Midnight is a Place

  "For all we know you may have caught typhus fever by falling into that place—let alone the infection you may have picked up from hog-bites."

  "You may as well do as she says," Mr. Oakapple observed drily. "Look how meek and biddable she has made me." He was sitting with the canary perched on top of his head, entertaining the baby by handing her back the various pine cones, pebbles, and lumps of knotted wood that she chose to throw out of her cradle. Lucas could not help laughing, though it hurt his throat to do so.

  Lady Murgatroyd was going off to give a music lesson. "You can all amuse each other while I am gone. It still snows, so you are not even to think of going out."

  "Except me, Grand'mère," said Anna-Marie, who was just setting off for her shift at the Mill.

  Lucas felt unhappy that he had to stay at home while Anna-Marie was out working.

  "I am not bringing in any money," he fretted.

  "Nor am I," Mr. Oakapple pointed out. "But complaining won't help. The only answer is to behave in a rational manner and get better as fast as you can."

  Toward the end of the week, however, they had an unexpected caller who relieved Lucas's anxieties about money.

  This was Mr. Hobday, who came tapping at the door in the snowy dusk, looking evasive and guilty and ingratiating and apologetic all at the same time.

  "Very sorry to see you poorly, lad," he said nervously rubbing his little clawlike hands together, his ears redder than ever with the cold and with embarrassment. "Very sorry to see that."

  "So you should be," said Mr. Oakapple severely, Lucas having told him who Mr. Hobday was. "You should be thoroughly ashamed of yourself for allowing boys into the sewer in the company of that dangerous lunatic. You deserve to be thrown into jail."

  "All right, all right, all right, guvnor, don't lay it on any more!" cried Mr. Hobday, tearing his hair and pulling his own ears. "It's been one arter another at me all week—fust that little lass was a-bawling at me—an' gor, she'd got a tongue like a haddock knife—then the owd lady, Madam Minetti, she pitched into me; 'Very sorry, ma'am, very sorry, if I'd a knowed the young lad were a connection o'yourn I'd never a' taken him on,' I says, 'but he needed the money an' how was I to know he were your great-grand-cousin?' 'Whose cousin he be, that bain't the point,' says she, 'the point be you shouldn't a done it to anyone's cousin, an' he's sore an' bruised, sides being frit to death, an' you should pay him summat handsome in compensation.' 'Very well, ma'am,' says I. An' last of all young Firebrand Scatcherd, he come up and lays into me about poor old Gudgeon—but what's a cove to do? If I doesn't send a boy down wi' Gudgeon, he gets more and more coveticious an' niggurious, the old muckworm, he keeps all the tosh himself and brings me nothing, an' I have all the expense of the stall an' his wages, so I has to have a boy to keep an eye on him, see? How can I help it if he goes a bit March-mad now an' now, an' turns on the boys spiteful-like? Boys should be able to look arter themselves, that's what I says. Now you, my young cove, you're a active, coriaceous lad, gristly enough to stand up to old Gudgeon, just the right sort for a tosh boy, an' I hope you'll come back to the profession when you're over this little setback."

  "No he certainly won't," said Lady Murgatroyd, who had returned from giving a music lesson in the middle of Hobday's speech, "and what about that compensation?"

  "Yes, yes, marm, o' course I were coming to that," Mr. Hobday said injuredly. "I were just explaining that by rights I oughta be compensated, acos if I haven't a boy to send down to keep an eye on old Gudgeon I'm going to lose oughty-hundred per cent o' my takings an' how am I going to live, answer me that? Gudgeon's no use on his own."

  "Don't send him down, then."

  "But he Loved to go down in the sewer. 'Tis the only thing he do love. You can't keep him outa there."

  "Let him go then, if he prefers it. But you'll have to find some other way to live," Lady Murgatroyd said dispassionately. "Or go down yourself, of course."

  "Find some—go down—" Mr. Hobday stared at her aghast. Then he pulled himself together and said, "Well, now, about this here compensation. I fund a thing I thowt mit be of use to ye, so I brung that, an' hope to oblige. Ye mind, maybe, ol' Gudgeon dredged up a little owd wooden box wi' some papers in it, fust day you was out wi' him, Luke, boy. I was a-looking through 'em, lately, for you alius has to look through papers, an' I seen on wi' the name BELL on't, an', thinks I, that mit have summat to do wi' young Luke Bell, so I fetched it along, an' hope that'll compensate ye for any slight discombobulation you bin put to along of old Gudgeon."

