Ravenscliffe (54 page)

‘Hello,’ Henrietta said, more brightly than she felt. ‘I’m here at the invitation of Miss Gore-Booth.’

The porter hesitated. ‘What number?’ he said.

‘Open this door at once. This is Lady Henrietta Hoyland and she shall not be kept waiting.’ Mr Stallibrass boomed his instruction to good effect. The door was swiftly pulled back and Henrietta stepped into a communal hallway, from which a variety of doors led into individual apartments and a dark winding staircase led to other, numerous floors. It was not a welcoming entrance hall: rather, it was one where leaving was surely more pleasant than arriving. The distinctive smell of damp pervaded the atmosphere; the fungal, fertile smell of untended furnishings, though it could also perhaps have emanated from the porter, who looked very much as if he needed an airing. Mr Stallibrass, looking in from the doorstep, grimaced. He had been heartened at first to see the building was staffed, but he saw now that this lifting of his spirits had been misplaced. Henrietta, however, was undaunted.

‘Thank you, Samuel,’ she said and then, to the porter, ‘Number fourteen please,’ and the door was closed on the coachman, who called out that he would stay precisely there, on the step, until she emerged. Henrietta smiled apologetically at the little man on whom she now relied, and he smiled back, though hesitantly, as if he was out of practice. He had a limp, she noticed; his left foot dragged behind and made progress up the stairs rather slow. However, they presently arrived outside a door much like all the other doors, on which was painted in black the number fourteen and there he left her, with a nod of encouragement to go ahead and knock, which she duly did. There was a delay of some moments before someone answered; she could hear the hubbub of conversation, a smattering of laughter. It struck her, rather late in the day, that she had no idea what she meant by coming here this evening. Certainly she was motivated more by curiosity than conviction. To whom did all those voices belong? She hoped
she wouldn’t be asked to address the meeting, or write a pamphlet of her own.

At this point, just as her confidence was failing, the door was swung wide and – relief unbounded – there stood the young woman from Hyde Park.

‘Miss Hoyland!’ she said, pleasure and surprise lighting her attractive face.

This was so awkward, thought Henrietta. Miss Hoyland sounded like another person entirely, but then perhaps this was just as it should be, in this dowdy building in a strange part of London, among people she didn’t know. Certainly, she had no inclination to correct Miss Gore-Booth’s form of address, so she merely smiled and took the proffered hand, shaking it warmly. To her confusion the door opened immediately onto a room; there was no antechamber to hang one’s coat or hat, no opportunity to improve one’s dishevelled appearance. There were six people in the room, seated around a hearth in which a fire burned rather sulkily, more smoke than flame. They ceased their conversation and turned interested faces towards her and one of them, a bearded man in a shapeless, tweed three-piece suit, stood and removed himself from the circle. He had an intense gaze, though a kind one, and it settled on Henrietta.

Eva said: ‘This is Henrietta Hoyland. We met in the park in the most marvellous of circumstances.’

‘You’re very welcome, young lady,’ said the man in a mellow Scots brogue. He held out a hand. ‘Keir Hardie. Can I make you tea?’

T
he effect of the Grand Canal was to make this section of the gardens appear infinite. The glassy surface drew in the trees and the sky, reflecting them back at the world. Standing at the edge of the water looking down, it was as if an identical landscape had been revealed, stripped of colour and fathoms deep. It was mesmerising. Six York stepping stones, perfectly level pedestals that rose only a fraction higher than the surface of the water, allowed a person to walk out into the centre of the canal, though the stones ended at this halfway point so that if you wished to travel the length in a boat, there were no insurmountable obstructions. Before the canal was filled, the stepping stones had looked like six useless brick chimneys rising from the bottom of the basin. Now the slabs of stone appeared to float on the water, light as lily pads. They were further apart than a grown man’s comfortable stride, so that to reach each one safely, a sense of adventure was required, a leap of faith. For Anna, the journey to the middle required real exertion; she had to collect herself before each jump, then on landing had to quickly regain her balance to avoid a drenching. On the sixth stone she turned to face Daniel, who was standing on the edge of the canal,
laughing at her. She panted extravagantly and clutched her sides.

‘What an achievement,’ Daniel said, and he clapped. She lifted her skirts and curtseyed.

‘But now I must come back.’

‘Would you like a piggy-back?’

‘Not on your nellie,’ Anna said. This latest phrase had been overheard in the kitchens of the hall, and was redeployed for the first time now. She watched his reaction, to be sure she had the context, but he merely smiled and said: ‘Come on then, let me at least give you tea in the bothy before you go.’

She leaped back across the stones, red-faced with exertion, and they set off towards Daniel’s old dwelling, which he now used as an alternative to the servants’ hall when he fancied a brew. Now that he didn’t have to live there, he’d grown quite fond of it; like a summerhouse, or a potting shed, it was a place to sit, smoke and reflect. Anna, seeing it through her designer’s eyes, would have liked to empty it of furniture and give it a new start. The walls around and above the fireplace were streaked with woodsmoke, the ceiling was stained yellow after forty years of Hislop’s pipe, and now Daniel’s daily Woodbines were contributing to the grimy palette. Rather than look at it, Anna sat outside while Daniel made the tea. There were two old steamer chairs strategically positioned in a suntrap by a bed of fragrant catmint. The chairs had been saved from the scrapheap by Daniel; he had sanded off the lichen and fixed a slat here and there, planning to take them up to Ravenscliffe for use in the garden. But for the time being, here they had stayed, and in this midsummer warmth they were pressed into action on a daily basis. He came out with two mugs and handed one to her.

