The Silk Factory (33 page)

The pealing bells stopped and then began a mournful tolling as a last warning that the service was about to begin. Did he imagine that as the final note faded away he heard the name
Fiddement
just as a hush fell on the congregation? The music of hautboy and viol began from the balcony at the back as Parson Hawkins, a gaunt-looking middle-aged man with his hair cut in the Brutus style, led the choir forward to the chancel. They filed in to the choir stalls and the parson climbed the creaking steps to the pulpit. As he gave the bidding prayer, his hooded eyes scanned the kneeling congregation, as if to draw them all in, commanding them through his sombre expression to leave their everyday thoughts behind and concentrate on the state of their souls. Those who had not already bowed their heads hurried to do so, but Fowler, still thinking of the mutterings of the village, was caught unawares as the parson’s sweeping gaze snagged on him. For a moment the parson turned a piercing look upon him and then passed on.

After the prayer, they sat once more, Tabitha surreptitiously rubbing from her knees the ache from the hard, chill floor.

‘Here beginneth the first lesson,’ the parson intoned, ‘from psalm sixty-eight.’ His deep voice boomed out into the high spaces of the nave:

‘As smoke is driven away so drive them away: as wax melteth before the fire, so let the wicked perish at the presence of God.

But let the righteous be glad; let them rejoice before God: yea, let them exceedingly rejoice.

Sing unto God, sing praises to his name: extol him that rideth upon the heavens by his name JAH, and rejoice before him.

A father of the fatherless, and a judge of the widows, is God in his holy habitation …’

Fowler, who paid no attention to the lesson, excising it from his consciousness, as was his habit, was thinking instead that if he were able to reach Hinchin quickly after the service he might be able to draw him over to speak with the doctor, who still remained sceptical about his scheme. He would explain to him the figures he had calculated for the likely savings in parish relief currently paid to paupers. Hinchin’s presence would help to imply that there was general agreement to the scheme and that the doctor would be out on a limb if he should stand against it. He felt sure that he could win him over.

As the parson announced, ‘Amen. Here endeth the first lesson,’ Fowler came back to himself and found Hawkins’s eyes once again directly upon him. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. What was the matter with the man?

It had been apparent from the inception of his plan that the parson was not going to support it. Fowler could see that he was a reformer type who refused to keep his religion where it belonged, within the walls of the church, and let it spill into every day of the week and matters in which it had no place. Why, earlier in the year when the parson had overheard him talking after church of the new Frame Breaking Bill, with Hinchin and some other men of business, Hawkins had had the brass neck to interfere, pushing himself into the conversation. Just as he had been telling Hinchin that the new measures would prove an excellent deterrent, Hawkins had said, ‘Can you commit a whole country to their own prisons? Will you erect a gibbet in every field, and hang up men like scarecrows?’ He had rejoined that this was a gross exaggeration. Parson Hawkins, with an unaccustomed twinkle in his eye, had said drily that, in that case, Fowler disagreed with Lord Byron, for it was he who had expressed these sentiments in his maiden speech on the Bill to the House. This had left Fowler feeling foolish in front of the other men, and he had at once categorised Hawkins as foe not friend in this matter. He had turned his attention to other vestry members with minds more open to progressive ideas and their own advantage, those where he judged he would be pushing on an open door.

The service rumbled on with the repeating of the creed and the singing of a hymn, ‘’Tis by Thy Strength the Mountains Stand’
.
Fowler was aware of Hebe’s high clear voice beside him, and he sang out in his own rich bass so that between them they should drown out Tabitha’s wavering alto. He had told her before that she should mime the words and her flouting of his wishes tested his patience.

For his sermon, the parson took as his text ‘The Fatherless Child’. First he expounded upon the idea that without faith all should be ‘fatherless children’, as each one would be cut off from the bounty and grace of the Lord. Then he spoke of the responsibility to emulate the Father in caring for widows and orphans, drawing on the psalms, and Fowler began to take notice.

‘
Defend the poor and fatherless: do justice to the afflicted and needy … rid them out of the hands of the wicked.
’ Hawkins’s deep voice rolled out over the congregation as he turned first to one side and then the other. Was he imagining it or did the parson look with special meaning at the doctor, at the constable, at the members of the parish vestry, even at his own man, Hinchin? How dare he! How dare he use his position and the platform of the pulpit to prick their consciences about the paupers of the parish and try to influence a decision on a secular matter! Fowler’s brow drew into a deep scowl.

