The Silk Factory (8 page)

He put the case away and drew from the drawer below a book of cloth and ribbon samples, which he opened up with a flourish. ‘And this is the final product once the cocoons are unwound, thrown and reeled, dyed and woven.’ He passed his hand lingeringly over a smooth, pale green silk, patterned with flowers and seedpods in pink and ochre, every leaf, stamen and petal clearly defined. ‘See the excellence of the workmanship? This is what I have my men strive for: work that is of superior quality, every piece flawless.’ He took a blue ribbon between his thumb and forefinger and rubbed its silken sheen. ‘Feel it!’ he commanded, and Hinchin duly followed his example and nodded his approval.

Fowler looked up from his samples with his face alight. ‘Is it not amazing that something so beautiful can come from something so ugly?’ He gently turned the leaves of fabric with his forefinger so that they rippled from gold and royal blue to rich wine and the most delicate ecru and then let them run back sensuously through his hands.

‘Indeed,’ Hinchin murmured, feeling quite overcome; Fowler’s fervour engendered in him a feeling of nervous exhaustion.

‘Let’s retire to the house and take some refreshment.’ Fowler rubbed his hands together in his enthusiasm. They passed out into the street, where horse and foot traffic had turned the snow into a clay-coloured slush. They walked to the crossroads where Fowler’s home, the High House, a three-storeyed, whitewashed building with a smart black front door and brass knocker, seemed to look down its nose at the low, loaf-shaped thatch of the Plume of Feathers Inn opposite.

Fowler let himself in, barked at the servant girl to bring tea, and showed Hinchin into the parlour. The room was light and pleasant, with deep window seats curtained with hangings of yellow, patterned silk. A group of small occasional chairs, their seats covered with cross-stitch needlework, were set beside a good fire and others stood around a card table. A wool rug of a floral design covered most of the floorboards, and the walls were hung with copperplate engravings of Italian classical scenes with ruins in the foreground.

They sat down before the fire: Fowler stretching out his legs towards the warmth and clasping his hands over his belly; Hinchin with his black clothes and angular frame sitting on the tiny chair as awkwardly as an incorrectly folded umbrella.

‘So, have I convinced you of the genius of my scheme?’ Fowler said.

‘It’s certainly a daring enterprise,’ Hinchin said cautiously, pinching the material of his trousers just above his knees and giving them a neat tug to loosen them and save making a poke in the fabric.

Fowler nodded fervently. ‘I shall have the whole process under one roof eventually and intend to modernise at every stage. My connections on the Continent have proved most productive and my new looms are to be brought out through Lisbon.’ He tapped the side of his nose. ‘I’ve ordered Jacquard machines – the most ingenious new inventions.’

Hinchin looked at him enquiringly.

‘Machines that use punched cards to weave the pattern.’

Hinchin drew in his breath through his teeth. ‘You have a large amount of new machinery in the manufactory already; are you not concerned that you may over-extend yourself? It’ll cost a good deal of money.’

‘The machines do away with the need for a drawboy. The pattern is replicated automatically and their operation requires far less skill, so wages can be reduced,’ he said airily. ‘But you’re quite correct that I must recoup my investment quickly. I have other plans to reduce my labour bill – and that’s where we come to the matter I’d like to discuss. That is where you can help me.’

Hinchin raised his eyebrows.

Fowler continued, ‘What I intend is to offer employment to young paupers, both here and also from other parishes.’

Hinchin opened his mouth to object but Fowler raised his hand. ‘No, hear me out. It would provide me with a ready supply of young labour: children of an age to be apprenticed. I should supply their food so that would relieve the parishes hereabouts from providing their upkeep.’ His eyes gleamed as he thought of the beauty of his plan: boy apprentices indentured for seven years and the workhouse paying him upwards of ten pounds per child – and all he need provide would be some bread and slop twice a day!

‘And what of your existing workforce?’ Hinchin asked.

Fowler looked impatient. ‘Most would go. I should need the master weavers at first of course, to instruct the apprentices.’ He shrugged.

Hinchin, though aware of Fowler’s laissez-faire beliefs in business, couldn’t help but be astounded and was lost for words. Did he really intend to lay them all off en masse? They could barely afford to feed themselves as things were and would be thrown on the mercy of their parishes … presumably to be re-employed at no cost as paupers. The thing had an ingenious cunning; he must grant him that.

