Angel Meadow Page 25

  “Will you look at me, Miss Brody . . . or may I call you Nancy?”

  Nancy turned her head in astonishment and delight.

  “Of course you may, Mrs Underwood.”

  “I feel we are to be friends, Nancy, and though I know I am a good deal older than you that does not matter. Your tale horrifies me, for though I am from the working classes I have lived a sheltered life, a privileged life and confess I have never come across violence. Now, tell me, is your face to heal?” For like the others she felt a real sense of loss for the beauty that had once been Nancy Brody’s.

  Nancy shrugged carelessly and Hetty Underwood realised that the girl was still in a state of shock. No woman likes to lose her looks and Nancy’s attitude of indifference could not be real. It was apparent that what had been done to her had left her scarred, not just on her face but in her inner self, and to cover that wound she was affecting not to care. Men were anathema to her now, so what did it matter whether she was plain or pretty, or even downright ugly. Her work was the most important thing in her life, her business that she had built from nothing and with very little help. Hetty Underwood could not conceal her admiration.

  “What are you to do, my dear, when you resume work?”

  Nancy stared in surprise. “Do? What can you mean? I shall do exactly what I have always done. Jennet is working the market stall today and until the end of the week. Mary has kept the workroom going, though she is very young for such a responsibility. They have done wonderfully well but they need me, Mrs Underwood, and I cannot afford to stay at home for more than a day or two. I am to go to the hospital on Friday, when Doctor Whitehead is to remove the rest of the bandages, and every day the bruising to my face fades a little. I intend taking over the stall on Saturday which is our busiest day—”

  “You need more staff,” Mrs Underwood interrupted abruptly. She leaned forward and her face was alight with some private enthusiasm.

  “More staff: you mean machinists?” Nancy was plainly astonished.

  “I do.”

  “But I have only six sewing-machines.”

  “You need more of those as well.”

  “But I have not the room.”

  “And bigger premises.”

  “Mrs Underwood!” Nancy’s face showed her bewilderment, even under its layer of padding. She and Annie had brushed back her hair as best they could, knotting a length of scarlet ribbon at the end of the plait Annie had fashioned, but it had not been washed for over two weeks. It looked drab and lifeless and though the nurses had done their best there were still streaks of dried blood here and there. As soon as her dressings were gone she would wash it, she had told Annie this morning. The plait hung over her shoulder and across her breast and her hands were busy with the ribbon, tying and untying it in her consternation, then she sat up straight, looking stern and somewhat aloof.

  “Mrs Underwood,” she said again. “Believe me, if I had the wherewithal I would do all these things you suggest, and one day I shall, but at the moment I am hard pressed to—”

  “I know, that is why I am here, apart from wishing to ascertain the state of your health. You have a talent for business, Nancy, for making money, but you need money to make money. I see you as a good investment and so I wish to invest in you. If you agree, that is,” she added somewhat hastily, for Nancy’s face was a picture of amazement. “You must look for bigger premises, rent more machines, employ more girls and I guarantee you will expand beyond all your wildest dreams. I know you have had plenty of those, my dear. So what do you say? Will you accept my offer? You could manufacture not just shirts and baby clothes but blouses and even dresses.”

  “Oh, Mrs Underwood, stop, stop, I can’t think.” Nancy’s eyes glowed with excitement, ready to brim with tears but already there was that reflective look on her face which told Hetty Underwood she was weighing up this and that and the other and would not be found wanting when it came to the details.

  “You agree?” She took Nancy’s hand in her large capable one and squeezed it. She did not need an answer as Nancy stood up and, throwing off her hand, stretched her arms to the ceiling, tipping back her head in what looked like ecstasy. Then she became still and an expression stole over her face that Hetty Underwood was to see many times.

  “This will be a proper investment – is that what you call it? – with contracts and . . . and whatever legal arrangement are necessary. Lawyers and . . .”

  “Of course, my dear,” and she smiled. “I see you are not a woman to be trifled with, Nancy Brody. I think you will go far.”

  18

  Josh Hayes was deep in thought, his mind only half occupied with the task of steering his chestnut mare through the Saturday midday traffic, which is perhaps why the accident occurred.

  It was warm, sultry, the air trapped beneath the inevitable pall of dirty brown smoke that would hang about over the city for the rest of the day even though the chimneys from which it poured were now at rest. The factory hooters and whistles had signalled the end of the shift, since, after the introduction of the statutory establishment of the Saturday half-day, the pavements were crowded with workers making their way home, their clogs clattering on the cobbles as they darted almost under the belly of his horse. He scarcely noticed.

