A Place Called Freedom - Ken Follett [88]
“But why have you come to me, Sir Philip?”
“Because I understand you were influential in starting the shippers’ boycott which provoked the coal heavers.”
“It’s true.”
“May I ask why?”
Sir George looked at Jay, who swallowed nervously and said: “I was approached by the undertakers who organized the coal heaving gangs. My father and I did not want the established order on the waterfront to be disturbed.”
“Quite right, I’m sure,” Armstrong said, and Jay thought: Get to the point. “Do you know who the ringleaders are?”
“I certainly do,” Jay said. “The most important is a man called Malachi McAsh, known as Mack. As it happens, he used to be a coal hewer in my father’s mines.”
“I’d like to see McAsh arrested and charged with a capital offense under the Riot Act. But it would have to be plausible: no trumped-up charges or bribed witnesses. There would have to be a real riot, unmistakably led by striking workmen, with firearms used against officers of the Crown, and numerous people killed and injured.”
Jay was confused. Was Armstrong telling the Jamissons to organize such a riot?
His father showed no sign of puzzlement. “You make yourself very clear, Sir Philip.” He looked at Jay. “Do you know where McAsh can be found?”
“No,” he said. Then, seeing the expression of scorn on his father’s face, he added hastily: “But I’m sure I can find out.”
At daybreak Mack woke Cora and made love to her. She had come to bed in the small hours, smelling of tobacco smoke, and he had kissed her and gone back to sleep. Now he was wide awake and she was the sleepy one. Her body was warm and relaxed, her skin soft, her red hair tangled. She wrapped her arms around him loosely and moaned quietly, and at the end she gave a small cry of delight. Then she went back to sleep.
He watched her for a while. Her face was perfect, small and pink and regular. But her way of life troubled him more and more. It seemed hard-hearted to use a child as her accomplice. If he talked to her about it, she got angry and told him that he was guilty too, for he was living here rent free and eating the food she bought with her ill-gotten gains.
He sighed and got up.
Cora’s home was the upstairs floor of a tumbledown building in a coal yard. The yard owner had once lived here, but when he prospered he had moved. Now he used the ground floor as an office and rented the upper floor to Cora.
There were two rooms, a big bed in one and a table and chairs in the other. The bedroom was full of what Cora spent all her money on: clothes. Both Esther and Annie had owned two dresses, one for work and one for Sundays, but Cora had eight or ten different outfits, all in striking colors: yellow, red, bright green and rich brown. She had shoes to match each one, and as many stockings and gloves and handkerchiefs as a fine lady.
He washed his face, dressed quickly and left. A few minutes later he was at Dermot’s house. The family were eating their breakfast porridge. Mack smiled at the children. Every time he used Cora’s “cundum” he wondered if he would have children of his own someday. At times he thought he would like Cora to have his baby; then he remembered how she lived and changed his mind.
Mack refused a bowl of porridge, for he knew they could not spare it Dermot, like Mack, was living off a woman: his wife washed pots in a coffeehouse in the evenings while he took care of the children.
“You’ve got a letter,” Dermot said, and handed Mack a sealed note.
Mack recognized the handwriting. It was almost identical with his own. The letter was from Esther. He felt a stab of guilt. He was supposed to be saving money for her, but he was on strike and penniless.
“Where’s it to be today?” Dermot said. Every day Mack met his lieutenants at a different location.
“The back bar of the Queen’s Head tavern,” Mack replied.
“I’ll spread the word.” Dermot put his hat on and went out.
Mack opened his letter and began to read.
It was fìlli of news. Annie was pregnant, and if the child turned out to be a boy