Winners and Losers Read Free Page B

red-gold hair tied back from her scrubbed freckled face and her bright green eyes, nineteen-year-old Megan Williams was an exceptionally pretty girl and Victor Evans also happened to be Connie’s favourite cousin.
    Megan pulled a scrap of paper from her pocket and glanced at it. ‘I’ll have your smallest scrag end of lamb, ten pounds of potatoes, a quarter of tea and three loaves of bread, please.’
    â€˜Would they be strikers’ loaves?’ Annie O’Leary, Connie’s tall, spare, Irish assistant asked drily. The atmosphere instantly lightened as the women waiting their turn to be served burst into laughter despite the police presence. When the miners had withdrawn their labour, a local baker had produced a half-size “strikers’” loaf aimed at his newly impoverished customers, only to have his cart overturned and the contents vanish into the crowd, which dissipated as quickly as his bread. Even more mysteriously, his deliveryman failed to recognize a single person in the mob.
    â€˜The boy could deliver the goods for you, Megan. We’ll be sending the cart out in an hour.’ Connie handed Megan’s basket to one of her assistants and sent him to weigh the potatoes from the sacks ranged against the wall below the counter.
    â€˜I’ll take them with me. My uncle and his brothers will want their tea when they get home.’ Megan took her purse from her pocket and lowered her voice. ‘My uncle also asked me to settle up with you, Mrs Rodney. He doesn’t want to put our goods on the slate any more while he only draws strike pay from the union.’
    Connie was surprised but relieved. The colliers who were members of the union, unfortunately only slightly more than half of her customers, drew strike pay of ten shillings a week plus a shilling for each child. Larger families, who hadn’t found it easy to live on thirty-five shillings a week before the colliery companies had cut wages, were finding life during the strike desperate. And workers who weren’t members of a union had been left destitute. No striker’s family could afford to pay rent. At an average of ten shillings a week it would have left nothing for food. As it was, more and more of her customers were coming in every day asking for their credit to be extended until the strike was called off because they had come to the end of their savings.
    An ardent Catholic, Connie had gone to mass and confession three times a week, but since the strike she had taken to walking the short distance to the Catholic Church every morning to pray for an end to the dispute before her own savings and credit with her suppliers ran out.
    She pulled a massive leather-bound ledger towards her, checked the account and added Megan’s purchases. ‘That will be seven shillings and sixpence three farthings.’ Anxious not to offend Betty, who was being served by Annie, or any of her other customers who weren’t in a position to settle their bill, Connie whispered. ‘Tell your uncle that I appreciate his paying cash for as long as he can.’
    â€˜I’ll do that, Mrs Rodney. And thank you.’ Megan opened her purse, extracted three half crowns, a halfpenny and a farthing and handed them over. Taking her basket from the boy, she waited for Betty to finish placing her order, before making her way past the queue to the door. The police sergeant stepped in front of her. Megan glanced up, only to immediately look down again when he gazed coolly back at her. He was broad-shouldered, over six feet tall and there was a glint in his pale blue eyes that unnerved her. She was accustomed to living in a houseful of men but not one of them had ever made her feel as uneasy as this sergeant did. Struggling to lift her basket, she clutched her cloak around her, more to conceal than warm herself.
    â€˜I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?’ The officer’s voice sounded rough, harsh in comparison