  It was June 1861 and since the beginning of the year affairs in North America had assumed a more and more unhappy and alarming character, so much so that the British government had last month felt compelled to issue a proclamation of its neutrality. The exact nature of the dissension between the northern and southern states that led to the war between them was never quite understood by those not involved, many of them believing that it was merely over the abolition of slavery, but there were many other factors tangled in its complex history. For years estrangement had gradually been building up between the northern and southern states, grounded on a number of differences, some, not all, on the continual collisions to which the question of slavery gave rise. In November of last year Abraham Lincoln had been elected President of the United States of America and, beginning in December and continuing to February 1861, seven southern states had withdrawn from the union and Jefferson Davis had been sworn in as President of what was known as the Confederate States of America. In April Fort Sumter, situated on an island in northern hands-off Charleston in South Carolina, was fired upon by Confederate troops and President Lincoln called for the rallying of union forces and proclaimed a blockade of all southern ports.

  It was on this that Josh was dwelling as he picked his way along the narrow congestion of Moseley Street in the direction of the considerably broadened Market Street, for if southern ports were blockaded how were the cotton planters of the southern states to get their raw cotton to market? Manchester was known as the spinning centre for the finest of all cotton yarns and most of its production found its way into the city’s own weaving sheds. It was the world’s largest market for cotton goods. Ready-made clothing and the rising influence of the fashion cycle were changing the dress habits of the lower middle classes. There was a steady growth of a working-class market for ready-made clothes, most of the making up carried out in small, ill-regulated sweat shops where underclothes, shirts, and collars were made up, though of course there were exceptions.

  The firm of Brody and Williams, begun no more than twelve months ago, was, besides its baby garments and shirts, becoming well known for its good-quality blouses and dresses. Its merchandise was aimed at the lower middle classes in the first instance, but it had rapidly become popular with that in-between class that was neither upper nor lower, consisting of self-made men who were enterprising and knew how to set that enterprise and their own ambition to good advantage in the world of business opportunities which abounded in Manchester. They had wives who wished to be considered fashionable, despite the fact they could not yet afford the bigger and more expensive fashion houses, and they were happy to make their purchases at Mrs Underwood’s, a smart little shop, recently extended, on the corner of Market Street and Br
own Street in which the blouses, dresses, undergarments and baby clothes made in the small factory owned by Brody and Williams were sold. Josh had heard that they intended branching out into other areas of ladies clothing: shawls and fans, lacy garments to be worn in the privacy of a lady’s own boudoir – for those ladies who had a boudoir – bonnets, gloves, parasols and a host of fancy goods. He knew, of course, who the Brody was in Brody and Williams, for did not she and her companion, Miss Williams, still cause something of a stir whenever they called into his warehouse to view his textiles. Their orders had grown by the week, not just in plain cotton but in the other fabrics he had introduced since his father had trusted him with the management of the warehouse: batiste, a dressed cotton muslin; dimity, a stout cotton with a raised pattern: fustian which was coarser; jaconet, fine and light; nankin and sateen; all made from cotton but with a different appearance and use. It was said, for men were just as inclined to gossip as women, that the Misses Brody and Williams bought silk from many of the silk manufacturers in the city, ribbons, artificial flowers, feathers and all manner of materials in the making up of their goods; and there was a rumour that Miss Brody and her partners were so successful new premises were even now being looked for to accommodate her machinists.

  And in all this time he had not once seen her, on his premises or off. He passed the draper’s shop in Market Street and her home in Grove Place on the New Bury Road on his way to Broughton and though he could not say he deliberately searched her out he often cast an eye at the small house where she lived. He had seen the child in the garden, her daughter who was the same age as Freddy, playing some game with the dog and an older woman, and had nodded politely at the woman who had nodded back. She was the one who had told him a year ago that Miss Brody had suffered an accident, no details, but that she was not at home to callers; and since he was disinclined to call anyway he had – inexplicably – left the puppy and enquired no further. It was best that way. She was a beautiful woman and for some reason had aroused a certain feeling – interest: what could he call it? – in him, and God knew where it might lead if he was to investigate it. He was older and wiser since his affair with Evie, the tragedy of her death, the birth of his son, and he meant to keep well away from any temptation of that sort. He had immersed himself in his warehouse and the mill his father was encouraging him to take charge of, in the delights of parenthood which gave him all that was required for the softer, affectionate side of his nature. He knew he had withdrawn into himself over the last two years, hidden his emotions, buried them with Evie, which was strange since he had not loved her. Only his little son was allowed to see the gentleness, the sweetness, the tenderness that lay dormant in his heart, even the humour that had once made him tease and flirt and laugh, since he had nothing to trouble him then. It was gone now, leaving only the serious concerns of business, of profit and loss, of balance sheets and expanding markets for his cloth – which might not expand so easily with the situation as it was in America – and it was very clear that before long these matters which nibbled at his half-attentive mind would need to be concentrated upon and appropriate action taken.

  And it was not just the home trade that would be affected by this war between the states in America. The export of textile goods to Australia, New Zealand, Canada and South Africa was growing rapidly. It was a boom time: so what was to become of the boom if there was the cotton shortage that Josh and other men of cotton knew would come? Unless another supply of raw cotton could be found it looked a bleak prospect for those who made a living from cotton, and there were many hundreds of thousands of those, not only in Manchester but all over Lancashire.

