Angel Meadow Read online

  “No, darling.” Jennet kneeled down beside her and attempted to take the box from her. “The box isn’t big enough for all the bobbins. See, let Aunty Jennet show you.” But Kitty set her face in a mutinous frown and wilfully jerked the box away.

  “No.” It was the only word she knew but she said it frequently. Sometimes Nancy caught a glimpse of the first Kitty in her, a curl at the corner of her mouth, a movement of her head and for a moment was saddened for the dreadful life and, one supposed, death, that her mother had suffered. And yet, if her mother had shaped herself, as Nancy had done, could she not have made more of her life than she had? There was work to be had in this vast cotton city, Nancy herself had proved it. Gritting her teeth and ignoring the jeers and laughter of her neighbours she had dragged herself and her sisters from the mire her mother had wallowed in and now look where she was. Getting above herself, they still shouted after her but she had shown them all and now had a small but increasingly successful business of her own, a bank account with money in it, premises in Shude Hill, six sewing-machines with six girls, including Mary and Rosie, turning out shirts and waistcoats, baby garments, ladies’ undergarments such as petticoats and shifts, and indeed anything that she thought might sell on the market. While Jennet supervised the work and attended to customers in the workroom Nancy stood behind a stall for the three busiest days of the week and sold the garments that had been made in her own workroom.

  She remembered that first day with quiet amusement. How afraid she had been and yet not for a moment would she allow it to show, holding her head high and her shoulders squared against whatever might come her way. She was not awfully sure what she had been afraid of, unless it was that she might stand there for the full day and sell nothing. She didn’t care what anyone thought of her, or the way the men eyed her, for she knew she was not unattractive, or that the decent women who shopped in the market might have heard that she had an illegitimate child and so condemn her and her merchandise. She didn’t care what they thought of her personally as long as they liked what she was selling, the attractive, well-made garments she and her sisters, with Jennet, had spent hours over. Wearing a plain grey skirt and bodice, a snowy muslin apron and a shawl wrapped about her shoulders, she had arranged her goods on her stall on a wide length of clean cotton, the shirts, the baby garments, the undergarments, all in a plain creamy cotton, of good quality, well made and even a bit of embroidery on some of them. They were within the price range of the careful, thrifty housewife, those who shopped in the market not at the end of the day when produce was cheap, since it might not keep until tomorrow, but early in the morning when it was fresh and therefore cost more. These were the customers Nancy wanted. They had husbands who were in decent work. They came not from Angel Meadow but from better districts, still working class but decent and hardworking, limiting their families to the size they could afford. They might be shabby but they were clean and proud and required the best for the prices they could afford. Nancy meant to give it to them. Mrs Beasley, opposite whose stall Nancy stood, catered to the poorest of the poor, selling second-hand clothing that sometimes was no more than tattered rags. Nancy knew, for Nancy had once worn them, so she and Mrs Beasley were not in competition with one another.

  That first day many of the women had stopped and fingered her goods, looking for a bargain, studying the seams, the embroidery, the buttonholes, the hand finishing over which she and Jennet and the girls had laboured, nodding pleasantly enough before moving on. Their circumstances meant that they could not afford to buy the first thing on offer but had to circle the market on the lookout for value, for every penny must be made to count. But one by one they drifted back. They were not to know that Nancy had herself gone round the market on many occasions, stopping at every stall that sold children’s clothing, shirts and undergarments, matching the quality and prices to her own and by charging a penny less, sometimes even as much as sixpence, she undercut them all and the housewives could not resist.

  By the end of that first day she had sold everything on her stall and had orders from women who had been slow in returning but were prepared to wait until the following week for what they wanted.

  In those first weeks it had been chaotic at the cottage in Church Court and Annie had threatened to throw herself in the Irwell if they didn’t do something about the space.

  “’Ow can I look after’t babby, cook a bit o’ grub and run a cloth over’t place wi’ three o’ yer goin’ away like maniacs on them bloody machines? I ’aven’t room ter turn round an’ I can’t sit upstairs all day, it’s too bloody cold. That babby’ll freeze up there in’t winter.”

  “Oh, please, Annie, can we not just make do for a few months?” Nancy had pleaded with her. “I daren’t spend more money on a workshop just yet. I know things are going well, better than I ever hoped. I had no idea what an opening there was in the market – did you, Jennet? – for better-class clothing but at a price they can afford,” turning in a delirium of enchantment to Jennet, then back to Annie, “but we must walk before we run.”

  “That’s all very well, Nancy Brody, but there isn’t bloody room ter even sit down on yer bum, never mind walk about. That babby—”

  “Never mind the baby, Annie. As long as she’s fed and warm she’ll be all right,” Nancy was unwise enough to say carelessly to the woman whose job it was to look after her while the rest of them worked. Annie was made up with her new position and Nancy had lifted a great burden, possibly even a death sentence from her when she put her in charge of her child. Annie’s right hand had been badly damaged by a moment of carelessness – or was it old age? – on her part and could no longer manage a spinning frame. Her old man had died long ago of the consumption that was rife in the disease-ridden world of Angel Meadow and her sons had long since left home. Then Nancy had sent for her and Annie would never, if she lived to be ninety, be able to thank the lass for rescuing her; but just the same she would not have her speak about the child, of whom Annie was becoming increasingly fond, as though she were a puppy who could be left in a basket and fed three times a day.