‘It would be a service to the county,’ Fowler said soberly. He assessed Hinchin. He didn’t think he was the reforming sort, with their talk of coercion and ‘white slavery’, although some of the vestry such as Parson Hawkins and the parish constable might be harder nuts to crack. ‘It’s an ambitious plan, I know. Some might say over-ambitious,’ he added self-deprecatingly, ‘but I hope you’ve been impressed and can support its
enterprise
. I should dearly love you to champion its merits to the vestry.’

‘The vestry would naturally have concerns about any further influx into the village,’ Hinchin said diplomatically. ‘The population has already grown ten-fold since the military arrived with all their attendant tradesmen, and whilst it’s true that business is booming, there’s a deal of concern over the number of inns and bawdy houses and the undesirables they attract. I fear that the parish won’t want any more outsiders gaining a toehold.’ He knew that some of the vestry would be against paupers coming in, even as workers, for fear of difficulties removing them and returning them to their place of settlement. Should they fall ill or be unable to work, there would be a danger of them claiming relief from Weedon Bec parish. Others of the vestry would prick up their ears at the thought of a quick solution to the expense of the upkeep of the local poor and think it worth the risk. But what if Fowler’s ship ran aground, with trade affected by Bonaparte’s blockade and exports on the wane? The parish could be left footing a much larger bill for poor relief. Hinchin was a man who, in an argument, liked to test the water and make sure he was on the winning side. For the moment, he would err on the side of caution.

Fowler was leaning towards him avidly. ‘But you can persuade them? Have a word in the right quarters? Eh? I would, of course, show my appreciation, should the outcome of the vestry’s deliberations be favourable.’

‘I shall certainly put it to them as an idea,’ Hinchin said in a non-committal way.

The servant girl pushed the door open, staggering under the weight of a huge tray laden with tea and fancies. She placed it very carefully on the card table and then bobbed a curtsey.

Fowler, sensing that winning Hinchin over might be a longer game than he’d thought, gave a quick nod, as though he was satisfied. ‘Ask the ladies to join us,’ he said to the maid and she hurried away. He helped himself to a pastry. ‘I find business always gives me an appetite,’ he said good-humouredly through a mouthful of crumbs, shoving the plate at Hinchin. ‘Please do take one. Accept some hospitality.’ He gave Hinchin a meaningful look. ‘Plenty more where that came from.’

Hinchin rose to his feet as Tabitha and Hebe, Fowler’s wife and daughter, entered, followed by the maid.

‘Sit, sit.’ Fowler waved him down. ‘It’s liberty hall here – make yourself comfortable.’

Hinchin exchanged greetings with the two ladies, and they slipped into their places while the maid poured tea into delicate Chinese bowls. Tabitha, her mousy hair parted in the middle with tight ringlets over her ears like two hands of sausages, had a wide, soft face with anxious grey eyes. Hebe was a pretty girl of sixteen. Despite her fine, pale blue morning dress in the latest fashion, with its high waist from which gathers flowed elegantly at the back, she still had the figure of a child, her bosom tiny and her arms thin in their long tight sleeves. Ribbons and bows adorned neckline and hem, as though she were a walking advertisement for the Fowler family’s trade. A mass of dark curls were pulled back into a bun by a red velvet band, a few teased out to frame her pale, heart-shaped face.

Hinchin asked politely after the ladies’ health, but before Tabitha could answer, Fowler said, ‘Tabitha is well. She has a strong constitution. Hebe is not as robust as one could wish.’

Hebe, who was sitting quietly, sipping her tea, flushed as her father piled her plate with cakes and fancies. ‘Father, please, I shan’t be able to eat them.’ She held out her hand to remonstrate.

‘Of course you shall,’ her mother said quickly.

Fowler put the plate on to her lap. ‘You’re too thin. You need a bit of meat on you, girl.’

Tabitha enquired after Mrs Hinchin and the children, and the talk continued along domestic lines while Hebe nibbled at the corners of a pastry and cut a cake into tiny squares, the better to convince her father that she was eating – a ploy of which he was well aware. He liked to see his womenfolk well covered. Hebe’s thinness was an irritation; it seemed a constant rebuke, undermining his status as a man providing well for his family. He laid it aside for the present; there were more important matters at hand.

