Page 219 of The Armor of Light

‘Splendid. We stand ready to supply you.’ Wally was nervous because he did not know what was coming. He said: ‘You and I have done a lot of business over the years, and I believe it has always been to mutual benefit.’

‘Quite. In the last twelve months I’ve spent two thousand, three hundred and seventy-four pounds with you.’

Wally looked startled by the exactness of the sum, but he said: ‘And very glad I am to have the business, Mr Hornbeam.’

Hornbeam got to the point abruptly. ‘I hope I can rely on your vote in the coming election.’

‘Ah,’ said Wally, and he looked embarrassed and a bit frightened. ‘Barrowfield is a fellow Methodist, as you know, so I’m in a difficult position.’

‘Are you?’ said Hornbeam. ‘Really?’

‘I wish I could vote for both of you!’ Wally gave a stupid laugh.

‘But since you can’t...’

There was a silence.

Hornbeam said: ‘It’s not for me to tell you how to vote, of course.’

‘Very good of you to say so.’ Wally seemed to be under the illusion that Hornbeam was backing off.

He would have to be disabused. ‘You must balance your friendship with Barrowfield against my two thousand, three hundred and seventy-four pounds.’

‘Oh.’

‘Which is more important to you? That’s the decision you face.’

Wally looked agonized. ‘If you put it like that...’

‘I do put it like that.’

‘Then please be assured that I will vote for you.’

‘Thank you.’ Hornbeam stood up. ‘I felt confident we would see eye to eye in the end. Good day to you.’

‘Good day to you, Mr Hornbeam.’

*

St Adolphus’s Day was cold but sunny. The square was packed full, with the hustings an extra attraction. Sal went with Jarge, as always, but she was anxious. He worked at Hornbeam’s Upper Mill, whichwas closed three days a week because Hornbeam was no longer supplying the militia. His income was halved, and he spent his off-days in the taverns. The combination of idleness and drink made him bad-tempered. His companions were other struggling weavers, and they fed each other’s discontents.

There was always minor trouble at the fair: petty theft, drunkenness and quarrels that sometimes ended in blows; but today Sal felt a greater menace in the air. Machine-smashing had mushroomed earlier in the year, starting in the north and spreading around the country, and it had been organized with a degree of military discipline that terrified the ruling elite. Jarge applauded it.

And something else had unnerved her. Although the murder of Prime Minister Perceval had had nothing to do with the cloth industry – the killer had been obsessed by a personal grudge – the news of the assassination had been greeted by rejoicing in some towns. Class hatred in England had reached a new peak.

Sal was afraid that today there would be a riot when the parliamentary candidates made their speeches. If that happened, her main concern would be to keep Jarge out of trouble.

As they were strolling around the stalls, Jarge’s friend Jack Camp appeared. ‘Coming for a tankard, Jarge?’ he said.

‘Maybe later,’ Jarge replied.

‘I’ll be in the Bell.’ Jack went off.

Jarge said to Sal: ‘I haven’t got any money.’

She felt sorry for him, and gave him a shilling. ‘Enjoy yourself, my love, and just promise me you won’t get drunk,’ she said.

‘I promise.’ He went off.