some pretty big contracts soon to replace those we’ve lost, this strike could indeed break us. The situation is immensely worrying.’

  Clara went to kiss him on the forehead. ‘I’m quite sure that whatever the problem is, you will solve it. I trust your judgement implicitly. In the meantime, I must go and soothe away those hysterics, or Evie will be in a sulk for days, and I really don’t have the energy to endure one of her moods at present, not on top of everything else.’

  Nathan gave an unsympathetic grunt, experiencing the usual surge of irritation that Clara should offer to smooth matters over. It was so typical of her to imagine that any problem could be resolved with a pat or a kiss, an indulgent smile or perhaps some inconsequential gift. But that was how she operated. His wife was far too indulgent of Evie, and of himself, of which, God help him, he took ruthless advantage, suffering only occasional bouts of guilt.

  He’d not been a particularly loyal or faithful husband but had built up a good business to provide them with the security they needed and all for nothing, it seemed, since the mill would probably die with him, if not before, with no son to follow on. Nathan could sense he was growing increasingly bitter over this fact and hated himself for it; almost hated Clara for being the cause of his disappointment. Which was unfair, because aside from failing to provide an heir, she’d been a good wife to him, a trifle vague perhaps, rather a homebody spending far too much time with her pots of paint and shunning public functions where she might have been more use to him. Without doubt, he would have preferred a more outgoing wife, one with a little more passion in her soul.

  Evie, of course, was another matter. Utterly hedonistic and passionate about everything, she was always off to some party or other that demanded yet another new gown. The girl was a constant thorn in his side. The sooner he got her married off, the bett
er, so long as she didn’t bankrupt him in the process.

  Yet how could he blame Clara for fussing over the child. Who else did she have in her life to swamp with love and affection?

  He kissed his wife lightly on her brow and tenderly patted her shoulder, his temper easing a little as his sense of justice reminded him that he’d got away with a good deal over the years because of her vagueness and the fact she never questioned or challenged him about anything. ‘Tell her she can have a pair of Turkish trousers, but absolutely no smoking suit. Not at any price. Tolerant as I am of our darling daughter’s whims and fancies, I must draw the line somewhere. And if this strike goes on for too long, even dear, selfish Evie will be forced to curtail her extravagancies.’

  ‘Then let’s hope to God that it doesn’t,’ Clara said with feeling. ‘I doubt I could live with such dreadful consequences.’

  * * *

  As the strike progressed, Evie made certain that it did not interfere with her own plans. She continued to play tennis at the club, took tea with her friends, dined and danced each evening, if only to records on her dinky new gramophone. The fact there were no trains or buses running didn’t trouble her in the slightest since she had her own motor and never used them anyway. On the contrary, Evie found there were distinct advantages to the strike. The roads might be busier but the pavements were less congested with no workers clattering along in their noisy clogs, and the air was cleaner since no soot fell from the factory chimneys, so her fashionably pale gowns stayed pristine longer.

  There were one or two minor irritations such as the theatres being closed when Freddie had promised to take her to see HMS Pinafore with dinner afterwards at the Midland Hotel. Instead, they had to make do with singing Poor Little Buttercup together as they enjoyed a May picnic by the banks of the Irwell. Worst of all, the shops were closed. Really, one would have thought that Kendals at least might have had the decency to stay open.

  What irked her the most was that her father still saw her as some sort of peevish child. She adored him, but he always seemed to see the worst in her, accusing her of having no sensitivity. Absolute tosh!

  Four days into the strike Evie had one of her grand ideas. She would prove that she was sympathetic to the workers’ cause, whatever that might be. She quite understood that there were people less fortunate than herself, those who were forced to use trams, for instance. And since there weren’t any running and she had her own private mode of transport it occurred to her that she could do her bit by offering joy rides. Absolutely free of charge. What could be more thoughtful or generous? That would show Pops, and Mumsie, that she too could do her bit.

  Decking herself out in a suitably natty costume with a simple cloche hat, not even sporting a feather, and her best tan leather gloves, of course, she set out in her smart little Morris motor and drove straight to Albert Square. Here she wrote a notice: Volunteer driver will take you anywhere you wish to go. And another comment, which said: No fares. Come for the joy of the ride.

  Evie drove her motor up and down the streets of Manchester offering these less fortunate souls a lift; perhaps to visit relatives, go to the doctor or to attend hospital, or even to watch a football match, without asking a penny in payment. It was all such a lark! Really quite jolly. Nor was she the only one. She spotted Johnny Warbeck and his brother Tommy driving an omnibus of all things, looking very dashing in their plus-fours and check caps. Quite the ticket!

  Sometimes she would ask her grateful passengers if they were enjoying their ‘unexpected little holiday’, although she did get some funny looks by way of response. Absolutely no sense of humour these people.

  One morning, she spotted a young woman standing forlornly outside London Road Station, loaded down with boxes and a tribe of children clinging to her grubby skirts. She gratefully accepted Evie’s offer of a lift and then confessed that she’d been recently widowed and was moving in with her sister who lived down by the basin, close to Potato Wharf.