  Market Street was a teeming mass of people, all crowding the pavements, jostling one another good-naturedly, since it was the weekend. Some were hurrying to get home after their morning’s labour, others drifting in a leisurely fashion from shop window to shop window, most of them of the working classes, the women in shawls despite the heat, and clogs, the men in caps and mufflers. Today was their day, for the ladies of the upper classes would not dream of shopping on a Saturday, preferring to mix with their own sort, those who had wealthy husbands and therefore no need to work and so could visit Kendal Milne and Faulkners and other smart shops during the week. Those here today were of the class that, for generations, had worked in the stifling, dangerous and overworked environment of the mills and factories, their ill-nourished bodies, stunted legs and bowed shoulders proclaiming their lack of anything that might be called fresh air, decent exercise outdoors, and bone-building, body-building food. But rising real wages had stimulated a popular demand for goods of all sorts and since they had a penny or two to jingle in their pockets they liked to wander along Market Street or Deansgate and peer into the shop windows. They might not be able to afford what was in them but they could look, couldn’t they?

  There were carriages, leather-lined, polished to a high gloss, pulled by carriage horses of splendid pedigree with high-nosed, smartly uniformed coachmen snapping their whips and doing their best to keep on the move, and in the carriages, gentlemen in top hats, those who did not wish to hazard themselves in riding a horse into the business quarters of town. There were drays piled high with bales of cotton, barrels of beer, sacks of coal, corn and vegetables, fish, fruit and flowers and meat heading for the great iron and glass-roofed food market of Smithfield off Shude Hill. The congestion was considerable and getting worse, for Saturday was the busiest market day of the week and from six that morning there had been hundreds of horse-drawn “lurries” and carts, heavy laden, heading there, pulled by magnificent horses, great in size and shoulder with glossy bowed heads and well-brushed manes. There were horse-drawn omnibuses, one after the other along the street, with their destination written in large letters at the front of the vehicle: Belle Vue, Hyde Road, Longsight, Alexandra Park, Hulme, Miles Platting, Broughton. As his mare took a prancing and supercilious step or two away from one of the shire horses that were used to pull the omnibus, whether from nerves or indignation, Josh became aware of a tall, well-dressed young woman who was just leaving the doorway of a shop on the corner of Brown Street.

  She seemed unaware of any danger, stepping briskly from the shop doorway, whisking through the dawdling crowds across the pavement and stepping into the gutter with the evident intention of boarding an omnibus heading for Broughton. It was perhaps the crowds that hid him from her view. She was keeping a lookout for the drays and carts and carriages, but the smaller figure of a horseman, of which there were more than a few, seemed to be invisible to her.

  He was upon her before he could draw on his reins. His mare shied, tossing her head, her hooves landing somewhere in the pleats of the woman’s full skirt. The woman sat down in a most ungraceful way on the kerb, where her pretty hat fell over her eyes. She immediately began to abuse him in a most unladylike fashion.

  She was beautifully dressed in a gown of wheatcoloured jaconet, the bodice fitted closely to her swelling breast, the skirt full and billowing out over a crinoline. There were touches of white at her neck and wrists. Her bonnet, from underneath which came her highly indignant voice, was of wheat-coloured straw with a ribbon as wide as her hand fastened under her chin. Her only concession to frivolity was a tiny bunch of violets at her throat.

  There were shouts, the harsh noise of wheels scraping on cobblestones, the sound of his mare as she whinnied in fear. In a moment, and from God knows where, a great many people at once gathered round, bending over her, arguing quite ferociously with one another as to whether she had walked into the horse or the horse had walked into her. Was she blind, or deaf, perhaps drunk or even slow-witted, for surely anyone could see an animal of that size? She was still holding forth, he knew, on his stupidity and carelessness, his total lack of anything that might be called horsemanship and for a moment he felt a great desire to laugh. She really was the most diverting woman he had ever met, or was that too insipid a word to describe Miss Nancy Brody who, in the several times he had met her had, if not
physically then metaphorically, collided with his horse head on. There was the incident in the mill yard when she had rushed to defend a child he was about to ride down, or at least she said so! There had been the day at the ruined castle when she had mocked his attempts to control his mare.

  And now it was she who had stepped into the direct path of his mare and yet she was holding forth in such a furious manner one might believe he had set the animal to the pavement and deliberately run her down. But really he could not sit here studying her, listening to her, smiling at her indignation, which she obviously thought was justified, when she might be seriously damaged, though from the force of her abuse he did not think so.

  Still inclined towards laughter, he leaped from his mare’s back, throwing the reins to a startled lad in a cap, striding across the cobbles, which were strewn with horse droppings, to her side. He put his hand to her elbow, not sure which part of her might be damaged and therefore painful. His touch was gentle and so was his voice, though there was still a smile in it.