  With an elaborate flourish he handed Lucas a small packet of very dirty papers.

  "Why, thank you, Mr. Hobday," said Lucas, somewhat surprised. "It was thoughtful of you to—to think of me. I'll read through them, and if they don't seem to have anything to do with me, I'll return them to you. But I hope you were thinking of some cash compensation too?"

  Mr. Hobday looked very much dashed, not to say martyred. "Cash? Well—I hadn't—" he began.

  "How about that jeweled saddle, for instance?" pursued Lucas. "How much did that fetch? Did you give me my ten per cent?"

  "Oh, er didn't goo for much," Mr. Hobday said shiftily.

  "Did you sell it to the museum?"

  "Ah, but they museum coves are a set o' flinthearts," protested Mr. Hobday.

  "Come, come," said Lady Murgatroyd, "you know we can very well ask them what they paid for it."

  Mr. Hobday was very cast down by this, and in the end the information was extracted from him that the saddle, set with rubies and sapphires, had sold for six hundred pounds, of which thirty pounds was properly Lucas's. Sighing heavily, he paid over thirty grubby pound notes and took his departure.

  "And do not let us hear of your subjecting any more boys to that shocking risk," Lady Murgatroyd remarked mildly as he went out, "or you will find yourself in trouble."

  "Thirty pounds!" said Lucas joyfully when he had gone. "Why, we can live on that for weeks. Anna-Marie can leave the Mill."

  "She may not wish to," pointed out Lady Murgatroyd. "She may feel about it as you did about the sewer. But let us look at these papers. What are they?"

  Whatever they were, they were so extremely dirty that it was a task of great difficulty and delicacy to get them separated one from another. Lady Murgatroyd, whose fingers were practiced at the intricacies of weaving, settled down to the operation, passing each one as she prized it free to Lucas, who carefully swabbed the dirt off the surface with a spirit made from fermented chestnuts which Lady Murgatroyd used for cleaning her clavichord.

  "Why," Lucas exclaimed, when he had the first document clean enough to read. "This is a note to Mr. Throgmorton—a receipt for five pounds from Bertram Smallside. It does not seem to have anything to do with me—nothing at all."

  "Go on—there are plenty more. You may come to something yet."

  As Lucas continued cleaning the papers, he discovered that all of them appeared to relate to Mr. Throgmorton—there were a number of other receipts from different persons and some of Mr. Throgmorton's receipted bills, including one from Lucas's own father—a bill of ten pounds for legal work. And at the bottom of the heap were two documents that caused Lucas to give a cry of astonishment.

  "Why, this is my father's will! And his deed of partnership with Sir Randolph. And they were both drawn up by Mr. Throgmorton. So it is very singular that he did not remember anything about them."

  "Singular indeed," said Mr. Oakapple, limping across to read the papers over Lucas's shoulder. "Yes—Deed of partnership between Sir Randolph Grimsby, Bart., and Edwin Lucas Bell, Esquire. And Last Will and Testament of Edwin Lucas Bell. And I see that your father did leave a little money besides the funds that were sunk in the Mill—I shall be interested to hear how Throgmorton can account for that. I think we must go and call on the gentleman as soon as I am a little stronger on my legs. I wonder how these papers came to be in the sewer? Perhaps Throgmorton thought that was the safest way to get rid of them."

  Lady Murgatroyd
had been studying the receipts.

  "Now here is a curious thing," she murmured to herself. "Receipts going back twenty years, for payments made by Throgmorton on behalf of Sir Randolph to Bertram Smallside, Gabriel Towzer, Amos Garridge, and Wm. Scatcherd—Five pounds a week each."

  "Five pounds a week each?" exclaimed Mr. Oakapple in tones of amazement. "Why, I never imagined that Sir Randolph had kept up a regular payment to anyone for twenty weeks—let alone twenty years."

  "Very likely he would not have if Mr. Throgmorton had not had charge of the business. They ceased at his death."

  "I do not wonder."

  "Smallside—Garridge—Towzer—and Scatcherd. What can he have been paying them for, all that time?"

  "What a pity we did not know about this while I was lodging at Gabriel's sister's house," Lucas said. "I could easily have asked him. Now he has gone to his other sister at Keighley. And Mr. Smallside has left the mill and gone to Manchester."

