The Quality Street Wedding Page 12

  ‘Oh, really?’ Palgrave had no enthusiasm for his posting, because he had no poetry in him, and so this opener prompted no enthusiastic eulogy from him. ‘What bit of it?’

  Dolly looked flustered and blurted out, ‘The southern bit, of course.’ Making the assumption that just as all well-bred people are prejudiced against the north of England, the same snobbish prejudice would transfer to any country.

  There was a long lull in conversation as Dolly had now run out of things to say about the country she had never showed any interest in until that moment, and Percy wondered how he could turn the conversation around to her father’s money and finding out how much of it there was.

  ‘So … your father is a Rector and not a vicar. Does it make much of a difference?’

  ‘Oh, yes!’ Dolly was keen to emphasise that she was almost on a par – socially – with Percy Palgrave and his people. ‘We get a much bigger house. Vicarages can be quite small.’ Dolly was worried that she wasn’t sufficiently emphasising her social superiority so she blurted out, ‘And we have servants.’ The fact that they were dailies and not live-in, and that they were only there to char for her poor stepmother who was busy enough with her brood of small children was by the by. They passed through the Strawberry Cream corridor without stopping to notice the exquisite delicacy of the strawberry scent.

  ‘I read something in the papers a while back about Rectors and rectories.’ Palgrave threw the information around casually lest it be too obvious that he’d looked it up in the library and read it in depth and been electrified with excitement by it. ‘They get to claim monies from people living thereabouts – tithes and chancel funds and whatnot. Must be pretty handy whenever you’re short of a few quid to just tap the locals. Queer thing, English law. Best in the world, mind you, best in the world.’

  Dolly flashed her grimace-like smile and tried to pretend that her father did have those rights, and that he hadn’t told her to get a job because she was spending more on make-up than he could afford to provide. Dolly was trying to find a way to draw the conversation round to shopping, because she wanted to see if she could get this young man to buy her things.

  ‘I suppose you must find it difficult, living so far from civilisation.’ Dolly meant Burma, but Palgrave thought she meant Halifax. ‘Do you need to go on a little shopping outing for some new things to take back with you?’ Poor man must have money burning a hole in his pocket, Dolly thought to herself.

  Palgrave’s eyes lit up at this invitation following on so quickly from his hint that she could tap into limitless funds. Was she suggesting she buy him something? He tried his luck. ‘I could do with a new set of luggage,’ he ventured as casually as he could.

  Dolly smirked to herself – they were getting on so well so quickly. They were obviously the same sort. ‘Let’s go and choose you some,’ she said, and they left the tour guide beside an empty noticeboard which had once warned employees about the dangers of scarlet fever.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  There is a long list of people that a journalist doesn’t want to see walking purposefully into their newsroom at midnight, but top of that list must surely be the District Officer for Health, flanked by the Chief Veterinary Officer for the West Riding County Council.

  Chester ‘Sleepless’ Parvin was typing up the last few lines of the Halifax Courier’s lead story before he sent it down to the presses, but by and large the paper had been put to bed, and so had its staff. His editor – Mr Pickles – had left only moments before, and he suspected that whatever this unannounced visit was about, it was about to fall on his shoulders.

  ‘Gentlemen, can I help you?’ Sleepless rose from his desk, picking up a notebook and pencil, ready to start taking notes immediately.

  ‘We’re here to make an announcement.’ The Medical Officer thrust a typed memorandum toward Sleepless. ‘How fast can you print this as an extra?’

  Sleepless was not so foolish that he would suggest adding whatever it was to the morning edition without reading it and, as his eyes scanned the type, they widened. ‘I’ll call down to the presses; we can have the first ones ready in under thirty minutes if we hold the morning edition. How many men do you have to distribute these door-to-door?’

  ‘Not enough,’ the Medical Officer said gravely.

  ‘That’s all right,’ Sleepless checked his wristwatch, ‘I think I can call the army.’

