Mrs Cook the drapery assistant came in to help in the shop on three days a week. She worked from ten o’clock until four, whereas Annie was on call all the day, as was Mr Sampson, from Monday to Saturday, nine o’clock in the morning until eight in the evening, and they took refreshment or rest whenever they could.
Polly also looked after Henry all day, feeding him and playing with him, which Annie preferred, rather than sending him out to a childminder. There were many respectable women who took on the task of looking after other people’s children, but Annie had a picture in her mind of some of the women she had met in Hull who had that same occupation and who dosed the children in their care with laudanum to keep them quiet, just as soon as their mothers had disappeared over the doorstep.
Annie had tried to teach Polly her numbers so that she could in turn teach Henry to count his bricks and beads, but the girl had no aptitude for it, so today while Mrs Cook was dusting shelves and there were no clients in the shop, Annie brought Henry down and sat him on the counter with his bricks and counted them out for him. She built a pyramid of red bricks and another of blue to teach him the colours and the child looked up at the shelves of cloth and pointed.
‘Well I never,’ Mr Sampson looked up from his tall desk in the corner. ‘What a bright child. He’s matching up the colours.’
‘He knows his colours already,’ Annie smiled indulgently, ‘and he can count up to ten.’ Her face saddened. Lizzie and Ted and Jimmy had never learnt to read or write, there had been no one to teach them, she thought. Alan could read a little but he never taught the bairns. This child will be different, she decided defiantly. He’ll have a better chance than they did.
‘He should go to school – when he’s old enough, I mean. There are excellent schools in York. We should put his name down.’
Annie laughed at the old man’s earnestness. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever have enough money for him to go to school,’ she said. ‘Though I don’t mean to grumble, sir,’ she added. ‘The wages you give me are fair.’ More than fair she thought, for where else would I get a room and coals included. She bought food for herself and Henry, and clothes were made by a dressmaker from the remnant ends of material which she bought cheap from the shop. And Mr Sampson paid for Polly’s pittance, giving the excuse that she was available for errands if he needed her.
She never had any money left over, but she didn’t mind; she felt secure in her occupation and comfortable in her room over the shop premises, and when the fire was lit and the shutters closed, a warm fragrance exuded from the old oak panels, and she felt almost happy; except at night when she was alone with her young son sleeping in his cot, and the darkness pressing heavily on her, and then she would think of Matt and imagine that this small room was his ship’s cabin and he was lying next to her with his arms around her, his warm breath on her face, the beating of his heart in unison with hers.
So real was her illusion that sometimes she would awake and reach out for him, and on finding him gone would be filled with desolation once more.
Mr Sampson was speaking to her. ‘I said, he’ll make a draper one day!’
‘Such dreams,’ she answered jokingly. ‘Perhaps we’ll make him an apprentice! We’ll dress him up in frock-coat and waistcoat.’ She picked up a piece of embroidered satin and held it against Henry’s chest. ‘And of course he must have silk stockings, just like those that Mr Ralph wears!’
Aaron Sampson put his chin in his hand and nodded thoughtfully. ‘He is already three, isn’t he?’
Annie nodded and lifted Henry down from the counter. ‘Yes, childhood almost gone, six more years and I must think of what he must do for a living.’
‘Too young.’ Mr Sampson declared. ‘Too young by far.’
Mrs Cook joined in the conversation. ‘My nephew went to work for a baker when he was nine, but the hours were too long for such a young child, he was always falling asleep and burning himself on the ovens. Now he works in the market running errands, but the wage is paltry; his poor mother is desperate for money and can’t wait for the time when the next one is old enough to go to work.’
The doorbell jangled and they became busy and Polly took Henry upstairs out of the way. Annie got out a pair of tall steps to reach to the top shelf for a length of red satin, the customer in the shop had seen the same material in the window and wanted to handle it, and Annie made a mental note to keep the stock from the window in a more accessible place.
Mr Sampson insisted on climbing up the steps and reached awkwardly to pull the material from the shelf. He grimaced as he reached and Annie watched anxiously in case he should drop it.
‘Are you all right, Mr Sampson?’ she whispered. ‘Did you jar yourself?’
‘No, no. I’m perfectly well. Just a bit of a stitch, that’s all.’
During a lull in the day he went into his back room and there Annie found him stretched out in a chair with his eyes closed. ‘Mr Sampson, are you not well? Can I get you something?’
‘I’m a little tired, Annie, and I get a pain down my arm when I stretch for the shelves, but it’s nothing much.’
