‘Yes, sir, we know.’
He looked at the others. ‘I’m relying on you all. Just show some compassion, especially at first.’
Kit did not know the wordcompassionbut he guessed it meant something like pity.
Cecil said: ‘Don’t worry, Mr Roger.’
‘Good man. Thank you.’ Roger went out.
They all sat down again.
Roger was a wonderful person, Kit decided.
When they had finished eating, Mrs Jackson made tea, and Kit was given a cup, with plenty of milk and a lump of sugar, and that, too, was wonderful.
Finally Platts stood up and said: ‘Thank you, Mrs Jackson.’
The other two echoed him. ‘Thank you, Mrs Jackson.’
Kit guessed he was supposed to do the same, so he said it too.
‘Good lad,’ said Cecil. ‘Now I’d better show you how to polish a pair of boots.’
5
AMOSBARROWFIELD WAS WORKINGin a cold warehouse at the back of his family’s home near Kingsbridge Cathedral. It was late in the afternoon and he was getting ready for an early start in the morning, preparing the loads for the packhorses which were being fed in the adjacent stable.
He was hurrying, because he hoped to meet a girl later.
He tied the sacks in bundles that could be quickly loaded onto ponies tomorrow in the chilly dawn, then realized he did not have enough yarn. This was a nuisance. His father should have bought some at the Kingsbridge Wool Exchange on the High Street.
Resenting the delay to his plans for the evening, he left the barn and crossed the yard, smelling snow in the air, and entered the house. It was a grand old residence in poor repair: there were roof tiles missing and a bucket on the upstairs landing to catch the water from the leak. Made of brick, it had a basement kitchen, two main storeys and an attic floor. The Barrowfields were a family of only three, but nearly all the ground floor was taken up by business space and several servants slept on the premises too.
Amos walked quickly through the hall with its black-and-white marble floor and went into the front office, which had its own door to the street. A big central table bore bolts of some of the cloths the Barrowfields sold: soft flannel, tight-woven gabardine, broadcloth for topcoats, kersey for sailors. Obadiah had an impressive knowledge of traditional types of wool and styles of weave, but he would notbranch out. Amos thought there was profit to be made in small runs of luxury fabrics, angora and merino and silk blends, but his father preferred to stick to what he knew.
Obadiah was sitting at a desk, reading a heavy ledger, with a candle lamp beside him. They were opposites in looks, Amos knew: his father was short and bald, he was tall with thick wavy hair. Obadiah had a round face and a pug nose; Amos had a long face with a big chin. Both were dressed in costly fabrics, advertising the goods they sold, but Amos was neat and buttoned up, whereas Obadiah’s neckcloth was loose, his waistcoat undone, his stockings wrinkled.
‘There’s no yarn,’ Amos said without preamble. ‘As you must know.’
Obadiah looked up, seeming irritated at being disturbed. Amos braced himself for an argument: his father had become tetchy in the last year or so. ‘I can’t help that,’ Obadiah said. ‘I haven’t been able to buy any at a reasonable cost. At the last auction a clothier from Yorkshire bought it all at a ridiculously high price.’
‘What do you want me to tell the weavers?’
Obadiah sighed, like someone being pestered, and said: ‘Tell them to take a week’s rest.’
‘And let their children go hungry?’
‘I’m not in business to feed other people’s children.’
This was the biggest difference between father and son. Amos believed he had a responsibility to the people who depended on him for their living. Obadiah did not. But Amos did not want to get into that argument again, so he changed his line. ‘If they can get work from someone else, they’ll take it.’
‘So be it.’
It was more than just tetchiness, Amos thought. It was almost as if his father no longer cared about the business. What was wrong with him? ‘They may not come back to us,’ Amos said. ‘We’ll be short of material to sell.’
Obadiah raised his voice. In a tone of angry exasperation he said: ‘What do you expect me to do?’
‘I don’t know. You’re the master, as you never cease to tell me.’
