On her way home from work, Charlotte saw Robbie in a gang of youths, all with empty kerosene cans tied around their necks. They were following a group of women to the post office and yelling, “Scabbie. Dirty scab. Dirty scab,” as they banged on the cans. The women looked terrified, even though they were being escorted by policemen. These were women whose husbands had gone back to work, and Charlotte couldn’t help but feel sorry for them. Sometimes a man didn’t have much choice.
She called to Robbie, but he lifted his chin defiantly and said, “I gotta do somethin’ to help. Father would if he was still alive.”
Yes. He would do something to help, but not terrify innocent women and children. Charlotte sighed. She would have to have a serious talk with Robbie and try to make him understand.
The strike was spreading, and Jock was no longer living with the Trimbles. He was gaining a reputation as a fiery pro-union activist and was afraid the strikebreakers would do something terrible to the Trimbles’ house if he stayed.
The problem with Mr. Tweedsmuir was soon back. Ingrid didn’t come back to work after the first day, and Charlotte heard she had quit. Charlotte’s face was all better, so she looked like herself again. Mr. Tweedsmuir came over to say she had better go in on Sunday to resume her bookkeeping lessons. Charlotte said she couldn’t do that, but he said she better think long and hard about it.
So the old worries about losing her job returned, only worse. She tried to remember how she had been after the accident, with the feeling that everything was all right. All she knew for sure was that she wouldn’t go into the office ever again, and she would keep her job, even if she had to do something sneaky. She had heard her father say you had to fight fire with fire, so what kind of fire could she use on Mr. Tweedsmuir?
She wished she could ask Jock. He was very good at strategy, as the miners called it. But she didn’t see how she could ask him without mentioning certain things she wouldn’t dare talk about, even to her mother.
The conflict between the miners and the strikebreakers was escalating. The strikebreakers were living in boarding houses right in town now, and quite a few of the regulars were returning to work and moving back into their own homes. That meant trouble with a capital T.
The McEwans were lucky in a way; no miners lived in their house, so they were left in peace. But it was an uneasy peace. There was so much yelling, gunshots, and commotion that they could scarcely sleep at night. Gangs of strikers were out throwing stones at houses and putting up signs: GO HOME SCABBIE and DIRTY BLACKLEG. They called them Black Minorcas, too. Charlotte didn’t know why, but Jock told her it was the name of a kind of chicken.
Police were everywhere, and there were rumours that the army would be brought in. Charlotte wished she knew where Jock was staying. He hadn’t been around for quite a while, and she missed him. She felt better when she went off to work knowing he was looking out for her family. She just hoped and prayed neither Jock nor Robbie would get hurt. Or killed.
“Runty! I’m so glad to see you.” Charlotte rushed toward him where he was guarding the gate at the dynamite plant and shook his hand.
He grinned and doffed his cap. “Mornin, Charlotte. We had us a bad one, didn’t we? I can still hear your voice. All those hymns. You just kept on asingin’ and asingin’. ‘Onward Christian so-o-o-ol-jer-r-rs,’” he sang off-key, smiling.
Charlotte joined in. “’Marching as to war.’” She smiled back.
Runty stopped smiling and looked at her solemnly. “Charlotte,” he began, and then broke off. “Charlotte,” he tried again, turning and staring into the distance. “Mr. Sykes, he’s been tellin’ me a few things I don’t like the sound of.” His voice was so low that Charlotte could barely hear him. He looked down and scuffed the toe of his boot on the ground.
Charlotte put a hand on his arm. “What’s he been telling you, Runty?” Then she knew. “About Sybil?” she asked quietly.
Runty nodded. “So I just wanted to tell you, Charlotte. I’m around all the time. You get in any scrapes, you just yell for me, you hear?” He studied her anxiously.
“Thanks, Runty, I will. Has Mr. Sykes left altogether then? Are you the watchman now?”
“More or less. He comes in the evening for a hot cuppa tea and a chin wag in the bunkhouse. Kinda cheers me on, makes sure I’m on top of things.” He shook his head. “A real honourable fella, he is. Real honourable. Like you, Charlotte.” He blushed and turned away.
“You’re a real honourable fellow, too, Runty.” She swallowed the lump in her throat as she hurried along the boardwalk to work.
“Don’t forget what I told you,” he called after her.
So Mr. Sykes was worried enough about her to tell Runty, and Runty was worried enough about her to offer to be her bodyguard. She would have to face up to Mr. Tweedsmuir once and for all.
She didn’t have long to wait for an opportunity. Two days later, as she was the last to leave the washhouse, Mr. Tweedmuir called to her. “Missy! I’d like to have a word with you.” He was standing in front of the office with the door open behind him.
Charlotte stopped. “Yes, sir?”
“Come here,” he beckoned.
