Live the Dream Page 8

  For a long, worrying moment, the younger woman stared at Edna, then she smiled at Luke, a coy little smile. I'll let you go,' she told him, 'for another kiss.'

  Bending to kiss her on the mouth, he assured her, 'We'll talk when I get home. All right?'

  Her smile widened. 'Yes…all right.'

  'That's my girl!'

  'Come on then, my dear,' Edna said. 'I hope you haven't forgotten, we're going shopping today.'

  Sylvia appeared not to be listening. Instead she was standing at the open door, her gaze following Luke as he went to the car. A moment later he was gone and she was still waving. 'It's all right, he's gone now.' Edna would have closed the door but Sylvia put her foot there.

  'Why did he have to go early?'

  'He's promised to tell you all about it when he gets home, and you told me yourself, he's never yet broken a promise. Come on now, let's go and get that toast on, eh?' Edna had learned to read the signs. 'Close the door, then we'll go into the kitchen you and me.'

  Ignoring her, Sylvia waved after Luke until her arm ached and when she turned it was with an expression of disbelief. 'He's gone!'

  Edna quietly smiled. 'That's right, my dear…he's gone to his work. So don't you think you should close the door now?' When Sylvia made no move, she stepped forward to shut out the cold morning air.

  'NO!' Catching her heavily across the shoulder with a fist, Sylvia hissed through clenched teeth, 'You leave it!'

  Clutching her shoulder, Edna gave her a hardened stare. 'Keep hold of yourself, child,' she chastised harshly. 'I meant only to close the door.'

  'There's no need. Look, I can do it myself.'

  With a sly little grin, Sylvia took a step sideways, then, gripping the edge of the door, she slammed it shut with all her might. The shuddering impact rattled the nearby shelf, sending ornaments crashing to the floor.

  For a long, nerve-racking moment both women stared at the broken china.

  Suddenly, the silence was broken with what sounded like a child sobbing, 'Don't punish me…please. I didn't mean it.'

  Before Edna could stop her, Sylvia had picked up a long shard of broken glass, crying out in pain when the sharp edges cut into her flesh. 'Oh, Edna, look what I've done.' All sense of reason had gone and in its place was the innocent fear of a child hurt. Holding the offending arm up for Edna to see, she began wailing. 'I've done something bad, haven't I?' She appealed to the older woman with sorry eyes, 'What's wrong with me, Edna?'

  Her cries collapsed into sobs and Edna's heart went out to her. 'It's all right, my dear,' she murmured. 'You'll be all right.' But she would never 'be all right'. Both Luke and Edna knew that, and maybe, deep down in the darkest corner of her mind, Sylvia knew it too.

  The tears of remorse were genuine, as Edna knew all too well. I'll take care of it, child,' she soothed, leading her away. 'Once it's washed and cleaned, it'll be good as new.'

  A swift examination told her that this time the wound was only flesh deep, thank God.

  It was Luke Hammond's father who had started the brush- making factory. Twice it had almost gone under and twice he brought it back to profit.

  Luke grew up with it. He learned the art of business at an early age and had been groomed to deal with men on all levels. Like his father he respected his workers and was well trusted. Also, like his father he had a tireless passion for the business.

  After his father was gone, he had taken up the reins and developed the business further. Now it was two businesses rolled into one. On the one side was the production of brushes: scrubbing brushes; horse brushes; yard sweepers, and anything that cleaned as long as it had bristles. Brushes of any kind had been the original backbone *of the Hammond business and they still were.

  But now there was another business growing alongside; a business started by Luke and which served others. There were many other companies in industrial Lancashire—some small and just starting out, and which had neither the capital nor premises to store the goods they produced. This was where, only a few years back, Luke had seen an opportunity.

  Thanks to his father, he was fortunate to own a warehouse and factory premises of sizeable proportions, with room to spare for the brush-making business. 'I have ample space,' he told the owners of the small businesses at various meetings he'd arranged. 'And I intend purchasing a fleet of wagons, so if we can close a deal, I'll not only take your goods for storage, but I'll deliver them as well. We can agree a long-term contract, or a short one that will let you out should you decide to expand your own concern.'