‘I’ll get you a drop of brandy,’ she said and hurried upstairs. She’d brought a half anker of brandy with her three years ago and had used it only sparingly, now there was very little left, but without hesitation she poured a generous measure into a glass for Mr Sampson, and ran back downstairs with it.
Mrs Cook was putting on her shawl to leave and Annie asked her to wait for just another five minutes in case anyone came in, and hurried through to her employer. It often crossed her mind that if ever anything happened to Aaron Sampson, or if he should decide to retire, she would have to look for other employment, for she wouldn’t want to work for Mr Mortimer or his mother. But, she mused, I have experience, I’m known in the city. I could get other employment if I had references.
She thought of this now as Aaron sipped the brandy. She really ought to ask him, though not just yet. It would perhaps seem rather unfeeling, particularly as he was now unwell. But don’t be soft, Annie, tha has to think of tha self.
She didn’t often lecture herself these days, life had fallen into a steady pattern, but occasionally if a small worry bothered her, then her thoughts would lapse into her native cant.
Aaron sat up and took a deep breath. ‘Tell Mrs Cook she can go, it’s past her time. I’m feeling fine now, Annie, don’t worry.’
Annie did as she was bid and when Mrs Cook had left she busied herself writing out the amounts the clients had spent, and entering them into the large ledger so that the accounts could be sent out at the end of the month. She noticed that some of the accounts had been outstanding for six months or more, some of them belonging to ladies of esteem and she wondered what was done to encourage the client to clear the account.
Mr Sampson came through into the shop, his round face a little pale. ‘Thank you, Annie, I was just going to finish those.’
‘Some of these clients owe you a lot of money,’ Annie said. ‘And yet they still come in buying more goods.’
‘I know.’ He shook his head. ‘I keep sending the accounts to their husbands, but they’re very slow to pay.’
‘And soon they’ll be ordering material for their ballgowns for the autumn season, how can you possibly give them credit for so long?’
‘If I don’t give them credit I lose their custom, and if I insist on them settling their bill, I lose their custom also. They’d go elsewhere, there’s no shortage of drapers in the city.’
Annie called Polly downstairs to mop the floor and she went up to her room to sit down and talk to Henry, but the little boy was engrossed in a game of soldiers and didn’t need her attention and so she sat, quietly watching and reflecting. Presently she got up and satisfying herself that the child was still occupied she went downstairs again.
‘Mr Sampson – Aaron,’ She was in the habit, at his request, of using his first name when there were no clients around, ‘I’ve been thinking.’ Polly was still there, idly swishing the mop around the floor and gazing out of the window and she motioned her to go back upstairs to Henry. ‘About these overdue accounts.’
Aaron sighed. ‘It’s not as if these people can’t afford to pay,’ he said. ‘It’s just that they don’t want to.’
‘That’s just what I thought. Most of these ladies are married to rich merchants, the tradesmen’s wives always pay on time because you trade with them and pay them promptly. But these wealthy customers have no incentive to pay – they know that you won’t press them for fear of losing their custom.’
‘That’s true,’ he nodded. ‘But think of the stock I could buy if they settled.’
‘Quite right,’ Annie grew quite animated. ‘So this is what I suggest. Offer them an incentive. Offer them a discount, quite a large one, say, ten per cent, if they will settle their existing account within a month; and on any future business, a smaller discount, maybe two-and-a-half per cent if they pay on a monthly basis.’
‘It sounds a good idea,’ he said slowly, ‘but won’t they then delay the paynent of future business so that they get the larger discount.’
‘No,’ she answered briskly. ‘Say that this is a special once only arrangement, designed in order to release money for a new consignment of stock which you are expecting for the autumn.’
She felt exhilarated as she watched her employer’s face become wreathed in smiles. She loved bargaining, it was part of her character, born of necessity so many years ago. Yet she was amazed at herself, at how quickly she had learned to add and subtract, better in her head than on paper, and, although she often spelled a word wrongly when she was writing, she could read as well as most.
‘Annie, you’re a wonder. How ever did I manage without you?’
‘Perfectly well. I’m the one to be grateful,’ she smiled back at him, feeling a tearful lump in her throat. ‘But you’re too nice a man to be in trade – people take advantage of your good nature. I’ve always had to fend for myself, to be one step ahead.’
‘Yes, you’re like my wife used to be. Nobody got past her. She was as sharp as a blade.’ He took Annie’s hand and patted it. ‘I’m grateful, Annie. We’ll work something out together in the morning, and then get the printer to set it up.’
