‘That’s right. I won’t let them.’
‘But what if a spider comes into my room, and wants to get into my bed?’
‘You must tell it to shoo.’
‘But what if the spider’s mother had told him to tell me to shoo?’
‘Then you must call me, and I will come and lie down with you, and then the spider will see that I’m bigger than its mother. Now, good night. And sleep well.’
‘Good night.’
And as I left her bedroom I thanked the Lord as always that we had lived another whole day together, even if He does let bad things happen.
The clock on the mantel chimed seven as I descended, and I quickly scanned the parlour, which looked very dark tonight. The walls were papered with brown sprigs of flowers; the blue of the round tablecloth on the table was the only source of colour. Four ladder-backed chairs were neatly tucked in to the table, and a Windsor chair and an armchair with fatigued upholstery were turned towards the fire, on top of a faded floral rug. On the wall above the fire was an old print of The Annunciation, and below it on the mantel was a black marble clock, with a jar of spills on one side and a box of lucifers on the other. I heard Peter dismiss Jack and Sven through the curtain, so I checked that Peter’s slippers were warm by the fire, and his pipe padded with fresh tobacco. I knew that Jack was helping him on with his overcoat, and I could hear the keys outside in the street as Peter locked the external workshop door.
Peter was just now standing and waving Jack and Sven off up Ivy-street, before turning to walk the few steps along the pavement to his own front door. He could, of course, have simply locked the workshop from the inside once his workers had departed, then entered the house through the curtain. He would have stayed warm and dry like that, but then, the good folk of Ivy-street would not have got their twice-daily glimpse of Mr Damage.
On cue, the front door to the house opened, and I was behind it. I relieved him of his coat, then crouched down to change his boots for slippers. I hung his coat and placed his boots by the fire, then pulled his chair out for him at the table and served him his tea without a word. He took off his round spectacles, and ate quickly and without pleasure. Between mouthfuls he lectured me about the arguments being bandied around at the Society for the Representation of Bookbinders of South London.
‘They laid off twelve men – twelve men – today at Remy’s, including Frank and Bates. They’ve taken on twenty women – or girls, I should say – since Christmas, and they’re all staying. It’s an outrage, an utter disgrace. And there’s Frank with six children to support, and Annie dead of child-bed fever, the Lord bless her, and Bates on his knees, and on the street now, no doubt, with the rest of his family. Twelve men – twelve men! – with wives and Lord knows how many hungry mouths to feed.’
He waved his fork at me; a strand of egg twirled around it, splattering yolk in a circle.
‘Why women? That’s what I ask. They’re not strong enough; nay, they are not straight enough. Bookbinding requires a linear mind, a firm hand, a sense of direction and rectitude. They cannot apply themselves to one task. They are used to the circular process of housework; an occupation to which there is no end.’ For all his curves, Peter thought in straight lines. ‘To finish a job is too great a burden for them. Granted, give them the lower-quality work, granted, give them magazines, if we must, and let them headband, let them mend paper, let them sew, let them fold, and let them even hammer sometimes, but let that be the end of it.’
And then he took another mouthful, and recommenced his talking straight after, all potato and spittle.
‘Where’s the security? Women are meantimers! “I’ll get married soon but I’ll work in the meantime.” If that’s not selfish, I don’t know what is. And then to work beyond that, with a husband bringing in another wage! And then, even when they have a family! And what do they have? Children neglected by their mother, while the upright man with a dutiful wife and mother to several children struggles to feed them all on his solitary income!’
He swallowed hastily, and followed it down with a glass of water. Then he took another mouthful, but water seeped out at the corners of his lips, so he turned his head to one side, lifted his right shoulder and wiped his mouth across his shirt so he wouldn’t have to let go of his knife and fork, and continued talking.
‘Their standards are lower. They will sell shoddier work, for less. And their expectations are lower. They charge tuppence an hour! I need a shilling! And I would not give away the work which they sell for tuppence! It is inferior; it is not worth any amount!’