‘I was telling Enoch of my plans for the manufactory,’ he said to Tabitha; then he turned once again to Hinchin and said baldly, ‘Perhaps Tabitha here could call on Mrs Hinchin?’

Tabitha glanced at him in surprise. It was hardly proper to invite oneself!

Hinchin stalled. ‘I’m sure my wife would find that very pleasant sometime, but now I fear I really must go.’ He dusted down his trousers and rose to his feet.

‘Say, Tuesday next? In the afternoon?’

‘Erm, I’ll have to enquire …’

‘Excellent. You can let me know the precise time, after church on Sunday.’ Fowler clapped Hinchin on the back as he saw him to the door. Hebe let out a sigh of relief that her father was not going to stand over her while she ate, as he sometimes did at mealtimes. She took the opportunity to surreptitiously return the cake to its serving plate.

When Fowler returned, he said to Tabitha, ‘Get alongside Mrs H., and then stick to her like glue. There’s a favour I want from Hinchin and you’re going to help me get it – understand?’

Tabitha nodded mutely.

On Saturday morning, Rosie sat in the car at the service station with the kids, waiting for Josh to pick them up for the weekend. She had come more than halfway to meet him; he was half an hour late and her irritation was mounting. The day was scorching and she was wasting precious petrol running the engine in order to have the air conditioning going and keep the kids cool. Her head ached from watching out for Josh’s blue Peugeot amongst all the cars constantly pulling in and out of the parking bays, the sun glaring off their metalwork. She peered round the obstruction of the streams of people wandering back and forth from McDonald’s and M&S Food.

A bang on the roof made her jump and there was Josh, bending down and pulling a daft face at Sam through the side window. Rosie got out of the car saying, ‘You gave me a fright; I didn’t see you arrive.’

‘New car,’ Josh said, pointing out a dark blue Mercedes E-Class parked in the row behind her. Through the smart, tinted windows, Rosie saw Tania sitting in the passenger seat trying to look anywhere but straight ahead of her. Rosie felt her muscles tighten; it was an unspoken agreement between them that Josh picked the children up alone. Rosie was prepared to make an effort to be pleasant to Josh for Sam and Cara’s sake but exchanging small talk with the woman who had stolen her husband was a bridge too far. Pointedly, she turned her back on her and began unpacking the children’s things from the boot: nappy bag, lunch boxes, Sam’s little rucksack.

Josh took Sam over to see the car saying, ‘What do you think of this then? It’s a bit of a beast, isn’t it?’

‘It’s a monster!’ Sam said. ‘I want to sit in the boot and go backwards, Daddy!’

Josh opened the tailgate and Sam clambered into a seat without a backward glance. Rosie stifled a pang, reminding herself that it was good that Sam should be so happy to go; she would feel far worse if he were miserable. Josh came back over with a box of stuff that she’d asked him to pick up for her from the flat. ‘Where are you going to take them this time?’ she asked.

‘We’re going straight to Legoland – that’s why I’ve got Tania with me. Sorry about that.’ He gave the wry, boyish smile she had once found so appealing and which she now ignored. ‘And tomorrow we’re going to Sunday cinema and then on to Mum and Dad’s for a barbecue.’

‘Oh, lovely,’ Rosie said automatically, registering that, as usual, the children would be entertained anywhere rather than Josh and Tania’s immaculate apartment and that they would have no chill-out time and would come back exhausted and grumpy.

Josh took the buggy out of the boot and settled the cardboard box in its place. ‘I got all the things you asked for. Are you planning to stay a while then?’

‘Thanks. It’s a change of scene for the children,’ she said, wanting to avoid an argument about it being inconvenient to have to travel to pick up the kids.

Josh looked at her appraisingly for a moment as if trying to decide whether he could push it further.

Rosie turned away and lifted Cara out of the car seat. Her hot, sticky little body clung on like a limpet. ‘Mumma, mumma,’ she said as she tangled her fist in Rosie’s hair.

‘Daddy’s here,’ Rosie said, feeling her throat tighten. ‘You’re going to have a lovely time at Daddy’s and Mummy’ll come and get you after two sleeps, OK?’ She kissed Cara on the forehead where her baby hair was stuck in damp strands and nodded to Josh to take her.

Josh held up his palms in front of his pristine pale blue shirt, saying, ‘Are you joking? Look at the state of her!’