  A hasty series of telephone calls, including more than one to the newspaper’s editor who took it upon himself to wake ‘God’ – the newspaper’s owner – resulted in the agreement that the Courier would print an extra edition as a single bulletin, to be distributed for free to local householders on the assumption that it would push up sales of the morning edition as everyone scrambled to hear the latest news.

  The first copies of the bulletin were run up to the pressroom by one of the print-room boys a little after half-past midnight, and the waiting company found the paper hot against their cold fingers when the neatly stacked sheets arrived. The arrival of the bulletins coincided with the arrival of Sleepless’s reinforcements and at the sound of military boots marching up the stairs to the pressroom, Sleepless announced, ‘The army’s here.’

  The Medical Officer looked startled. ‘I thought you were joking! You haven’t called in the Duke of Wellington’s Own Regiment, have you?’

  ‘No chance.’ Sleepless walked over to the newsroom door and held it open in anticipation. ‘This is a regiment much better suited to the work we have at hand.’

  And there, marching up the stairs in battle-ready dress uniforms of midnight blue and warm burgundy, was a regiment created not to threaten but to reassure: Lieutenant Armitage, Captain Honeywood, and a dozen more officers of the Halifax Salvation Army, armed with social work training and the confidence to wake people at night to give them a message they couldn’t ignore.

  The night was long and the reception the news bearers received was mixed. As they went door-to-door, waking householders and handing over the urgent bulletin and the potentially life-saving advice from the Medical Officers, they were met with everything from hostile threats to tearful thanks.

  At a doorway in Back Ripon Street they met an older woman standing in her doorway smoking a white clay pipe and looking up at the stars; Mrs Grimshaw had been kept awake by the coughing which echoed through the walls from her neighbours in the house which backed onto her own. The sight of men and women in suits and smart coats, carrying bundles of newspaper and marching alongside the uniformed Salvation Army, did not appear to trouble her, but she watched them all the same.

  It was Sleepless who approached Mrs Grimshaw and said, ‘An emergency notice from the District Medical Officers, ma’am. If you’ve got any milk or cream in the house you’re to boil it immediately. At first sign of scarlet fever or septic throat in your household, call for the doctor and he’ll have the patient removed to the isolation hospital. Anyone who has been in contact with a case of infection, or with a child from Stoney Royd school, is ordered to quarantine. The number of days is listed on the bulletin.’

  Mrs Grimshaw’s face fell as she looked at the extra and then at Sleepless. ‘How bad is it? How many cases?’

  ‘A lot more than usual. Enough to qualify as an epidemic. But the Ministry of Health people are confident that we can contain the spread if we prevent anyone else from drinking the infected milk, or mixing with infected persons. If you would be so good as to share the bulletin with the rest of your household, we will continue to spread the word to your neighbours.’

  Mrs Grimshaw craned her neck to look up and down the street at the ragtag group of officials, civilians, and holy rollers who were knocking on doors. ‘Is it just you lot to cover the whole town?’

  Sleepless blew out his cheeks in assent.

  ‘I’ll get my big coat.’ Mrs Grimshaw tapped out her pipe and left it on the window ledge. ‘Winnifred an’ Pearl are in the next street so let’s knock them up an’ all; strength in numbers. Way I see it, we could
save a life if we’re quick.’

  But they weren’t quick enough for the Norcliffe family.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  ‘Well, we’ll have to close down the factory crèche.’ Amy Wilkes didn’t like to do it because she herself had been the champion of the enterprise, but it was too risky with an epidemic of scarlet fever tearing its way through the town. ‘How many staff will that lose us?’

  Diana Moore leant a clipboard on the edge of her manager’s desk while she consulted a list. ‘Only three from what was Reenie Calder’s experimental line, but we’ve still got twenty married women on hand-making in Coffee Fudge. I think we’ll have to get the factory manager to suspend that line altogether.’

  ‘Very well. Are there any more precautions we can take on the lines themselves? Give them more space to work or something?’ Amy Wilkes knew her factory well, but she often said to her assistant that her senior position left her at a disadvantage when it came to seeing the smaller details of the running of the factory.