He said then that he was tired and would go home if Annie could manage the last two hours alone. ‘Shut up shop early if you want, we’ve had a good day.’ He put on a caped greatcoat and picked up his cane, but before walking off to his lodgings he stood for a moment looking at the display in the window, and then lifted his head to look at Annie as she stood behind the counter. As she smiled a goodbye he touched his hat with his cane and gave her a small formal bow and walked briskly away.
She always took a walk in the evening after the shop was closed, no matter what the weather. The air was warm and sultry tonight as she took Henry’s hand and made her way towards the river. Henry hadn’t wanted to come, being busy still with his soldiers, but she insisted, it was the only time she felt that she had the child to herself without the company of others. She liked to show him the ships that were on the river, and tell him what they were carrying and where they had probably come from or were going.
York was a pleasant and beautiful city, she had decided that on first arriving. It had a magnificent cathedral, noble churches, elegant houses and pleasant gardens and many ancient crumbling monuments. Mr Sampson had told her that it was once a Roman colony and the seat of Roman emperors.
There were good families living here and much lavish entertainment for them, with theatres and grand balls, and music in the Assembly Rooms, while for the ordinary citizen there were travelling entertainers, tumblers and tightrope walkers, wild animals which had been taught to do tricks, and, of course, the inevitable cockfights, set on a raised circular stage which were held in various parts of the city and advertised on posters displayed on the city walls.
Annie always averted her eyes if by chance she should pass a building when a fight was in progress, for she never could abide the thought of the two creatures locked in battle, their silver spurs flashing as they fought to the death, neither did she like the shouts of the crowd as they watched the bloody spectacle.
She did like to stand and watch the specatacle of the gentry arriving at the Assembly Rooms for a concert. They came in their carriages and sedan chairs, in elegant gowns and flowing capes, and she watched eagerly to see if any of the fashionable ladies were wearing silks and satins from Mr Sampson’s drapery. She gazed, her eyes misty as they entered the portals and saw through the window the flickering candles of the candelabras, and thought of the magical time when she too had worn a a ballgown and listened to the strains of music with the man she loved at her side.
Her reason for coming to York had been a simple one. It was the only town accessible enough from Hessle of which she had any knowledge. Once she had lied to Toby that it was her home town and he had questioned her familiarity of the strange sounding streets. Now she had traversed the lanes and alleys, the snickets and ginnels of which he had spoken: Hornpot Lane, Whip-Ma-Whop-Ma Gate, Jubbergate, Lady Row. She knew Micklegate which was the old road to London, with its mixture of merchants’ houses and shops; she watched the builders working on its timber-framed buildings which were being rebuilt and refaced in the modern style and the earth floors being replaced with stone flags.
But, above all, her decision to take the long arduous track across the Wolds towards the city of York, was because she didn’t want to cross the Humber. She was afraid of taking the ferry into Lincolnshire, the ancient line of communication towards the south of England. A great fear had shaken her to the core as she’d hesitated on the river bank when she had finally left the cottage, for she felt that once she had paid the ferryman and traversed the waters, then she could never return.
So she had turned her back, comforted by the fact that she was still on the Humber’s northern shores. Now she was secure in the knowledge that in this city of white stone and hidden courtyards and gabled roofs, which, though welcoming her, she could never call her own, there ran two rivers, the Ouse and the Foss, which linked with the Humber in their run to the sea.
‘Tell me again about my father,’ Henry tugged at her hand. She lifted him up and sat him on a bollard by the Ouse.
‘He sails in a ship, bigger than any of those.’ She pointed down at the yawls and ketches and single-masted cutters lying in the water.
‘And is he still very brave, like you said?’ The child looked up at her eagerly.
‘Oh yes, very brave and strong and very handsome.’
‘And when will he come to see us?’
It was a question Henry always asked, ever since she had told him about Matt, when he had asked was Mr Sampson his father.
‘He’ll come when he can. He may be fighting the enemy.’
She wondered about Matt all the time. Was he alive or dead? Was he captured and languishing in gaol or still trying the patience of the customs men?
‘James has a father and a grandfayther, they all live together and he sees them all the time.’
James was the son of a baker, and Henry sometimes played with him when he was out walking with Polly.
‘Then James is very lucky,’ she said, lifting him down to continue with their walk before bedtime.
‘Why haven’t I got a grandfayther?’ He started to whine. ‘Is Uncle Sampson my grandfayther?’
‘No,’ she gently admonished. ‘I told you, Uncle Sampson is a very dear friend, but not your grandfather.’
She started to laugh. ‘But you do have a grandfather, Henry. He lives a long way from here. Your grandfather, my little peazan, is a Squire!’