A Place Called Freedom (1995)

Without thinking, Mack said: “We could organize a strike.”

The other men were silent.

Cora said: “Strike?”

Mack had blurted out his suggestion as soon as it came into his mind but, as he thought more, it seemed the only thing to do. “All the coal heavers want to change to our system,” he said. “We could persuade them to stop working for the old undertakers. Then the shippers would have to hire the new gangs.”

Dermot was skeptical. “Suppose they still refuse to hire us?”

This pessimism angered Mack. Why did men always expect the worst? “If they do that, no coal will corrie ashore.”

“What will the men live on?”

“They can afford to take a few days off. It happens all the time—when there are no coal ships in port none of us work.”

“That’s true. But we couldn’t hold out forever.”

Mack wanted to scream with frustration. “Nor can the shippers—London must have coal!”

Dermot still looked dubious. Cora said: “But what else can you do, Dermot?”

Dermot frowned, and he thought for a moment, then his face cleared. “I’d hate to go back to the old ways. I’ll give it a try, by gob.”

“Good!” said Mack, relieved.

“I was in a strike once,” Charlie said lugubriously. “It’s the wives that suffer.”

“When were you in a strike?” Mack asked. He had no experience: it was something he had read about in the newspapers.

“Three years ago, on Tyneside. I was a coal miner.”

“I didn’t know you’d been a miner.” It had never occurred to Mack, or anyone in Heugh, that miners could strike. “How did it end?”

“The coal owners gave in,” Charlie admitted.

“There you are!” Mack said triumphantly.

Cora said anxiously: “You’re not up against northern landowners here, Mack. You’re talking about London tavern keepers, the scum of the earth. They might just send someone to cut your throat while you sleep.”

Mack looked into her eyes and saw that she was genuinely frightened for him. “I’ll take precautions,” he said.

She gave him a skeptical look but said no more.

Dermot said: “It’s the men that will have to be persuaded.”

“That’s right,” Mack said decisively. “There’s no point in the four of us discussing it as if we had the power to make the decision. We’ll call a meeting. What o’clock is it?”

They all glanced outside. It was becoming evening. Cora said: “It must be six.”

Mack went on: “The gangs that are working today will finish as soon as it gets dark. You two go around all the taverns along the High Street and spread the word.”

They both nodded. Charlie said: “We can’t meet here—it’s too small. There are about fifty gangs altogether.”

“The Jolly Sailor’s got a big courtyard,” said Dermot. “And the landlord’s not an undertaker.”

“Right,” Mack agreed. “Tell them to be there an hour after nightfall.”

“They won’t all get there,” said Charlie.

“Most will, though.”

Dermot said: “We’ll round up as many as we can.” He and Charlie went out.

Mack looked at Cora. “Are you taking an evening off?” he said hopefully.

She shook her head. “Just waiting for my accomplice.”

It troubled Mack that Peg was a thief and Cora was responsible. “I wish we could find a way for that child to make a living without stealing,” he said.

“Why?”

The question flummoxed him. “Well, obviously …”

“Obviously what?”

“It would be better if she grew up honest.”

“How would it be better?”

Mack heard the undertone of anger in Cora’s questions, but he could not back off now. “What she does now is dangerous. She could end up hanging at Tyburn.”

“Would she be better off scrubbing the kitchen floor in some rich house, beaten by the cook and raped by the master?”

“I don’t think every kitchen skivvy gets raped—”

“Every pretty one does. And how would I make a living without her?”

“You could do anything, you’re shrewd and beautiful—”

“I don’t want to do anything. Mack, I want to do this.”

“Why?”

“I like it. I like dressing up and drinking gin and flirting. I steal from stupid men who have more money than they deserve. It’s exciting and it’s easy and I make ten times as much as I’d get dressmaking or running a little shop or serving customers in a coffeehouse.”

He was shocked. He had thought she would say she stole because she had to. The notion that she liked it overturned his expectations. “I really don’t know you,” he said.

“You’re clever, Mack, but you don’t know a damn thing.”

Peg arrived. She was pale and thin and tired, as always. Mack said: “Have you had some breakfast?”

“No,” she said, sitting down. “I’d love a glass of gin.”

Mack waved at a waiter. “A bowl of porridge with cream, please.”

Peg made a face, but when the food came she tucked in with relish.

While she was eating, Caspar Gordonson came in. Mack was glad to see him: he had been thinking of calling at the Fleet Street house to discuss the shippers’ boycott and the idea of a strike. Now he swiftly ran over the day’s events while the untidy lawyer sipped brandy.