Charlotte hesitated. Should she go? As far as she knew, everyone else had left the plant. She hadn’t been expecting to face up to him with no one else in the whole place. She glanced anxiously toward the gate, hoping to see Runty on guard, but he wasn’t there.
Mr. Tweedsmuir walked slowly toward her. “I said I’d like to have a word with you.” He was smiling, but his voice sounded cold and tight.
“I’m sorry. I’ve got to go.” Charlotte turned and hurried toward the exit.
“You’re fired!”
The words hit like an explosion—almost as terrifying as the day the plant had blown up. They say dying people see their past lives flash before their eyes, but Charlotte saw her future: a life of drudgery and fear. Robbie would go down into the mines. Beatrice would marry a man who would go down into the mines. Danny would go down into the mines. Her mother would die of a broken heart when one, or the other, or all three of them were killed.
She stiffened, then turned and started to walk toward him, her head bowed. She had to buy some time. She must convince him that she would do his bidding some other day. And then what? Make a plan? Hadn’t she wracked her brain trying to think of something at least a thousand times during the past month?
“There’s a good girl,” Mr. Tweedsmuir said soothingly. “Just come into the office so we can have a little talk.”
Charlotte pulled back. “No, please. Couldn’t we talk some other day? Couldn’t I just keep working for now, and I’ll come in on a Sunday like you say and learn what it is you want to teach me?”
He put his arm around her waist. “Come on, love. Now’s as good a time as any.”
Charlotte shivered.
“Don’t be afraid. Just give us a little kiss. That won’t hurt you, will it?” He reached for her hand. “You can keep your job. In fact, better than that, I’ll make you my assistant. Assistant bookkeeper. How would you like that, eh? Double the salary. Half the work. How about it?”
Charlotte wanted to scream and run, but she knew she mustn’t panic. Keep calm, she told herself. Look for a way, any way, to put him off.
They were near the office door. “So was this how it was with Sybil?” she asked.
His face blanched, and he stopped moving, staring at her. “What are you talking about?”
“Sybil had to leave town, didn’t she? I wonder what Mrs. Tweedsmuir would say if she knew.”
His face was contorted. “Who do you think you are? Your word against mine? Come on, silly little girl, where’s you brain?” He looked over Charlotte’s shoulder and scowled. “What are you doing here?” he snarled.
“Just doing my job. Checking to see things are on the up-and-up.” It was Runty’s voice, and Charlotte thought she would faint with relief.
Runty was holding a chunk of steel pipe. For several seconds the only sound was that of Mr. Tweedsmuir’s breathing.
Finally Runty spoke. “I’ll kill you if need be,” he said, and held the steel weapon above his head. “Let her be.”
“You’re both fired!” Mr. Tweedsmuir roared. “Don’t you dare set foot on this property again!”
“Leave, Charlotte,” Runty said. “Go.”
Charlotte shuffled backward to stand behind Runty. “No. I’m not leaving you alone here. Not with him. He might have a gun.”
“We gotta knock him out then, don’t we?” Runty said matter -of-factly.
“I don’t have a gun,” Mr. Tweedsmuir whined. “Just go.”
“Naw. Sorry,” Runty said, shaking his head. “You’ll try somethin’ funny. Get over here where I can get a better swing at you.” He pointed. “Stand back, Charlotte.” He fingered the steel pipe.
Mr. Tweedsmuir moved to where Runty was pointing. “I don’t have a gun, honest to God. Just lock me in the office and take the key with you.”
“Where’s the key?”
“In my pocket.”
“Could do that,” Runty said. “Easier to knock you out and be done with it.” He seemed to be enjoying himself.
“Look, I promise you won’t be fired. You can both stay on. Just lock me in, please.”
“I’d rather trust a rattlesnake,” Runty said contemptously. “You’re a low-down rat, mister.”
“But I mean it. Honest to God!” Mr. Tweedsmuir clasped his hands and gazed into Runty’s face.
“Well... Charlotte, grab that jimmy bar,” Runty said without taking his eyes off Mr. Tweedsmuir.
She did as she was told.
“Stay behind me. And use it if you have to.” He moved a small step forward and said, “Now throw that key over.”
Mr. Tweedsmuir’s hand shook as he fished a key from his pant pocket and tossed it to Runty, who caught it with one hand.
“Let’s get outta here.” Runty slammed the office door and locked it. “You go ahead, Charlotte. I can’t run as fast as you.”
“No. We’re staying together.”
“Then follow me. We’ll go through the bush, just in case the guy gets outta there.”
But Mr. Tweedsmuir didn’t get “outta” there for over an hour. Runty was at Mr. Sykes’s house explaining why he couldn’t guard the plant that night. Mr. Sykes said not to worry. He would go down for a day or two until they saw which way the wind was blowing. “I’m not afraid of that man,” he said.
Charlotte’s arm was scratched and her breath came in little gasps.