  Diana shook her head. ‘The space available at present is excellent thanks to the work we’ve already done for the latest Factory Act, but we might consider laundering all employees’ overalls here to reduce the chance of contamination at home.’

  ‘Yes, but what would that cost us?’ The question was rhetorical, but Diana Moore was ready with the calculation of the precise cost per department and handed it to her manager. ‘That’s not as much as I thought. And if it reduces our chances of having to shut down a line for an outbreak then it’s definitely worth it.’

  ‘We might also consider closing the cafeteria.’

  Amy Wilkes hadn’t expected this. ‘You can’t be serious? There’d be a riot. Workers have to eat.’

  ‘They already eat and drink at their posts during the morning and afternoon breaks. If they bring in their own, they can eat their lunch at their posts too. The District Medical Officer has advised local people not to go to crowded places like cinemas and dance halls. How much more crowded is our factory canteen?’

  Amy Wilkes knew that Diana was right, but she also knew that there would be a riot from the craftsmen if they made them eat cold food. The men at the factory expected a fully cooked breakfast before they started their shift, and a slap-up dinner at midday; an outbreak of potentially lethal infection would not and probably could not deter them from covering everything they ate in steaming hot gravy. Diana had a tendency to take pragmatism and individual sacrifice to extremes which Amy Wilkes thought impossible for the average worker. ‘Have a notice posted in each workroom to announce that all staff will be permitted to eat in their workroom during the dinner hour, and all staff are encouraged to bring cold food from home, rather than overcrowd the canteen.’

  Diana took a note. ‘I will need the keys to the noticeboards in Mrs Starbeck’s sections.’

  ‘Keys?’

  ‘She’s had the joiners department put up glazed doors on all the noticeboards in her sections to prevent unauthorised posting of notices.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘By us. She has taken down all of the notices from the District Medical Officer.’

  Amy Wilkes put her head in her hands. ‘Why?’

  ‘She does not believe the precautions are necessary.’

  ‘Did she give any reason for this unorthodox point of view?’

  ‘She claims that most factory staff have already had scarlet fever at some point in their childhood and won’t catch it again.’

  ‘That’s not how it works! You only develop the rash the first time you contract the infection, but you could be infected every year for the rest of your life if you don’t take care. There is no immunity. This isn’t the measles. Good grief, that woman will be the death of me one of these days. Draft a memorandum from me to the head of the joiners department telling him that I need to approve any work of this nature in future – and tell him I want the locks changed! If I didn’t know better I’d think that woman had a perverse desire to shut down the factory and blame the workforce.’

  Chapter Thirty

  ‘I need to know if I can still come to work.’ Siobhan Grimshaw waited at a safe distance from the factory gate and shouted across to Diana Moore on the other side.

  Diana advanced towards her, but Siobhan stepped backwards at the same rate, maintaining a gulf between them. ‘Do you have a scarlatinal infection?’ Diana called.

  ‘No. And no one in my family does either. But they’ve transferred my husband to the isolation hospital.’

  ‘Is he very ill?’

  ‘No, he’s fine. He’s a hospital porter at the maternity home, but the corporation transferred him because they’re short of staff with the epidemic.’

  Diana nodded in understanding; she wished all of her employees showed this presence of mind; the man might not be infectious himself, but he could spread infection on his clothes and hands and shoes. ‘Does he have any symptoms?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘All right. Wait here and I’ll call the factory doctor.’ Diana ducked into the watchman’s cabin and made a call through the switchboard, then returned to Siobhan, gesturing to her that it was safe to talk up close. ‘He says you can come in so long as no one at home shows any symptoms, and you’re to get a medical thermometer from the chemist and check all your temperatures in the household – morning and night. So long as you all stay healthy you can come into the factory.’

  Siobhan breathed a sigh of relief, but there was no gladness with it. She needed to work because they needed the money, but this didn’t mean that she had the hours in the day necessary to work in.