  "What about Garridge?"

  "I haven't seen him since the fire; I do not know where he went."

  "Well," said Lady Murgatroyd, "perhaps old Mr. Scatcherd would tell us if we asked him."

  "Why are you so interested in these payments, Grand'mère?"

  "Oh—I am just curious."

  "Smallside, Garridge, Towzer, Scatcherd," said Mr. Oakapple thoughtfully, "I wonder what those four could have in common?"

  Ten days went by during which the invalids continued to mend. Anna-Marie went to the mill; Lady Murgatroyd sometimes gave lessons, Lucas wrote an immense amount in his brown book and played with the baby, who had taken a violent fancy to him. In the evenings, those who could, sang, and those who chose, listened.

  Anna-Marie ran lightheartedly down the hill one morning, observing that no more snow had fallen for three days. And the wind was a little less icy. The days are getting longer, too, she thought. When the winter is over, and Luc is better of his cold, and Monsieur Ookapool is quite well again, how happy we shall all be together!

  Arrived at the combing shed, she skipped gaily along her grating, tweaking out the wool waste with her pincers at such a rapid rate of progress that she saved herself three and a half minutes' rest time at the end of each row.

  "Champion!" said a diy voice behind her.

  Anna-Marie was so startled that she spun round violently, dropping the pincers, which clattered onto the floor.

  There, behind her, sat the pale-eyed Bludward in his wheelchair, with little Newky Shirreff sidling up behind him.

  "Let's have a look at t'pincers, then, Newky; pass them here, lad," said Bludward. "A little lass called Biddy told me aboot these, an' I thowt I'd have a look for mysen." He inspected the pincers with slow and thoughtful thoroughness.

  "Now let's see thee using them again, lass."

  Anna-Marie felt very uneasy. She remembered Rose Sproggs's warning. But she could hardly refuse, so she cleaned along the row of claws again, rather reluctantly.

  "Nay, lass, tha was doing it a lot faster than that afore. Let's see thee speed oop a bit."

  Luckily at that moment the noon whistle went and Rose appeared to eat her dinner.

  "Eh, Rosie! This little lass o' thine has happened on a grand notion," said Bludward agreeably.

  Rose did not look at all delighted at this praise. She cast a look of burning reproach at Anna-Marie and said shortly, "Oh, aye. Happen it'll work. Happen it won't."

  "Nay, but it does work," Bludward said. "I was watching the lass afore she knew I were there, an' it works very well. The only thing is, it won't do."

  "Why will it not do?" demanded Anna-Marie, who did not see why she should be left out of this conversation.

  "Because we can't have woon working faster than all the rest. That's not fair on them that are slow. T'manager'll expect iveryone to work as fast."

  "Yes, that is why I have already showed Prue and Hetty and Sarah how to make pincers for themselves; Prue lost the tip of her finger last week, so she was glad to have them," returned Anna-Marie composedly. "Now we all work as fast as one another."

  "That won't fadge, lass; tha's forgettin' the teams on t'other claw-racks. Ye have to think of iverybody in a factory, not just thysen. If t'claw-cleaners work faster, then t'managers'll ixpect ivery soul in t'Mill to work faster. Nay, it won't do. Tha'd best throw those tongs away and forget about them."

  "That is the most stupid thing I have heard in my life," said Anna-Marie indignantly. "And I certainly shall not throw them away."

  "Nay, lass, ye have to pay heed to Mester Bludward," said Rose, giving Anna-Marie an imploring glance. "Let him have the tongs, luv—that's best. Happen he'll be able to persuade t'manager that 'tis a'reet for t'claw-cleaners to use them."

  "I think it would be best if I go to the manager with the tongs," said Anna-Marie.

  "Art tha stark mad? A lass o' thy age canna go—" Rose began.

  At that moment Davey Scatcherd came by, carrying a large oil drum.

  "I want a word wi' thee, Bob Bludward," he said as soon as he saw the man in the wheelchair. "I see while I've been away t'swivelers has started using t'press operators' tack space to stow their trolleys in. I've said before that's dangerous, an' I'll not have it. Let 'em find another spot to stack their gear—"

  Then he noticed Anna-Marie, gave her a brief friendly grin, and said, "Hey, lass! I didn't knaw as tha worked in t'Mill."