The parson expanded on his theme of responsibility, speaking of the giving of alms, of Charity beginning in one’s own parish, of being your brother’s keeper. At this, Fowler’s temper rose further. He crossed his arms in front of him and secretly clenched and unclenched his fists, unable to find vent for his spleen. Tabitha glanced sideways at him and began to fidget anxiously and Hebe, sinking down in her seat, started to plait and unplait the silk-ribbon place marker she used for her Bible.

The parson’s voice rose as he shifted his ground to justice for the poor and oppressed and for all those made vulnerable by misfortunes not of their own making. ‘I shall finish with a second lesson,’ he announced, ‘and exhort you to examine your consciences and repent any actions that exploit your fellow man or take advantage of their poverty or weakness.’ In a sonorous voice that rang in the rafters, he spoke out with a passion:

‘Lord, how long shall the wicked, shall the wicked triumph?

How long shall they utter and speak hard things? and all the workers of iniquity boast themselves?

They break in pieces thy people, O Lord, and afflict thine heritage.

They slay the widow and the stranger and murder the fatherless.’

At this, there was a stir in the congregation. Fowler turned round sharply and saw it run like a ripple to the very back of the church. A hundred pairs of eyes seemed to fix upon him and he quickly sat back, stiff and upright in his seat.

The parson continued, his voice gradually rising, swelling with passion at the stirring words:

‘Yet they say, The Lord shall not see, neither shall the God of Jacob regard it.

Understand, ye brutish among the people: and ye fools, when will ye be wise?

He that planted the ear, shall he not hear? he that formed the eye, shall he not see?

He that chastiseth the heathen, shall he not correct? he that teacheth man knowledge, shall he not know?’

The last words resounded in the lofty building and many cast their eyes heavenwards as if believing that the roof might suddenly open and the judgement of the Lord manifest itself. As the parson smoothed the page and shut his Bible, the stir became a mutter and the mutter a hubbub. The parson, above them in the pulpit, held out his hands, pressing them down through the air to quell the sound. Voices died away.

A pregnant silence hung in the church. He gave the blessing and then climbed heavily down to lead the way from the church. The choir filed from their stalls behind him and, once they had turned aside to disrobe, the gentry began to vacate their pews, the ladies showily gathering up fans, gloves and parasols. The congregation respectfully let them pass before starting their own orderly exodus following one pew at a time from the front. When it came to the turn of his row to empty, Fowler, still filled with rage, picked up his cane in one hand and his hat in the other and moved slowly forward along the pew. The clamour of voices began to rise again and from the corner of his eye he was aware of the faces in the pew behind, all staring at him with expressions ranging from naked curiosity to outright distaste. Beyond them, fingers were raised to point and there was nudging and shuffling, as though some were pushing forward before their turn.

‘Come along, Tabitha, Hebe.’ He stared fixedly ahead as they moved along behind the others towards the aisle. As they reached the end, the Marshall family stepped out from the pew and moved away but before he had a chance to follow, those in the pews behind pressed forward as one, crowding in front of him, trapping him where he stood.

‘Why are they not waiting for us?’ Tabitha asked indignantly. ‘Why do they not hold back?’

Hebe’s face was flaming with mortification.

The hoi polloi poured into the aisle before him. Faces turned back to stare, some with quick glances of derision, some blank and dumb, some openly sneering. Fowler stood impotently gripping his cane as the whole church emptied through the bottleneck of the main door, slow as an hourglass.

When the lowliest labourers and their families filed out from the back, he stepped out into the aisle but made no move to go further.

‘I want to go home,’ Hebe said, her voice trembling.

‘Septimus, can we not go?’ Tabitha agreed.

‘Be quiet!’ Fowler snapped. ‘I will not follow directly behind a row of crossing sweepers and snotty-nosed ploughboys!’

After the last person had passed into the porch, he waited a little longer, calculating that the congregation would by then have bade farewell to the parson, who always shook their hands at the door, and dispersed through the churchyard and into the lane outside to stand around in knots and exchange pleasantries.

‘Very well,’ he said, at length. ‘Tabitha, take Hebe’s arm. Hebe, hold your head up; you’re not a child!’ He marched down the aisle, the metal tip of his cane tapping out his steps.