‘Cheers,’ he said.

‘Cheers. So, what’s next, if your canal’s finished?’

He laughed. ‘Och, a few months of steady maintenance, I
reckon. I feel I’ve lost the countess’s interest. The dowager countess, that is.’

‘But new earl and countess, aren’t they interested?’

‘Not that I’ve noticed. And I don’t criticise them – gardening’s not for everyone. But the dowager countess is – was – a superb plantswoman, with a passionate regard for her gardens, here and in London. It all seems very different now.’

‘Well, she still seems to live here.’ Anna’s voice lacked sympathy.

‘Aye, she does and she doesn’t. She can’t seem to connect, do you know what I mean? She’s sort of vacant. I thought she’d love the canal when she saw it completed – there’s nothing like it in any garden in Britain. But it barely registered.’

If Anna could feel no sorrow for Clarissa, she did at least feel sorry for him: his great vision realised, but roundly ignored.

‘You need to stop looking to her for approval,’ she said. ‘When they all come home again, make beeline for new countess. It is her you work for now, and new Lord Netherwood. Tell her your canal is finished, and they must celebrate its fineness.’

He looked at her. ‘You know what, Anna? You’re absolutely right.’

‘This I know,’ she said. ‘Also, you must paint these chairs blue, then they’ll be perfect.’

‘You’d paint me, no doubt, if I sat still for long enough.’ He smiled at her fondly. He had a lot of time for Anna: her way of making sense of the world, her kindness, her love for Eve. All these things recommended her to Daniel, but especially the last.

‘Are you almost done with the great work down there?’ he said now.

‘Another week, perhaps a little more.’

‘You’ve enjoyed it, haven’t you? The work, I mean.’

She nodded. ‘Loved it,’ she said.

‘You’ve a prodigious talent, Anna. You’ve turned Ravenscliffe into something extraordinary.’

She smiled, sipped at her tea, but didn’t answer. Ravenscliffe was always perfect, she thought. She had simply adorned it. And then he said: ‘When you marry, where shall you live?’ and as if responding to a stage direction, the sun went behind a cloud.

There were miners from twenty different collieries at the Arcadian Hall on Wednesday night. The place was packed to capacity and men spilled into the street through the double doors, which were propped open to ease the stifling heat caused by the crush of bodies in a confined space. The mood among the men was an odd mix of expectation and agitation: not wholly pleasant, though not mutinous either. But there were stirrings of discontent during the speeches, an air of dissatisfaction with the progress – or lack of it – made by the YMA and the wider organisation, the Miners’ Federation. It was high time something tangible was done was the general feeling: something that actually improved members’ lives, rather than merely promised improvement.

Amos was up at the front, arms folded, cap at a jaunty tilt, sitting on a raised platform assembled for the speakers. He looked out over the crowded hall and his heart was full: this union had come so far, so quickly, whatever the mutterings of discontent among the men. He felt a great sense of satisfaction, a quiet, sustaining confidence that this movement towards social justice had achieved a steady, unstoppable momentum. In front of him, addressing the serried ranks of miners, was John McAllister, a deputy at Berrow Colliery and a rising star of the YMA. He had shunned the sartorial
conventions of the managerial classes and worn baggy britches and a black wool waistcoat over his collarless shirt. I am one of you, was his message: we are equals in this struggle. Dangerous approach that, thought Amos: could come across as patronising. Still, the man had the gift of the gab and no mistake. He was a vigorous speaker, using his body as well as his voice; under his arms were two dark, damp circles of sweat, though even these he seemed to carry like badges of honour, outward signs of his commitment.

‘We workers of Yorkshire will not rest satisfied until a minimum wage is agreed for miners across the length and breadth of this kingdom,’ he said, drawing his speech to a close after fifteen passionate minutes. ‘This moment has been a long time coming and our wait has been painful and arduous. But I say to you tonight that our time is now. The honest working man and boy will know the security of drawing a fixed sum every pay day –
will
know it, I say: not
should
know it. We all understand and agree the need for this step – that is no longer under discussion. Let tonight be the point at which we can look back in years to come and say to ourselves: ‘That’s when the tide turned in our favour: that’s when justice was finally and for ever handed down to the working men of Britain.’

He was a Scotsman, and the Scots had a way of holding a crowd, in Amos’s experience: there was a natural, lilting lyricism to their polemic. The audience clapped and whistled and John McAllister returned to the empty chair next to Amos.

‘You might ’ave put some vim into it,’ Amos said. ‘You came over as a right wet lettuce.’

John grinned. ‘Away you go, then; show me how it’s done.’

Amos stood. He had no speech in his hand; what he wanted to say was all in his head, and in his heart. Experience had taught him a few tricks of the trade: have the confidence to let the crowd settle; collect your thoughts before you open
your mouth; lower the voice as well as raise it, for quiet words could be more powerful than words spat out in fury. This last tip was stolen from Webster Thorne, his Liberal opponent in Ardington. Amos listened to him speak as often as he was able and the man was too damned good for comfort. His public-speaking ability spoke of years of practice: a good grounding at Eton – there was still something of the schoolboy debater about his appearance – three years as a star of the Oxford Union, then on to the peerless finishing school of the House of Commons. There really wasn’t much Webster Thorne didn’t know about the power of words. Still, Amos thought now as he drew breath to speak, he wasn’t half bad himself.