  His intention was to provide such a good service that they would have no reason to sever relations.

  Just as he had hoped, the idea was well received. Terms were agreed, and deals made, and it had turned out to be the best thing Luke had ever done.

  News of the success of the arrangement spread, and it wasn't long before larger, more established company men were knocking on Luke's door. 'We need to diversify,' they said. 'Our factory space is desperately needed for production and right now we have no wish to purchase other premises, but if we could utilise our present storage area and sell off our wagon fleet, we could grow our businesses overnight.'

  Deals were struck that allowed Luke to take over old wagons, which had since been exchanged for newer ones.

  Luke's distribution business prospered, though its downside was that whenever one of his customers took a wrong turn and went under, Luke lost a sizeable slice of his business's turnover. This had happened a few times, and on each occasion it threatened a serious step back.

  This was what his employees now feared: that there had been others who had taken that 'wrong turn' and now it was themselves who were about to lose their livelihoods.

  And so this morning, when they would learn their fate, they gathered from all parts of the factory: from the brush- making side, where the machines clattered all day and both men and women worked them with expertise, some cutting out the wooden shapes that would make the brush-tops, some feeding the bristles into the holes that were ready drilled and cleaned, and others fashioning and painting the handles.

  When the production line produced the finished articles, the packers would neatly set them into boxes and the boxes would be carted away for delivery.

  By nature, this was a dusty, untidy area, with the smell of dry horsehair assailing the nostrils, and the fall of bristles mounting high round the workers' feet. Yet they loved their work and many a time the sound of song would fill the air.

  The other side of the premises was cleaner, with mountainous stacks of boxes and parcels from other factories as well as Hammonds, all labelled and ready for delivery, and the four wagons in a neat row outside waiting to be loaded.

  For the past few days, however, there had been only two wagons waiting, -with the other two stationary further up the yard. Rumours had circulated, unease had settled in, and now, the mood of worried workers was so palpable, it settled over the factory like a suffocating blanket.

  From his office at the top of the factory, Luke watched the workforce gather in the front yard. 'They're in a sombre mood,' he told the clerk.

  'Aye, they are that, Mr Hammond.' A ruddy-faced Irishman with tiny spectacles and tufts of hair sprouting from his balding head, old Thomas kept his nose glued to his accounts book.

  Luke had some fifty people in his employ, and seeing them gathering in one place like now, it made a daunting sight, which filled him with pride and a sense of achievement, and also with apprehension. 'They're a good lot,' he told the clerk.

  'Aye, they are that, Mr Hammond.' Licking his pencil Thomas made another entry in his ledger.

  Luke turned from the window to address him. 'I expect they'll be Wondering why I've called them together like this.'

  This time, Thomas glanced up. 'Aye, they will that, Mr Hammond.' The old man had been with Luke's father before him, and was a loyal, trustworthy man who knew everything there was to know about the Hammond business.

  Looking away, Luke smiled. 'You'r
e a man of few words, Thomas.'

  Thomas gave a long-drawn-out sigh. 'Aye, I am that, Mr Hammond.' Now as he glanced up, he smiled a wrinkly smile. 'A man o' few words, that's me, so it is.'

  Realising all the workforce were now gathered and waiting, Luke straightened his tie and fastened the buttons on his jacket. 'It's time,' he said, opening the door. 'I'd best tell them why they're here.'

  Downstairs, the atmosphere was one of apprehension.

  There were those who expected to be finished on the day, and others who prayed they might be allowed another few years of work and pay before they were put out to pasture.

  'Ssh! Here he comes!' The word went round, a hush came down, and, hearts in mouths, they watched Luke's progress as he came down the staircase.

  'If I'm for the chop, I'll sweep the streets rather than be cooped up in the shop, a grand little place though it is.' Being a man with an appetite for fresh air, Dave Atkinson was adamant he would find outdoor work.

