pinned to the breast of her dress and looked at it. ‘It isn’t quite nine yet, make yourself known to him. And this evening, and until my father is fully recovered, I would like you to bring the takings to the house. You know where it is?’
‘Yes, I know where it is.’
Yes, he knew where it was. He had caught a glimpse of it from the gates. He knew that it had been occupied by Kean’s father and his grandfather, but that’s all he knew about it, for he had never been asked to call there on any pretext. But what he did know was that all the Keans had been men who had made money and that the present one was a bully. More than once, when he had stood in this office and been spoken to like a dog, he’d had the desire to ram his fist into his employer’s podgy face.
‘Good morning then, Mr Connor.’
‘Good morning, miss.’
He went before her and opened the outer door, then stood for a second watching her walking down the alley towards the street. She carried herself as straight as a soldier; her step was more of a march than a walk, and she swung her arms; she didn’t walk at all like women in her position usually did, or should.
He closed the door, then looked around the office and through into the inner room. Then walking slowly into it, he sat in the chair behind the desk, cocked his head to the side and, speaking to an imaginary figure sitting opposite, he said, ‘Now, Mr Taylor, I will assign you to the Jarrow district.’ Oh yes, he would always speak civilly to subordinates because, after all, he was a subordinate himself once, wasn’t he? A mere rent collector. But now. He looked round the office. He was master of all he surveyed.
Huh! This was the time to laugh, if only he had someone to laugh with.
When he heard the outer door open he got quickly to his feet and went round the desk.
He looked at the clean but shabbily dressed figure standing, hat in hand, before him, and he said quietly, ‘You, Mr Taylor?’
‘Yes, sir.’ The old man inclined his head, and Rory, now making a derogatory sound in his throat, said, ‘You needn’t sir me, Mr Taylor, I’m just like yourself, a roundsman. Me name’s Connor. The old man—Mr Kean—is in bed with a cold. His daughter’s just been along. She says you’re to take my district.’
‘Anything you say, Mr Connor. Anything you say.’
God! had he sounded as servile as this when he was confronted by Kean? There should be a law of some kind against bringing men to their knees.
As he stared at the old man it came to him that everything in his life had changed. And it was to go on changing. How, he didn’t know, he only knew that things would never again be as they were.
It was half-past five when he made his way from the office to Birchingham House in Westoe, and it was raining, a fine chilling soaking rain.
The house was not in what was usually called the village, nor did it stand among those that had sprung up to run parallel with that part of Shields that lay along the river, nor was it one of a small number that remained aloof in their vast grounds. But it was of that section the social standing of which was determined by its size, the number of servants it supported, and whether its owner hired or owned his carriages.
And Birchingham House had another distinction. Although it stood in only two acres of ground it was situated on the side road that led off the main road to Harton and to two substantial estates, one belonging to a mine owner, the other to a gentleman who was known to own at least six iron ships that plied their trade from the Tyne.
The histories of the houses of the notabilities of the town were known to the nobodies of the town; and the notabilities themselves formed a topic of gossip, not only in the bars that lined the river-front, but also in the superior clubs and societies that flourished in the town.
But the situation of his master’s house or of his master himself had not up till this moment impressed Rory with any significance. Kean, to him, had been just a money-grabbing skinflint who owned rows of property, particularly in Jarrow, which should have been pulled down years ago, and streets in Shields that were fast dropping into decay for want of repair. Yet in this respect he admitted Kean was no worse than any of the landlords he represented.
Now, as he neared the house in the dark and saw the front steps leading to it lighted by two bracket lamps, he stopped for a moment and peered at it through the rain. It was big. There were ten windows along the front of it alone. Moreover, it was three- storey. He couldn’t quite make out the top one, only that there was a gleam of glass up there. Likely attics. There was a carriage standing on the drive at the foot of the steps and he paused near it to look up at the driver sitting huddled deep in a cloaked coat. The man hadn’t noticed him; he seemed to be asleep.
He hesitated. Should he go to the front door or the back door? Damn it all, why not the front! Why not!
He went up the steps and pulled the bell.
The door was answered by a maid. She was wearing a starched apron over a black alpaca dress. The bib of the apron had a wide, stiff frill that continued over the straps on her shoulders. She had a starched cap on her head and the strings from it looked as stiff as the cap itself and were tied under her chin in a bow. She was evidently flustered and said, ‘Yes, yes. Who is it?’
‘I’m Mr Connor. Miss Kean told me to come. I’ve brought the takings.’
‘Oh! Oh!’ She looked from one side to the other, then said, ‘Well, you’d better come in.’ And she stood aside and let him pass her into the small lobby, then opened another door into a hall, which he noted immediately was as big as the kitchen at home.
‘Stay there,’ she said, ‘an’ I’ll tell her, that’s if she can come, the master’s had a turn. They’ve had to send for the doctor again. He’s right bad.’ She nodded at him, then made for the stairs that led from the hallway in a half spiral and disappeared from view.
He stood looking around him, frankly amazed at what he saw. To the right of the staircase was a side table with a lamp on it. He noted that it was oil, not gas. Yet they had gas outside. The soft light from it illuminated a large oil painting on the wall showing the head and shoulders of a man: he had a broad, flat face, and the high collar was wedged into the jowls below his chin; he had a white fringe of hair above his ears, the rest of his head was bald; his eyes were round and bright and seemed to be looking with stern condemnation at the visitor. Rory did not need to guess that this was an ancestor of Mr Kean, and also that the lamp was there as a sort of illuminated commemoration to do him honour.
A cabinet stood against the wall at the far side of the stairs. He had never seen the like of it before, not even in a picture. It was glass-fronted and made of yellowish wood picked out in gold; the legs were spindly with fancy cross-bars connecting the four of them. It had two shelves. The top one held figures, some single, some in groups; the lower shelf had glass goblets standing on it. From what he could see at this distance they were etched with paintings.
There were a number of doors going off all round the hall, and the thick red carpet he was standing on reached to the walls on all sides except where one door was deeply inset in an alcove and had a step down to it.
He felt his mouth closing when he heard the rustle of a gown on the stairs and saw Charlotte Kean coming down towards him. Her face wore a worried expression. She said immediately, ‘My father has taken a turn for the worse, we are very concerned. Will you come this way?’
Without a word he followed her down the step and through the door that was set in the alcove and found himself in an office, but an office very different from the one in Tangard Street. The room in a way was a pattern of the hall, thick carpet, highly polished desk, the top strewn with papers and ledgers. There were paintings on all the walls except that which was taken up with two long windows over which the curtains had not been drawn.
He watched her turn up the gas light; the mantle, encased in its fancy globe gave out a soft light and set the room in a warm glow.
He couldn’t understand the feeling he was experiencing. He didn’t know whether it was envy, admiration, or respect, that kind of grudging respect the symbols of wealth evoke. He only knew that the feeling was making him feel all arms and legs.
‘Sit down, Mr Connor.’
This was the second time in one day she had invited him to be seated.
He hesitated to take the leather chair that she had proffered; instead, looking down at the bag he had placed