As they emerged into the light, he saw that the parson was still waiting at the door. Beyond him, the whole congregation stood around in groups: some obstructing the path to the lychgate, stiff, black-coated figures in their tall black hats; some up on the banks either side, finding room among the gravestones, men in flat caps with their dowdy wives and clinging children, Jervis and others of the weavers among them. All, it seemed, had stayed behind to see him leave. A silence fell.

The parson stepped forward and with an inscrutable expression proffered his hand. Fowler took it so briefly that it appeared ill-mannered and muttered, ‘Good day, sir,’ with bad grace.

In a clear voice the parson said, ‘Good day, Mr Fowler. Thank you for visiting us today. I shall return the courtesy and visit your manufactory very soon.’ He pressed the hands of Tabitha and Hebe with more warmth and a look almost of pity came into his eyes.

Fowler walked away and the women followed. The groups on the banks above them, among the graves, drew nearer to the path, filling in the gaps until it seemed they walked along a deep passageway made of people looking down upon them. At the far end, by the gate, a group of men had gathered, Hinchin one of them. Fowler strode on ahead of Tabitha and Hebe, brazening it out. ‘Ah! Hinchin!’ he exclaimed, this time so loudly that he could not be missed. The whole group of men looked towards him and Fowler paused, his cane half-raised in greeting. Hinchin would not fully meet his eyes; he cut him, turning back to his companions as if Fowler had never spoken. Fowler hurried on through the shadow of the lychgate, Tabitha and Hebe close behind. He cursed Hinchin. He cursed them all. He would see them all in Hell.

He strode away, tapping his cane on the road so smartly that sparks flew from its metal ferrule. As they reached the centre of the village, Tabitha called out breathlessly, ‘Septimus! Need we be in such awful haste? Can you not pause and explain? Why did everyone snub us so? What have you been
doing
?’

He rounded on her. ‘It is not my place to explain to
you
,’ he said viciously. ‘Rather you should explain to me your failure with Hinchin’s wife! You should have made sure of her – found some way of putting her under an obligation.’

Tabitha, shocked at his vehemence, put her hand to her throat. ‘I visited and befriended her. I did all that I could.’

‘’Tis true,’ Hebe ventured. ‘I went with Mama to the house on several occasions.’

‘Hold your tongue, Hebe; this is no business of yours – and don’t conjure up the tears!’

Tabitha, seeing that Hebe was indeed on the verge of tears, tried a more placatory tack. ‘Septimus, luncheon will be waiting. Perhaps we should talk after our meal when all are in a better humour?’

Ignoring her, he marched on again and when they followed, he turned with a face full of fury. ‘Go home!’ he shouted. ‘Do you think I want you women at my heels like trotting dogs?’

Tabitha and Hebe stood together uncertainly as he set off down an alleyway towards the factory. Tabitha set her jaw and handed Hebe her handkerchief. ‘Let him rant. We’ll go home. There’s no point letting a good dinner go to waste.’

Fowler let himself into his office. He threw his hat and cane down on to a chair and stood for a moment in the centre of the room. Sunday silence filled the factory: the looms all still, the workers all gone. The only sounds were the ticking of the great clock and the thrumming of his blood in his ears. The deadness of the silence seemed to press down on him from the floors above as if it had a weight of its own. He stepped forward to the desk and with a strangled cry swept cloth, scales, weights and all to the floor with a mighty thump. Silk crumpled and rolled on the dusty boards: pinks, yellows and blues, patterns of roses and ogees, cherubs and vines; pan, scales and weights scattered over them.

Breathing heavily, he walked round the mess to his seat behind the desk. He took off his uncomfortable jacket, yanked open a drawer and pulled out the ledgers, a quarto notebook, pen and ink. There must be some way to recover from this! He ran his eye down the columns of figures but could not take in their meaning. In his head, he cursed the vestry roundly. Who did they think they were, to scorn him in this way: a gaggle of jumped-up, inky-fingered clerks! Hawkins might think himself the Voice of God but he was nothing but a common country parson, and as for Hinchin, the man had the initiative of a rocking-horse. Yet they had treated
him
as some kind of pariah! He saw again the staring eyes and pointing fingers, people pressing in upon him, crowding him in the church, lining the churchyard path, making a dark passageway through which he had to pass … Hinchin turning away … He might as well have been clothed in workhouse weeds or swinging a leper’s bell.