  'I'm sixty-two year old,' said another man. 'Who in their right mind will tek me on at my time o' life?'

  'Ssh!' The ruddy-faced man in front turned round. 'He's here now.'

  When the muttering was ended and the workers' attention was on him, Luke revealed the reason for their being there. 'Firstly, I want to thank every one of you for your loyal service and dedication to this company

  'Bloody hell!' Half-turning to Dave, the ruddy-faced driver whispered, 'That sounds a bit final, if you ask me.'

  'Ssh.' Dave gestured towards Luke. 'We'd best listen to what he has to say.'

  Luke went on: about how proud he was of them all, and how, 'I would have told you before but I had to wait and be sure.'

  Recalling the endless meetings and frustrations of the past weeks, he took a moment to formulate his words. 'I've had to do some hard talking these past few weeks and I don't mind admitting there were times when I despaired. But I got there in the end, and now I can tell you that the future looks good, and we're about to expand. The premises will be doubled in size and the fleet increased to eight wagons—the old ones going two at a time, until we have all eight exchanged for brand-new ones.' With the workforce's full attention, he continued, 'All this will take time but, as you can see, two of the wagons have already been set aside for a ready buyer. I've secured two long-term contracts with sizeable companies based in Birmingham, and the hope of another in the pipeline.'

  For a long, breathless minute, the silence was deafening.

  Clenching his fist, Luke punched the air. 'That's it, folks! GO TO IT!'

  He may have said more, but his voice was suddenly deafened by the biggest cheer ever to have been heard in that yard.

  'GOD BLESS YER, SON!' Like many others, delighted and relieved, the ruddy-faced driver was leaping in the air, fists clenched and tears swimming in his eyes. 'We all thought we were for the bloody chop!'

  Tears turned to laughter, and Luke went amongst them, with congratulations coming from all sides. He was deeply moved by the loyalty of these ordinary, wonderful people.

  'Back to work now,' he told them, and with smiles and much chatter they ambled away and, well satisfied with his own considerable achievements, Luke returned to the office.

  'These good people have made this business what it is today,' he told the old Irishman.

  'Aye, they have that, Mr Hammond.' Thomas wondered what Luke's father would have had to say about what had happened just now, because in all the years he'd sat at this desk, he had never witnessed such a great surge of devotion as he'd seen today.

  'If you don't mind me saying, Mr Hammond, I think you've forgotten something, so yer have.'

  'Oh?' Turning from the window where he was enjoying his employees' good humour, he asked, 'What's that then, Thomas?'

  Thomas took off his spectacles, as he habitually did when about to say something serious. 'The men may well have "made" the business, as you so put it. But it's you they look up to, and it's you that inspires them, so it is.'

  Having said his piece, he smiled to himself, discreetly blinked away a tear, and got on with his paperwork.

  Later, Luke discreetly observed his employees, content at their work. He wondered what his father would think about this new turn of events. A twist of regret spiralled up in him as he reflected, and not for the first time, how he had no son to hand the business on to. Somehow, a child had not happened, and now it seemed all too late.

  His thoughts turned to Sylvia.

  Why had she given herself to a man like Arnold Stratton? Had he himself let her down as a husband? Had he worked too long and hard, sometimes building the business, sometimes trying to keep it afloat? Had she been lonely? Was it all his fault? Time and again, he had asked himself that.

  And yet when he looked back, he had not seen any real signs that she was unhappy or lonely. At that time she had many friends; all of whom had since deserted her when she needed them most.

  She had been a busy, fulfilled woman who lived life to the full. He made sure they spent a great deal of time together. Since the day he met her, he had loved her with all his heart and had believed she loved him the same.

  And yet she had found the need to seek out a man like Arnold Stratton. It was a sobering thought. He could not understand. Had she never really loved him? Did she secretly yearn for the greater excitement he could not give her?

  And now, with the lovemaking ended and her injuries taking their toll, there would never be a child and she was like a child herself: helpless; frightened. All she had in the world were the two people who really cared: himself, and the devoted Edna. But, though they would do anything for her, they could not perform the miracle she needed.