  ‘Tisn’t no place for the likes of you, ma’am.’

  ‘Nonsense. Climb aboard. I’ll have you there in a jiffy.’ Evie loaded the woman’s many boxes into the boot and didn’t even blench or utter a word of complaint when her brats put their filthy boots all over the smart leather upholstery of the rumble seat.

  The woman directed her under the railway arches and along a maze of streets, past warehouses, deserted mills, empty wharfs and rough looking rows of houses the like of which Evie had never seen in her life before. In Evie’s opinion, the fact that her family owned one of the largest cotton mills in the district did not in any way oblige her to take an interest in the operatives, or visit the dreadful slums in which they chose to reside. She had always kept well away from such unpleasantness.

  Now she was confronted with children playing barefoot among the rubbish, horse dung and other unspeakable filth that littered these godforsaken streets. She saw one child swerve slightly to avoid a dead cat as she played a game of tag. A group of young girls were swinging on a rope from a lamp post, skirts flying out to reveal they weren’t even wearing underwear. Women stood gossiping in doorways, arms folded, apparently with no work to do on this bright May morning. Men in slouch caps hovered at street corners, Thankfully the pubs seemed to be closed so they appeared to be quite sober. Even so, their very presence was disturbing. They watched her drive by with dark envy on their angry faces and Evie realised she’d ventured into territory that was quite beyond the pale.

  ‘Here it is, love. Corner of Medlock Street will be grand. Eeh, I’m right grateful.’

  A group of rough-looking men edged closer for a better look at the car. Hurrying now, and anxious to be out of this grim neighbourhood, Evie jumped down from the driving seat and began to fling boxes out onto the pavement. The children were making no effort at all to disembark, being too engrossed scrapping and fighting each other, pulling hair and climbing all over the leather seats like a tribe of wild monkeys.

  The woman was hammering on a nearby door, evidently in an effort to alert her sister of her arrival. The door remained obstinately closed and yet the men drew ever nearer. It was then that the engine cut out.

  ‘Drat!’ Evie had quite a high opinion of herself as a chauffeuse, nevertheless this wasn’t exactly the moment she would choose to encounter mechanical problems. Grabbing the handle she started to crank it, silently praying the engine would burst into life as it should. Unfortunately, this was one of those days when it chose to be temperamental. The engine groaned and clanked while a great puff of smoke bellied out all around. Evie’s heart sank to her boots.

  ‘Having trouble, love?’

  ‘You should happen have taken a tram instead of bringing out yer fancy motor.’

  ‘Nay, tha couldn’t, could you? Seeing as how there’s none running.’

  ‘Did you not notice there were a strike on?’

  They were gathered all around her. Filthy, desperate-looking men, dressed in fustian suits and mufflers, slouch caps pulled down over faces pitted with grime, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched, glowering as if the strike were all some fault of hers. There was no sign of her passenger now, nor her rapscallion children, and other than this group of ruffians Evie realised, to her horror, that the street was deserted. Every doorstep was now mystifyingly empty of their curious occupants. She felt her heart beat a little faster and applied yet more elbow to the recalcitrant engine.

  ‘I’m surprised a young lass such as yourself dare venture round these parts.’

  ‘Has yer mam given you a permission note?’

  ‘Where’s your chaperone then?’

  The taunts came thick and fast and Evie felt her strength ebb away and her knees weaken, as she grew more confused and afraid. She could smell the sweat of their filthy bodies as they pressed ever closer and fear curdled in her stomach. She remembered her father’s comments only this morning at breakfast. All about how we might have won the war, but had still not made this a country fit for heroes; and how The Times had predicted a
genuine concern that a national strike could well turn nasty. ‘Blood could be spilled before we’re done,’ he’d read. And right at this moment it seemed as if that blood might be Evie’s own.

  One of the men snatched at the fabric of her silk motoring coat, rubbing it between his dirty fingers and thumb. ‘This isn’t cotton. I reckon it cost a bob or two.’

  Evie emitted a tiny whimper and tried to back away but saw that she was hemmed in on all sides. She couldn’t even reach the driving seat.

  Her grand idea no longer seemed quite such a lark. She felt something strike her on the cheek, then another blow to her shoulder. With a squeak of terror, Evie realised they were throwing stones at her. The missiles were raining on her thick and fast, showering her with a hail of muck and filth they’d plucked out of the gutter.

  ‘Take that, you bloody blackleg!’

  ‘Would yer steal food from t’mouths of us own childer?’

  ‘Get back home!’

  ‘Aye, be off with you, back where you belong. Bloody toff!’

  Evie was almost fainting with fear, gagging with terror, desperately attempting to protect herself from the worst of the onslaught when somewhere amongst the din she heard a voice ring out. ‘What the hell are you lot doing?’

  A pair of hands grasped her, a girl’s urgent voice in her ear. ‘What were you thinking of, coming round here in yer fancy motor? There’ll be blue murder done if they get their hands on you.’