  "Coom back from jail too big for thy boots, eh, David lad?" Bludward said silkily.

  The smile vanished from Scatcherd's face. "I do my job; tha can take care o' thy own," he said curtly. "Only tell those men to shift those trolleys afore there's an accident," and with a glance full of dislike for Bludward he was moving on when Anna-Marie exclaimed, "Mr. Scatcherd—Davey!"

  "Aye, lass? What's to do?"

  "I have made this tongs, voilà, to clean out the claws better and quicker, and it works very well, so we need not pinch our fingers, and now Monsieur Bludward come and say we must not use it, or all in the factory will have to work faster. He say, perhaps he will show my tongs to the manager. But I think, if he does show them, it is to pretend that he has made them himself. And I do not see what right Monsieur Bludward has to give us orders. He is not the foreman. So what do you think I should do?"

  Into the thunderstruck silence that followed these words the half-past-twelve whistle sounded.

  "Back to work, everybody!" Rose shouted with relief.

  Davey Scatcherd was carefully examining the tongs which Anna-Marie had handed to him.

  "Let's see thee use them, then, lass," he said, passing them back.

  She started to work. He nodded, as she moved rapidly past him. When she was at the other end of the row she saw the two men have a short, rapid exchange, which she could not hear, then Davey nodded to her again, and walked away.

  Bludward's chair slid in the other direction. He did not look at Anna-Marie again.

  Anna-Marie took a detour on her way home that evening to call in at the Scatcherd house and present Mrs. Scatcherd with a piece of Lady Murgatroyd's handwoven cloth as a thank-you present for her kindness to Lucas.

  "Those Scatcherds are une famille très gentille," she said, when she returned to the icehouse. "How they all fit into that small house I do not know, but they are very nice. We have all been singing songs together. Oh, and the old monsieur, he says he has a thing to tell you. Grand'mère, and he will come up here and relate it when the weather is a little bit warmer. Eh bien, Luc, comment ga va?"

  Lucas said he was a great deal better and intended to start work tomorrow.

  "Meanwhile isn't there anything I can do for you, Grand'mère?" Lady Murgatroyd was rapidly and skilfully putting together a jacket out of more handwoven cloth.

  "Yes, I have just the job for you," she said, biting off a thread. "When I undertook to look after Bess Braithwaite's baby I promised that I would write the poor woman monthly reports on Bet's progress. But I am a very bad correspondent, and I have not written for six weeks. I should be ext
remely obliged, Lucas, if you could write for me."

  Lucas was somewhat taken aback, for this was not at all the kind of job he had expected. At first he looked rather blank. However he supplied himself with a sheet of paper, a pen, ink made from soot dissolved in chestnut spirit, and a stump to write on. For a moment or two he sat chewing his quill, and staring at the baby. Then the pen began to move. It moved faster. It raced. An hour had gone by before he was aware of it, and Anna-Marie was jogging his elbow and saying, "Luc! Grand'mère has told you three times that supper is ready."

  Anna-Marie was a little subdued and thoughtful at the meal.

  Mr. Oakapple and Lucas had been talking about the Deed of partnership between Lucas's father and Sir Randolph.

  "So does that mean that after all you may own half the Mill, Luc?" Anna-Marie asked hopefully.

  Mr. Oakapple thought not. "Because in a partnership each partner is equally responsible for the debts, and even the sale of the Mill did not pay them off. Sir Randolph had been taking money from the Mill and using it on bets. I fear your father should never have let himself be persuaded to go to India and leave Sir Randolph in charge."

  "No," Lucas said. "But Sir Randolph and my mother disliked each other—that was why they went. I have often heard her say so."

  "Anna-Marie, my child," said Lady Murgatroyd, noting that her granddaughter appeared unusually grave, "how is your job going at the Mill? Do those pincers work well that we made?"

  "They work well, Grand'mère," Anna-Marie said in a troubled voice. "But I am not sure that I shall be allowed to use them."

  "Why not?"

  "There is a man called Bludward who makes difficulties. He says if I use this tool then it is not fair to all who do not have it."

  "Nothing to stop them all having it."

  "Well I think that is not his real reason. Rose, who is my foreman, says he wishes to show the tongs to the manager and take to himself the credit for having invented them."

  "Well you don't really mind that, do you?" said her grandmother. "If the work gets done better and people's fingers aren't pinched?"