Are you listening to me?”
“Of course.”
“Good. Now, go. You’ll be late.”
He was late—almost. Anxious faces were looking out for him. “Here he is!” said Mrs. Lane, relieved and cross. He took his place in the line of mourners and they proceeded to church.
During the service William rose and sat and knelt with the congregation, murmured amen where he had to, and sang. His voice did its job, gathered and organized the voices of the mill workers in the congregation. He knew the songs by heart, and all the while he was singing, he was thinking.
Stroud . . . Word had come. The ears he had planted in drinking places along the road to Stroud also had mouths, and the mouths had come whispering everything they knew to him. The Stroud millers had orders again. The hands they had laid off were welcome back, and they would match Bellman’s wages. “And they are tempted to go,” the mouth told him. “At least, those that have family still over Stroud way.” William was disappointed but not surprised. If they went, it would mean losing some good men.
The simple answer was to offer more money. But what was to stop the Stroud millers from matching his higher wages? It was easy to escalate salaries, a lot harder to rein them in again. There had to be a better way. He would think of one.
The strain of overwork and lack of sleep had put bags under William’s eyes and taken the color from his cheeks. His eyes were bloodshot. If he had a half-absent air about him all through the funeral, it passed quite naturally for grief.
Coming out of the church a knot of mourners formed in front of William. He was deep in thought, blundered, and in the minor collision that followed, someone turned. The face was instantly familiar. Head on one side, curiously, the man gave William a stare: frank, ironic, questioning. William couldn’t quite place him. It was a bit unsettling.
At the Mill House, William drank a glass or two with Paul’s friends and neighbors and the most senior men from the mill.
“Who was the fellow at the funeral . . . ?” he asked Ned. “I recognized him but can’t put a name to him.”
“What did he look like?”
William opened his mouth to describe him but was too tired to call the man’s features to mind properly.
“He’s not here?” Ned asked.
“No.”
“You are more familiar with Mr. Bellman’s friends than I am. If you don’t recognize him it’s hardly surprising that I don’t.”
“I suppose not.”
· · ·
William was among the first to leave the gathering. He gave his feet no conscious direction, and left to their own devices, they turned of their own accord toward the mill. They had made no promise to Rose. The mill was closed all afternoon as a mark of respect for Paul. It was an opportunity to get on with some paperwork in peace and quiet.
It was unusual for the mill to be still. William was used to the noise, the different machines, the shouting, the wheel, all with their own tone and rhythm, blending into a cacophony too familiar to be uncomfortable. It was strange on a weekday to hear the rooks cry overhead. He could hear the thumping of his own heart, the rush of blood in his veins. As he opened the door to his office, something black appeared to be perched on his desk. It seemed to rise, flapping, toward him.
William cried out and raised his hands to protect himself, but the thing receded.
It was only cloth. An open window, a draft he had made himself by opening the door, and a sample of fine black merino. Attached to it, in his uncle’s hand, was a note: “Will—for Portsmouth? J.”
William reached to the ink and had already put pen to paper for an answer when he realized that his uncle was dead.
I have seen that man before, he thought. He was at my mother’s funeral.
He had to grip the back of a chair to steady himself.
· · ·
Many hours later William stood and left the office. The paperwork was untouched. He had sat all through the
“Of course.”
“Good. Now, go. You’ll be late.”
He was late—almost. Anxious faces were looking out for him. “Here he is!” said Mrs. Lane, relieved and cross. He took his place in the line of mourners and they proceeded to church.
During the service William rose and sat and knelt with the congregation, murmured amen where he had to, and sang. His voice did its job, gathered and organized the voices of the mill workers in the congregation. He knew the songs by heart, and all the while he was singing, he was thinking.
Stroud . . . Word had come. The ears he had planted in drinking places along the road to Stroud also had mouths, and the mouths had come whispering everything they knew to him. The Stroud millers had orders again. The hands they had laid off were welcome back, and they would match Bellman’s wages. “And they are tempted to go,” the mouth told him. “At least, those that have family still over Stroud way.” William was disappointed but not surprised. If they went, it would mean losing some good men.
The simple answer was to offer more money. But what was to stop the Stroud millers from matching his higher wages? It was easy to escalate salaries, a lot harder to rein them in again. There had to be a better way. He would think of one.
The strain of overwork and lack of sleep had put bags under William’s eyes and taken the color from his cheeks. His eyes were bloodshot. If he had a half-absent air about him all through the funeral, it passed quite naturally for grief.
Coming out of the church a knot of mourners formed in front of William. He was deep in thought, blundered, and in the minor collision that followed, someone turned. The face was instantly familiar. Head on one side, curiously, the man gave William a stare: frank, ironic, questioning. William couldn’t quite place him. It was a bit unsettling.
At the Mill House, William drank a glass or two with Paul’s friends and neighbors and the most senior men from the mill.
“Who was the fellow at the funeral . . . ?” he asked Ned. “I recognized him but can’t put a name to him.”
“What did he look like?”
William opened his mouth to describe him but was too tired to call the man’s features to mind properly.
“He’s not here?” Ned asked.
“No.”
“You are more familiar with Mr. Bellman’s friends than I am. If you don’t recognize him it’s hardly surprising that I don’t.”
“I suppose not.”
· · ·
William was among the first to leave the gathering. He gave his feet no conscious direction, and left to their own devices, they turned of their own accord toward the mill. They had made no promise to Rose. The mill was closed all afternoon as a mark of respect for Paul. It was an opportunity to get on with some paperwork in peace and quiet.
It was unusual for the mill to be still. William was used to the noise, the different machines, the shouting, the wheel, all with their own tone and rhythm, blending into a cacophony too familiar to be uncomfortable. It was strange on a weekday to hear the rooks cry overhead. He could hear the thumping of his own heart, the rush of blood in his veins. As he opened the door to his office, something black appeared to be perched on his desk. It seemed to rise, flapping, toward him.
William cried out and raised his hands to protect himself, but the thing receded.
It was only cloth. An open window, a draft he had made himself by opening the door, and a sample of fine black merino. Attached to it, in his uncle’s hand, was a note: “Will—for Portsmouth? J.”
William reached to the ink and had already put pen to paper for an answer when he realized that his uncle was dead.
I have seen that man before, he thought. He was at my mother’s funeral.
He had to grip the back of a chair to steady himself.
· · ·
Many hours later William stood and left the office. The paperwork was untouched. He had sat all through the
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