Rosie glanced down at Cara. Her T-shirt, which had been clean on when they came out, was streaked with orange juice stains and soggy pieces of rusk. As if Rosie was in the habit of sending the children out in a state, Josh said, ‘Couldn’t you have spruced her up a bit?’

‘There are clean clothes in the bag,’ Rosie said sharply, shoving Sam’s rucksack into his hands. ‘Kids get messy. Get over it.’ She marched over to the Merc and stood waiting while Josh brought the car seat and fixed it in beside Sam. As she bent to put Cara in the seat, Cara hung on tighter and Rosie whispered to her as she undid her fingers from her hair and buckled her in. Cara began to cry. Tania fiddled with the radio rather than look round.

Rosie fished in her handbag for Cara’s yellow elephant, an unsavoury-looking piece of blanket that had started life as a glove puppet but was now almost unrecognisable as an animal at all. Refusing to be comforted, Cara cried harder, arching her back and wriggling in her straps. Rosie, feeling more and more upset, tucked the toy into the seat beside her and forced herself to step back. ‘Don’t forget she likes her elephant to sleep with,’ she said to Josh, ‘and she likes everything cut up
really
small and she still likes a bottle last thing, instead of a sippy cup …’

Tania, apparently unable to bear the noise any longer, finally turned round and said to Josh in a weary voice, ‘Can’t we just go?’

Josh closed down the tailgate, a glass barrier between Rosie and Cara’s red sobbing face. She thought she might burst into tears herself.

‘Will you be all right?’ Josh said.

For a moment Rosie’s guard went down but then she saw the way that he was looking at her as if assessing her in her scruffy shorts and flip-flops, Cara’s rusk crumbs stuck to her vest top, her sunglasses pushed back to capture a straggling bird’s nest of hair.

He said, ‘You are coping, aren’t you? Mum and Dad could have the kids for a bit longer if you want. You look terrible.’

Stung, Rosie brushed the crumbs from her front. ‘I’m fine,’ she said crisply, ‘and you’d better go before our daughter becomes apoplectic and Tania’s illusion of “child as fashion accessory” is irrevocably shattered.’ She pulled her sunglasses down over her eyes, walked back to her car and forced herself to stand there so that she could wave to Sam and Cara while Josh pulled out. Was it so obvious that she was struggling? She
was
feeling the strain: sleeping badly, picking at her food, constantly worrying about money, the children, their future. She couldn’t truthfully say she was coping. The pills were still giving her dizzy spells and some awful headaches and now there was the strange child, too, who appeared and disappeared. If she told anyone of the latest visitation, of how she had witnessed a strange child, searching for something, right in amongst the nettles and briars of her overgrown garden, wouldn’t they think it outlandish, even crazy? Wouldn’t they say she was imagining things, losing the plot?

The big, shiny car moved sleekly through the car park. Insult to injury, she thought; on two decent salaries, not only could Josh and Tania afford it but they had to go and choose the ultimate family car. She remembered a conversation she and Josh had had when she’d first been pregnant with Cara, about the practicalities of transporting a growing family: trikes, scooters, camping stuff, bikes, maybe more kids someday, a future rolling out before them. Bitterness welled up inside her. The car turned the corner and set off towards the slip road and the motorway, ferrying her children away.

When Rosie got back to the house, she felt that she must fight the lassitude that always came without the children to keep her occupied and engaged. It would be better if she kept busy. She gave herself what her dad would have called ‘a stiff talking-to’; instead of brooding, she should take the opportunity of the peace and quiet to tackle the jobs that she’d been putting off. She filled a bucket with soapy water, put on rubber gloves and went outside to wash the cellar windows as she’d planned.

She pulled away the nettles and sticky-weed that grew around them and cleared the sunken airbricks of debris: stones, old leaves and snail shells. As she washed the small panes, the algae smudging and smearing under the cloth, she peered through the thick glass at the bulky shapes of objects in the cellar but could see no more than broad outlines through the dust and cobwebs covering the inside of the panes. Her curiosity piqued, she went indoors and got clean water to tackle the other side of the glass.