“Why, Lottie, whatever is the matter? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost,” her mother said.
“Come upstairs, Mum. I need to tell you something private.”
She sat on the bed, and her mother joined her. “Lottie, whatever in the world is the matter?”
Charlotte clasped her cheeks in her hands and stared at the floor. “It’s Mr. Tweedsmuir. He tried to make me go into the office after everybody else had left,” she mumbled.
Mabel’s voice was sharp and angry. “He what? He tried to get you alone in the office with nobody else around?”
“Yes. Runty was there, but he didn’t know that.”
“And what happened?” Mabel demanded. “Did he touch you?”
“No. You see, Mr. Sykes sort of warned me, and he told Runty. Runty said he’d look out for me, and he did. He did, Mum.” Charlotte put her arms around her mother’s neck and started to cry.
Mabel held her and patted her back. “There, there, Charlotte. The man’s a dirty bounder, that’s what he is. He should be tarred and feathered.”
Charlotte reached for a handkerchief and blew her nose. “Mr. Sykes let it out that Sybil, who used to work there, had to leave town because she was in the family way.”
“Because of him?”
Charlotte nodded.
“What a disgraceful thing! How did you get away from him?”
“Runty came running up holding a piece of iron and said he would kill him if he didn’t leave me alone. Then he locked him in the office while we got away.”
“It’s a terrible thing,” her mother said angrily. “What a blessing that Mr. Sykes and Runty were watching out for you.”
“I know. I feel like Runty saved my life. And Mr. Sykes, too.”
Mabel stood and pulled Charlotte up. “Thank God for that. You did the right thing, Lottie. Don’t you ever blame yourself for what that nasty man tried to do. You need a cup of tea and something to eat.”
The next day was Saturday, and Charlotte didn’t go to work, but she was determined to have it out with Mr. Tweedsmuir. Her mother was just as determined that the only way she would even think of allowing such a thing was if she went along herself and threatened him. She wasn’t one to spread gossip, but she would spread this gossip far and wide and do her best to see that he was run out of town if she ever heard of him so much as laying a finger on Charlotte or any other young girl.
A neighbour woman came in to get Beatrice off to school and mind Danny on Monday morning, and Charlotte’s mother, wearing her best black skirt, a highnecked lace blouse, her tweed coat, and a black hat with a short veil, clenched her hands and clamped her mouth shut as they approached the plant. Mr. Sykes was guarding the gate, and Charlotte’s heart sank. Had something awful happened to Runty?
“Runty’s not here,” she said anxiously as she grabbed her mother’s arm and hurried her along. She ran the last two hundred yards. “Where’s Runty?” she gasped.
“Don’t worry yourself, lassie. He’s right as rain,” Mr. Sykes said.
“Oh, thank heaven,” Charlotte said with a deep sigh. Mr. Sykes grinned and patted the top of her head. “Tweedsmuir ain’t coming back,”
Charlotte stared, wide-eyed. “He’s not?”
Mr. Sykes winked. “Seems he got transferred. One of the owners got wind of what was going on. Runty’s keeping an eye on things until the new manager gets here.”
Charlotte put an arm around his shoulders. “Oh, Mr. Sykes, you’re just the best friend. I’m so happy.” She clapped her hands and did a little jig. “Runty stood up for me against Mr. Tweedsmuir, you know.”
Mr. Sykes nodded. “I know all about it.” He leaned closer. “But Runty said you was standin’ up for yourself pretty good, lassie. That’s what I like—a gal with spirit.”
In her agitation Charlotte had forgotten to introduce her mother and she did so now. “Mr. Sykes, I’d like you to meet my mother.” She took her mother’s elbow and pulled her forward.
Mr. Sykes doffed his cap. “How do. That’s a mighty fine girl you got there Miz McEwan.”
Mabel shook his hand firmly. “Indeed she is. I’m proud of her. I want to thank you for looking out for her. And Runty, too. Will you tell him?”
“Aye, to be sure I will.”
Mabel smiled and reached into the bag she was carrying. “I brought you and Runty a little something to have with your tea, just a wee appreciation for what you did for our Lottie.” She handed over a parcel.
“Why thankee. Thankee very much,” Mr. Sykes said. “She deserves lookin’ after, that one does.”
Charlotte walked partway up the hill with her mother. “I told you Mr. Sykes was nice, didn’t I, Mum?”
“Yes, he is very nice, Lottie”
“What was in the parcel?”
“Just a cherry cake.”
“A cherry cake? Oh, Mum, that’s the perfect thing for Runty and Mr. Sykes. Thank you.” Charlotte hugged her mother as she said goodbye. “It’s going to be ever so nice to work without worrying about Mr. Tweedsmuir coming in,” she called over her shoulder as she hurried back to the plant. She hummed as she pulled on her work boots and went into the packing and rolling house.