The Journal of Dora Damage(8)

Still I did not understand. ‘Jack . . . Sven . . . can’t we . . . ?’

Peter batted off their names like flies. ‘Don’t be absurd. You may think, in your ignorance, that all one needs to bind books is a forwarder, a finisher and someone to sew and fold, but, quite frankly, it would be nothing short of preposterous to leave Damage’s in the hands of an apprentice, a journeyman, and a – a – a – a woman!’

One thing that could always be said in Peter’s favour was that he wore an apron alongside his mechanics.

He lifted himself out of his chair with a grimace, and started slowly to pace the floor. ‘They cannot, Dora,’ he finally admitted, his voice low. ‘We tried today – we have been trying for weeks, in the afternoons, when you are gone – but they have not the skill. Jack has the strength for forwarding, but he is young and green. Sven is almost as fine a finisher as myself, but . . . well, Sven . . . he . . .’

The room felt chilly, and I noticed that the fire was low again. I wondered if Peter would find it rude if I tended to it while he was talking.

‘Besides . . .’ After a pause, he started speaking again, and his voice was even quieter, ‘. . . he is leaving us. Sven has seen the writing on the wall. He is too good for me now. He is off to Zaehnsdorf’s, for twenty-five shillings a week. I offered him eighteen, and he spat on the floor. Damn that German. He spat on my floor!’

He sucked on his pipe and realised with distaste that it had gone out, so he manoeuvred himself painfully towards the hearth to rescue the spent lucifer from the stone. The fat, round ends of his fingers could scarcely grasp the slender piece of wood; his finger-nails, which might have given him some purchase, were buried deep in his flesh. I crouched down next to him and picked up the lucifer, placed it in the embers, then waited for it to ignite. We transferred it arduously from my fingers to his; I at least had to give him the dignity of lighting his own pipe.

Once it was lit, he could not stand up again. He could not lean on his hands to push himself up, or grasp anything to help him. I stood behind him for several moments, looking at his dishevelled head bobbing up and down, and listening to the puffs and groans. Suddenly my hands decided for me what to do, and did something my head would never have allowed. They slid into his armpits, and dragged him, with one sharp heave, to his feet.

I could not tell who was more surprised; the touch was a shock to us both, but Peter looked more startled by my strength. Perhaps he had never noticed how much I had to carry our long-limbed daughter around, or even that she was no longer a baby. It was as if he did not know that muscles could be made strong through the labours of housework or factory work, muscles that could rise up and crush the languid, unmuscled rulers of their sex. Did they not have to work an eighteen-hour day and more, and tumble into bed at the end of it, too tired even to dream?

‘What is to be done?’ I ventured, softly, as if I could compensate for the hardness of my body and regain some semblance of femininity.

‘What is there to do?’ he railed back at me, still reeling from my touch.

Hire another journeyman, I wanted to say, angry at his anger. Is not this the obvious answer? But of course I stayed silent, and returned to the dying fire to draw up some heat into the room, embarrassed at what my hands had just done.

When he next spoke, his voice was solemn. ‘We have not many books left to go into leather. We are not getting many more in. The booksellers are losing faith in Damage’s Bookbinders. Herzina’s won’t buy from us. Chancellors have given up on us. Barker & Bobbs likewise won’t touch us. Diprose is our only new lead, Charles Diprose. He has a fine line in medical textbooks, anatomies and so forth. There’s no point my going to see him now, but I’ve heard he supports the union  s.’

After a pause I said quietly, ‘We could move.’

To any sensible person it would not have seemed too outrageous an idea. North towards the river or south towards the factories, it would have been less salubrious, but the drop in our rent would have been substantial. But so too, of course, would have been the drop in our status. Were we to move below the ten-pounds-a-year property threshold, he would lose his right to vote. We were currently paying twenty-five; a reduction of just five or eight pounds would help significantly.

‘Preposterous,’ was what he hissed back at me. ‘Quite preposterous. Must I really trouble myself with instructing you, again, of the evils – the injury to our character and standing – which would be occasioned by such a descent? I beseech you to think beyond the capabilities of your sex and experience, and recognise what would be involved with the loss of our home and our station. It would be failure; it would be unseemly, un – un – un-manly. No, we have a good name, and we must preserve it at all costs!’