At the cellar door, she set down the bucket and paused, listening. All was quiet and the draught at her feet was no more than cool air being drawn up from a room below ground level. In the broad light of day her previous apprehension seemed fanciful, a suggestible misinterpretation of the natural noises of the house. She tutted at herself as she grasped the doorknob, turned and pulled. The door, warped by damp, wouldn’t budge. She gripped the doorknob with both hands and tugged hard until suddenly the door gave with a shudder and swung open, revealing a set of stone steps that twisted halfway down, and flaking brick walls, streaked here and there with green. Cobwebs hung everywhere, dotted with dead flies and caked with brick dust. She flicked an old Bakelite switch but no light came on below. Taking care not to brush against anything with her bare arms, Rosie hauled the bucket down the steps, noticing a crack in the brickwork that ran down the wall in a zigzag from top to bottom. She hoped it was just the moving and settling of an old building over time and not something she’d have to get a surveyor in for. If the house needed underpinning before she could sell it, she was sunk.

It was dim at the bottom. The windows, greyed over with dirt, let in two weak shafts of light that barely illuminated the pile of lumber jumbled at one side: an iron bedstead, an old kitchen cupboard with its door hanging open, a stack of boxes, the top one full of glass jars that May, a keen cook, must have meant for jam. As Rosie stepped into the room, she caught a movement ahead of her and gasped, only to realise that, partly obscured by a trestle table, a full-length mirror stood against the wall, its gilt frame chipped and battered, its surface speckled where the silvering had deteriorated. She gathered herself together – what was the matter with her? Frightened of her own reflection! She had let the sight of the odd child in the garden get to her, and now she was jumping at the slightest thing. Ridiculous. Nonetheless, it had given her a jolt and she hurried to fetch the stepladder so that she could reach the high windows and then wiped them over as fast as she could. There was something beyond the chill down here that made her shiver – an atmosphere.

Standing back to view the result, she noticed a rusty iron pipe fixed to the wall in the corner. Its lower end stuck out into the room at a point level with her knees. From there it travelled up in a straight line, fixed to the wall with brackets, to a point level with the windows, where it bent and disappeared into the wall above ground. She deduced that it was a flue, the remains of some ancient stove that must have once discharged its smoke outdoors, although now there was no sign of its egress outside; that must have been bricked up long ago.

With a last quick glance around to assess how much work there would be in clearing the cellar and whether she’d need a skip to do it, she picked up the bucket of filthy water and climbed the steps. The door was shut. Her throat tightened. She had left it wide open when she brought the ladder down, knowing that she’d have her hands full on the way up. Perhaps she’d left the back door open and a breeze had caught it? She put the bucket down on the steps behind her, turned the doorknob and pushed. It wouldn’t budge. She broke out in a prickly sweat. Oh God, she was here on her own … she could be stuck down here all day, even into the night … She thumped on the door in frustration. Think, think, that was no good! She took hold of the doorknob with both hands and kicked the door hard. It shifted a little at the bottom but the top was stuck fast. It would have had to slam with some force to jam this tight, so why hadn’t she heard it? She braced herself with her shoulder against the wood and then barged, once … twice … the third time it gave, juddering open so that she stumbled into the hall.

Rubbing her bruised shoulder, she carted the bucket out to the kitchen. The back door was shut. She felt the hairs rise under her collar. If Sam had been here she would have thought he’d done it as a joke – but Sam wasn’t here. Rosie wedged the cellar door open with the handlebars of the bike before she went down to get the stepladder.
Like a trick played by a child
… The thought made her shiver.

She bolted the cellar door, swilled out the bucket and cleaned herself up; she must keep busy, not dwell on the fact that she was missing the kids or give in to morbid imaginings. It was her own fault; she should have wedged the door in the first place, been more cautious in a house she’d not yet come to know.

Rosie remembered the box of stuff that Josh had gathered for her from the flat and went to get it from the boot of the car. As she picked it up to carry it into the house, Tally came out of her front door with their spaniel, Polly, on a lead. ‘Oh good, you’re back,’ Tally said. ‘How did it go?’

Rosie pulled a face. ‘Cara created and the Wicked Witch of the West was there, but apart from that it was fine.’

‘Want to come for a walk? Leave it all behind you for half an hour?’

Rosie nodded, jumping at the opportunity of some company. She was glad of the chance to put off the rest of the tasks that she knew she should tackle whilst the kids were away too. Next on the list was to go through the papers in her mother’s bureau as the solicitor had suggested. Well, she could deal with bills and bank statements but there would be photos, letters, Mum’s handwriting …