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Authors: Frances Brody
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said almost cheerfully, ‘Do you think he’s run off to meet someone who’s well provided and pleasant?’
‘I don’t know. What do you think?’
‘If he has, she’ll send him back by the first post. But I wouldn’t set any great store by a newspaper cutting where Ethan’s concerned. There’s nowt that doesn’t take his fancy.’ She handed the cutting back to me. ‘He cuts out the most peculiar items.’ She said this as though speaking of an exotic animal brought from its far-flung country and missing its diet of wart-headed slugs. ‘Look among his books if you don’t believe me. Over here.’
By the side of the range, between the drawers and the cupboard was a space about nine inches high and eighteen inches deep. It was filled with books, shorter volumes upright, taller ones lying flat. There were volumes by Karl Marx, Friedrich Engels, William Morris, Bunyan, H G Wells and the English poets.
‘Pick up any one of them books and some cutting will fall out,’ Mary Jane said. ‘And there’s an orange box under the table, with more books. He’s a one-man lending library.’
A child’s scrapbook, lying on top of the books, was pasted with a dizzying range of snippets, and more loose cuttings, ready to be glued, covering topics such as birth control, over-population, Sitting Bull, under-population, Wild Bill Hickok, militarism, and South African gold mines.
‘A man with many interests.’ For the first time, I felt a real desire to meet this brother-in-law of mine, and asense of foreboding, the feeling that I never would.
Mary Jane went to the far side of the room and raised the lid on a blanket chest. ‘Look in here if you’ve a mind. This is all his trade union stuff and his politics.’ She lifted out folders and envelopes. ‘There’s all sorts here – minutes of meetings, letters, resolutions, and who knows what. He’s long stopped trying to interest me in it.’
I glanced at the material headed
Quarry Workers’ Union
. An envelope, filled with loose papers, included cuttings from the
Daily Herald
, one of which was a letter written by Ethan concerning the poor health of quarry workers and their dangerous conditions of work.
‘Did Ethan ever think of changing his line of work? Becoming something other than a mason?’
She smiled. ‘A politician, you mean, or a full-time union man?’
‘He seems to like paperwork.’
She laughed and the anxiety fled as her face lit up. ‘That’s just what I said to him. But he wasn’t always so entirely caught up with motions and resolutions. He’s never happier than when he’s helping out on the Conroys’ farm, on a Saturday afternoon or a Sunday, out in the fresh air. He used to want Austin to be a mason, but he seems to have changed his mind about that lately. He goes on something chronic about book learning. It hasn’t struck him yet that the book learner will be Harriet.’
As I skimmed items from the chest, it struck me as likely that there would be a police file on Ethan Armstrong and his activities. Not that my father mentioned that aspect of the constabulary’s work, but I was aware of it. Men considered radicals and potential revolutionaries had drawn a certain amount of official attention as early as 1911, and earlier still for all I knew.
I returned the manila folders and envelopes to the chest, and put the well provided woman cutting in my purse.
I glanced around the room. ‘Has Ethan taken anything? Something that you may not have noticed at the time? A bag or clothes or papers? Does he have a bank book?’
‘He went out in what he stood up in on Saturday morning.’
‘We saw Raymond in the quarry. He said that Ethan’s tools are gone. Doesn’t that mean something?’
‘It might mean someone’s pinched them.’
‘
Could
Ethan have gone off somewhere to find work?’
‘Why would he do that on a Saturday, without breathing a word? It doesn’t make sense. The only money, apart from my housekeeping, belongs to the
‘I don’t know. What do you think?’
‘If he has, she’ll send him back by the first post. But I wouldn’t set any great store by a newspaper cutting where Ethan’s concerned. There’s nowt that doesn’t take his fancy.’ She handed the cutting back to me. ‘He cuts out the most peculiar items.’ She said this as though speaking of an exotic animal brought from its far-flung country and missing its diet of wart-headed slugs. ‘Look among his books if you don’t believe me. Over here.’
By the side of the range, between the drawers and the cupboard was a space about nine inches high and eighteen inches deep. It was filled with books, shorter volumes upright, taller ones lying flat. There were volumes by Karl Marx, Friedrich Engels, William Morris, Bunyan, H G Wells and the English poets.
‘Pick up any one of them books and some cutting will fall out,’ Mary Jane said. ‘And there’s an orange box under the table, with more books. He’s a one-man lending library.’
A child’s scrapbook, lying on top of the books, was pasted with a dizzying range of snippets, and more loose cuttings, ready to be glued, covering topics such as birth control, over-population, Sitting Bull, under-population, Wild Bill Hickok, militarism, and South African gold mines.
‘A man with many interests.’ For the first time, I felt a real desire to meet this brother-in-law of mine, and asense of foreboding, the feeling that I never would.
Mary Jane went to the far side of the room and raised the lid on a blanket chest. ‘Look in here if you’ve a mind. This is all his trade union stuff and his politics.’ She lifted out folders and envelopes. ‘There’s all sorts here – minutes of meetings, letters, resolutions, and who knows what. He’s long stopped trying to interest me in it.’
I glanced at the material headed
Quarry Workers’ Union
. An envelope, filled with loose papers, included cuttings from the
Daily Herald
, one of which was a letter written by Ethan concerning the poor health of quarry workers and their dangerous conditions of work.
‘Did Ethan ever think of changing his line of work? Becoming something other than a mason?’
She smiled. ‘A politician, you mean, or a full-time union man?’
‘He seems to like paperwork.’
She laughed and the anxiety fled as her face lit up. ‘That’s just what I said to him. But he wasn’t always so entirely caught up with motions and resolutions. He’s never happier than when he’s helping out on the Conroys’ farm, on a Saturday afternoon or a Sunday, out in the fresh air. He used to want Austin to be a mason, but he seems to have changed his mind about that lately. He goes on something chronic about book learning. It hasn’t struck him yet that the book learner will be Harriet.’
As I skimmed items from the chest, it struck me as likely that there would be a police file on Ethan Armstrong and his activities. Not that my father mentioned that aspect of the constabulary’s work, but I was aware of it. Men considered radicals and potential revolutionaries had drawn a certain amount of official attention as early as 1911, and earlier still for all I knew.
I returned the manila folders and envelopes to the chest, and put the well provided woman cutting in my purse.
I glanced around the room. ‘Has Ethan taken anything? Something that you may not have noticed at the time? A bag or clothes or papers? Does he have a bank book?’
‘He went out in what he stood up in on Saturday morning.’
‘We saw Raymond in the quarry. He said that Ethan’s tools are gone. Doesn’t that mean something?’
‘It might mean someone’s pinched them.’
‘
Could
Ethan have gone off somewhere to find work?’
‘Why would he do that on a Saturday, without breathing a word? It doesn’t make sense. The only money, apart from my housekeeping, belongs to the
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