  She drew herself up and her mouth thinned. She had lost most of her teeth and her lips disappeared completely.

  “Now listen ’ere, lady. That babby needs—”

  “Annie, dear Annie, I know what she needs, believe me. Jennet never lets me forget, but surely there are enough of us to give her everything that is required. Perhaps you could take her to . . .”

  “Where? Tell me an’ I’ll tekk ’er.” Annie screwed up her eyes and glared into Nancy’s face.

  “Dear God, haven’t I enough to contend with, Annie Wilson, without planning your day as well. I’m trying to make a living for six people here. To get a business going and I haven’t time to be bothering with a baby, for God’s sake.”

  “Then why did yer ’ave the poor little mite? Some chap must’ve took yer fancy an’ . . .”

  Annie was amazed when Nancy bowed her head and began to cry. They were alone, for it was a Sunday and Jennet and Mary had taken Kitty to Vauxhall Gardens. God knows where Rosie had got to, though Nancy had her suspicions. Both Jennet and Mary wore a shawl and, taking it in turns, carried the baby in it. She had been six weeks old then and was not yet too heavy to be taken about this way, though as yet her mother had never done so. She was too busy, she said. She had too much on her mind but if they wanted to take a turn about the gardens, which were only a ten-minute walk away, then she’d stay at home and go over the accounts which she kept faithfully in a big red ledger.

  For a moment Annie was astounded, for she had never seen Nancy Brody other than steadfast, confident, strong and ready to tackle anything. Now, here she was crying like a child who has been unfairly thrashed. But Annie was not the sort of woman who could be swayed to sympathy by a few tears. Tears were an indulgence she had rarely allowed herself, and she wasn’t about to be got round by Nancy’s.

  “Now then, what’s up?” she asked sharply, just as though Nancy were doing herse
lf no favours by acting this way and she’d best pull herself together.

  “Some chap must have taken my fancy,” Nancy wailed, allowing herself for the moment to weaken, allowing herself, though she despised herself for it, to feel self-pity, then she sniffed, wiped her nose on the back of her hand and threw up her head, her curls bouncing independently.

  “You should know me better than that, Annie Wilson,” she cried. “You’ve known me since I was a nipper. You’ve seen me struggle on a spinning frame when I could hardly reach the bloody thing. You’ve seen me work towards one goal. To better myself and my sisters. To be somebody. To be respectable. To drag myself from this bloody muck-heap I live in. Do you honestly think I would casually let some chap up my skirt? Dear Lord God, Annie, you should know me better than that.”

  “Then ’ow?”

  “I was raped, Annie,” she hissed into Annie’s horrified face. “I was dragged into the churchyard and raped by that bastard who . . . who still is doing his best to . . . to . . .”

  “What, lass?”

  “Oh, never mind, Annie. We’ll be gone from here soon, all of us; oh, yes, you included, and the problem will be solved. But you must see why I cannot consider anything else, even my daughter and where she is to spend her day. As long as she’s in your care while we are working I know she’s safe and looked after. Please, Annie, do your best, please.”

  It was after Christmas when Nancy knew she could no longer manage to juggle the complexity of her growing needs. They had more work than could be done on the three sewing-machines and she knew that a business that stands still, that does not expand when it is needed, is going backwards. Space, she needed more space. Only last week a Mrs Underwood, who had a small but respectable draper’s in Market Street, had stopped at her stall and examined every article on display. She had turned each one inside out, studying the seams, the buttonholes, the dainty bit of embroidery, even sniffing the fabric as though to ascertain where the garments had been made, her attitude saying that if it was among dirt she was not interested.

  “What time do you finish here, Miss . . . er . . .”

  “Brody . . .” she replied suspiciously.

  “I am Hetty Underwood. I have a small shop in Market Street and I think, if you are willing and we can come to some arrangement satisfactory to us both, we might do business together. May I call on you?” she had asked abruptly.

  As she had done with Mr Bradbury when he had suggested he would visit her when next he was in Manchester, Nancy had a mental picture of this sober, decently dressed woman, a working woman but very respectable, picking her way along Church Court, but she managed to control herself.

  “I think not, Mrs Underwood. We are rather crowded at home. I have sisters and . . . well, it would be more convenient if I called on you; that is if you don’t mind.”

  Though Hetty Underwood liked to see the premises from which her merchandise was purchased she made an exception for Nancy Brody, since the girl was so immaculately turned out and her goods could not be faulted.

  The upshot was that within a month the baby garments manufactured in the stinking alleyway known as Church Court were being displayed in the shop window of a small but well-respected draper’s window in Market Street. They sold and they sold well to the wives of the lower middle classes, ladies who would not dream of frequenting a market but were glad to clothe their infants from a good shop like Mrs Underwood’s. The orders grew and Mrs Underwood wanted more and it was then that Nancy and Jennet began to look around for a decent workshop, for decent machinists and to send word to Mr Bradbury that they would require more machines.