  ‘Make sure to leave your overalls here to change into before your shift and I’ll give you a chit to present at the factory laundry so you can have them all cleaned here.’ Diana pulled out her notebook and pencil to make a memorandum. ‘You will be sure to show extra vigilance watching for signs of infection?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ Siobhan felt guilty for bringing this problem to her employers; she felt guilty for working when there was so much to be done at home, and she felt guilty that all her troubles at home were coming with her to work. She felt that she was somehow responsible for the inconvenience she was putting everyone to. Siobhan was still standing by the factory gate five minutes later, looking at the chit Diana gave her when a gaggle of her colleagues arrived, all having dismounted the same tram.

  ‘Oh, lord, Siobhan, what’s happened?’ Winnifred asked with concern. ‘You look shattered.’

  ‘Ach, it’s nothing,’ Siobhan picked up her heels and followed her colleagues as they walked towards the wide welcoming doors of the factory building, ‘just more on me plate. At least my kids aren’t at Stoney Royd school – I hear they’ve been closed down.’

  ‘Not completely.’ Winnifred gave a meaningful look at Doreen Fairclough. ‘They had three cases on Friday and they’ve sent home any kids who were at the school on the same day in case they caught it off them. But the school’s not closed …’

  Siobhan raised an eyebrow. ‘They’re keeping it open with no kids in? I bet the teachers are having a high old time.’

  ‘They’ve got two kids,’ Winnifred said. ‘They’ve got the two kids who were off last week because they’d got head lice and were being kept home while they had their hair soaked in coal tar soap.’

  Doreen Fairclough looked mortified. ‘I honestly keep them very clean! We go to the public baths twice weekly and I wash them at home twice daily. I keep a very clean house!’

  ‘You don’t have to tell us, we know you keep everything clean as a whistle. These things happen to the best of us.’ Siobhan looked sympathetic. ‘It sounds like you were lucky in the circumstances. If they’re all right and there’s no harm done, then just make the most of them being at school and be glad for it.’

  ‘But they’re only opening for my two. The whole school is being put out for my kids.’

  ‘That’s not your fault. They’re getting paid to teach them and your taxes are paying for it. You j
ust come to work and enjoy yourself.’

  ‘Have we lost anyone else from our shift?’ Pearl was conscious that she and Winnifred were the only women among their line with grown-up children. Chances were there’d be a lot of women stuck at home now that Stoney Royd was as good as closed.

  ‘We’ve lost three, but I think we can keep the line running.’

  It was at that moment that Beverly Keillor came running to meet them from within the factory. Breathless and urgent, she said, ‘Our line is suspended until further notice.’

  ‘What? They can’t do that! We’ve moved heaven and earth to come in!’

  ‘No, no, we’re still working, but the line is gone. We’re being sent out to prop up everywhere else. They’re sending home the minnows. Any of them with siblings of school age, whether they’re at Stoney Royd or not, are being sent home. We’re back in the factory proper – oh, I wish they’d make up their minds!’

  Chapter Thirty-One

  ‘This is Mr Baum, Mother.’ Mary had explained to Albert in advance that they would need to shout, but she was still cripplingly embarrassed by the whole situation. She knew that the neighbours would be able to hear every word at this volume. ‘He’s got something he wants to ask you.’

  Mary had done her best to make the parlour of their dark one-up one-down look as presentable as it ever could be, but it was an impossible task. There was no disguising that they were struggling to make ends meet in some of the worst slum conditions in Halifax.

  ‘We’re not buying anything!’ Mrs Norcliffe had taken an immediate dislike to Albert Baum, evidently assuming that he was a purveyor of encyclopaedias, or some such other corrupting influence.

  ‘He’s not a salesman, Mother!’ Mary filled her lungs, ready to holler at full volume, but Albert placed a gentle hand on her arm and gave her a reassuring smile.

  ‘You do not have to take the burden of communication on yourself alone, Maria. I am here now, I will explain to your mother; there is nothing for you to worry about.’