  In his mind's eye he could see his painting of Sylvia. In that painting he had captured her beauty and serenity. If he was to paint her now, the fear and madness, however slight, would show in her eyes and mar her beauty. Arnold Stratton had done that and now he was in prison for what had happened to Sylvia. And rightly so!

  The feeling of sorrow turned to a cold and terrible rage. If only he could have stopped it happening. If he could get his hands on that bastard, he'd make him pay for every minute he and Sylvia had been together. He imagined them in bed, naked, and his mind was frantic.

  Stratton was where he belonged. A long spell in prison was not punishment enough for what that monster had done.

  His unsettled thoughts shifted to another painting, hidden away in his sanctuary. It was a painting of another young woman. A woman with mischief in her eyes and the brightest, most endearing smile. A woman not of the same kind of beauty as his wife, but with something he could not easily define, not even in the painting of her.

  She was aliveHe only had to glance at the painting and it would make him smile. Her very essence leaped off the canvas. She warmed to the eye and her image lingered in the mind.

  Thinking of her now, he smiled freely.

  'Amy,' he murmured.

  Her name on his lips was like a song.

  PART TWO

  •• •• •• ••

  Mary 1933

  •• •• •• ••

  THE CHILD

  Chapter Seven

  So, have you caught sight of her yet?' Though harmless enough, old Alice was one of those women who was never happier than when somebody else was miserable.

  Amy looked up from wrapping the two slices of bacon. 'Who are we talking about now?' She was used to Alice's gossiping tongue.

  'The woman who's just moved in, next door but one to me.' Leaning forward she imparted in a harsh whisper, 'There's summat very strange about a woman who moves house in the middle of the night, don't you think?'

  'Happen she works a late shift.' Marie emerged from the back room just in time to catch Alice's remark. 'From what I hear, the poor woman arrived bag and baggage at half-past nine. I'd hardly call that the "middle of the night"'

  'Well, I would!' Alice retorted. 'I'm away to my bed at nine o'clock, and I don't take kindly to being woken by the slamm
ing of doors. As for "bag and baggage", I can tell you, all she had with her was a little lad in arms and a portmanteau no bigger than this 'ere shopping bag!' Holding her canvas bag up high, she declared jubilantly, 'Now then! You tell me that isn't suspicious—arriving at half- past nine of an evening, with a hankie-sized portmanteau and a child in arms.' Sliding her bag onto the counter, she folded her chubby arms and waited for an answer. 'Well?'

  Amy voiced what her mother was also thinking. 'She wouldn't have any need for much, would she?'

  'Oh, and why's that, then?'

  Amy shrugged. 'Well, I mean…the house is fully furnished, isn't it? Mac Robinson hasn't sold up. Apparently, he intends coming back from Scotland at some point, and from what he told me, he left everything intact for the prospective tenant. Cutlery, crockery, furniture and such. He even had new sheets put on the beds.'

  'So?' Alice was not impressed. 'That doesn't change anything. Even if Mac Robinson left the sheets and towels, you'd think a mother and child would need more than just the clothes on their backs. Because as far as I could tell when looking through the window, that's more or less all they had with them.'

  Her interest growing, Marie leaned on the counter. 'Aye, well, if that's the case, she deserves my sympathy. It sounds to me as though the poor soul is down on her luck.'

  Amy was curious. 'What does she look like?'

  'Well, I wouldn't say she was anything special.' In a superior voice, Alice described her in detail. 'Short woman, narrow face and iron-red hair. Not her natural colour, I shouldn't wonder. And if anything, she seemed a bit tatty, if you know what I mean?' Squaring her shoulders with authority, she begrudgingly added, 'Mind you, having said all that, she's not a bad-looking woman, I suppose.'

  Amy had a mental picture of this new neighbour and she felt a little sad. 'I don't think we should be talking about her like this.' Reaching up to the shelf, she rearranged the boxes of Omo washing powder. 'I think we should accept her for what she is, and count our own blessings.'