  She could have done none of it without Josh Hayes. From that first day when, to the mortification of every man in the sample-room who could not believe it of him, he had led her and Jennet courteously down the long flight of stairs to his office on the ground floor, he had made it possible for her to obtain whatever she required in the way of materials. He had seated them in splendid leather chairs, rang a bell and when a cheerful little messenger boy popped his head round the door, ordered coffee for three. He questioned them vigorously while they drank it. There was no polite small talk, for these were potential customers and as such did not require it. Time was money to them all and so they had none to waste.

  “So what would your requirements be, Miss Brody?” he asked her, watching, though she was not aware of it, the excitement of her smile. It was a deep smile in which her eyes changed colour from pale amber to a rich gold. Her eyelashes meshed together, dark and silky and long and her full mouth parted in what appeared to be delight over her even white teeth. A faint flush of colour tinted her creamy white skin at the cheekbones. About her forehead, from beneath the tilted brim of her straw hat, and in front of her ears, a small cascade of tight curls, which had escaped the severe chignon she had devised at the back of her head, danced enchantingly as she leaned forward, her eagerness lovely to watch.

  “Mr Hayes, we want no more than you give to your other customers. We want to be able to come in here and buy our cotton, or whatever else we might need, without interference from your staff and from the other customers. We want no privileges, or special attention. We want to be treated as though we were . . . men, in fact.”

  “That might be difficult, Miss Brody.” He smiled coolly to take the sting out of his words. “You are not a man and my other customers won’t like it. But if you can stand their hostility then so can I.”

  She positively glowed with rapture. It was quite extraordinary, for it was very little that he had given her. Somewhere to purchase the cloth she needed, that was all, but she was acting, and looking, as though he had given her the key to the Kingdom of Heaven where treasures of a sort never before seen were to be offered her. She turned to clutch at her quiet companion who was so exactly the opposite of herself. Small, plain, mousy, he supposed men would call her, colourless, from the neat grey gown she wore, her hair which he could see beneath her undistinguished bonnet that was so fair as to be almost white, to her cool grey eyes. An oddly matched pair but with some link between them that showed itself, not with words but with the look they exchanged. Golden eyes blazing into silver as though relaying a message of jubilance, of joy, of triumph over adversity; and when he remembered how he had seen her, the lovely one, over a year ago now, in the mill yard, could you wonder that she should be so exultant. For a mill girl, a young mill girl at that, for she could be no more than eighteen even now, to rise to such dizzy heights was quite extraordinary. He would have been astounded to learn that she was still only fifteen! He had never come across a woman involved in the cotton trade, not in all the years since he had entered his father’s business, not one who wished to compete with other men, that is, and he found his curiosity was aroused though he did not let it show in his face.

  He knew he was watching her with rather more interest than one man of business shows to another. She really was a beautiful creature, even more so now, for she had let down her guard, thrown off the defensive stiffness with which she had held herself together during the last few minutes. She had become soft, warm, sweet-faced, girlish even, letting her emotions be seen, and they were overflowing like a river in full flood towards her friend who was patting her hand, doing her best to recall her to this transaction they were discussing. But for this fraction of time she could not contain it. Some wonderful thing had happened to her and her eyes were dewed, great golden pools from which he was sure tears would soon flow.

  “Nancy, dearest . . .” Miss Williams was saying to her, her voice low, warning her that this was neither the time nor the place for emotion and at once she pulled herself up, turning back to him with her head held at an imperious angle, giving the impression that she was doing him a favour and not the other way around. How fascinating she was. How dazzling, how . . .

  Abruptly he took hold of himself, lounging indolently, deliberately in his chair, hoping to God that none of the upheaval that was taking place inside him had been revealed to either young
woman. Good God almighty, he must not fall into that trap again, he told himself with a shiver of self-disgust. Look where the last indulgence had led him and, more to the point, where it had led poor Evie. A lovely face, glowing eyes, a wide smile, just like Evie had once had, and he was allowing himself to be led into the same sweet meshes, deliberating on the attractions of a woman who had come here to do business with him. In a small way, she was saying now, for their business was only just begun but she hoped that before long they might be purchasing . . .

  He barely heard her, regarding her with a cool, watchful look, his eyes a frosted grey, his face expressionless, seeing her mouth form the words, waiting for her to go with some impatience, and, when she had finished speaking and was turning to her friend in some bewilderment, standing up and offering her his hand in a way that seemed to speak of distaste.

  “I’ll have a word with my head warehouseman, Miss Brody, Miss Williams,” bowing in Jennet’s direction, “letting him know that you are to be allowed to buy whatever you want from my warehouse.” Despite his previous words when they met he did not mean to do business with her himself. He did not mean to see her again if he could help it. There were enough complications in his life as it was and this sense of being drawn to her, as he had been strangely drawn to her on the other occasions they had met, was not something he wished to investigate. He could see she was surprised by his attitude of impassive neutrality, his lack of anything that might be called enthusiasm. Not that she cared, her own expression told him, for she was here on business only and now that their business was done then she’d be on her way.