Free Rose by Martin Cruz Smith Page B

obstinate. That’s why I’ve been talking to Reverend Chubb and Mr. Fellowes.”
    Fellowes had spent the evening trying to choose between different knives and forks. He spoke for the first time; his voice was geared to union halls. “It’s an economic issue, Your Ladyship. It should be men doing that work and getting decent wages, with the women staying at home. Or if they do want to work, work in the cotton mills like decent girls.”
    “It’s a moral issue,” Reverend Chubb said. “The sad truth is that Wigan is the most degraded city in England. The cause is not the men, who are the coarser sex. Thereason is the women of Wigan, who are so unlike their softer gender anywhere, except perhaps for Africa or along the Amazon. Earnshaw tells me he has seen picture cards sold in London, sordid cards for low tastes, of French ‘models’ and Wigan pit girls. Their notoriety only makes them more brazen.”
    “Why Wigan?” Lady Rowland asked. “Surely women work at pits in Wales and other parts of the country?”
    “Not in trousers,” Chubb said.
    Revulsion was shared by Lady Rowland and her daughter; for a moment they were mirrors of each other.
    “Not dresses?” the girl asked.
    “A mockery of a dress rolled up and pinned above the pants,” Fellowes said.
    Earnshaw said, “They claim for reasons of safety, but the fact is that factory girls in full skirts work surrounded by intense heat and spinning gears. So we have to ask ourselves, why do pit girls
choose
to unsex themselves? It seems a deliberate provocation.”
    “An insult to every decent woman,” Fellowes said.
    “And damage to marriage itself,” Earnshaw said. “The commission has gathered information from medical experts, including Dr. Acton, the author of
The Functions and Disorders of the Reproductive Organs
. With your permission?” Earnshaw waited for a nod from Lady Rowland. “Dr. Acton, who is
the
authority, says that young men unfortunately often form their ideas of the feminine sensibility from the lowest and most vulgar women, hence have the mistaken impression that the sexual feelings of the female are as strong as his, an error that only leads to heartbreak when he forms a union with a decent woman.”
    Lydia Rowland lowered her eyes, held her breath and blushed delicately; the effect was like a faint stain on fine porcelain. Blair marveled at her; a person didn’t need language if she could manage the color of her cheeks so well.
    “I want to be fair,” Earnshaw added, “but there does seem to be a scientific correlation between dress and behavior, because, statistically, pit girls have the highest rate of illegitimate births in the country.”
    “We see them carousing naked in and out of the beerhouses every night,” Chubb said.
    “Pit girls?” Blair asked.
    “Yes,” Chubb said.
    “Totally undressed?”
    “Their arms bare,” Chubb said.
    “Ah,” said Blair.
    The main course was saddle of mutton, beetroot, mustard. The empty chair was still unclaimed.
    “Actually, what I saw, besides bare arms, was a fight between miners. A kicking fight,” Blair said.
    “It’s called ‘purring,’ ” Hannay said. “Lord knows why. A traditional local sport. The miners love it. Barbaric, isn’t it?”
    “It vents the tension,” Fellowes said.
    Hannay said, “They vent their tension on their wives, too. Taking clogs off a drunken miner is like unloading a cocked gun.”
    “How horrible,” Lydia Rowland said.
    “There’s a pit girl or two knows how to use her clogs, too,” Fellowes said.
    “That’s a domestic scene to contemplate, isn’t it?” Hannay said.
    Blair asked, “What did John Maypole think of pit girls?”
    There was quiet the length of the table.
    “Maypole?” Earnshaw asked.
    Reverend Chubb explained that the curate of the Parish Church was missing. “We continue to trust that John’s fate will become known to us. In the meantime, the Bishop has imported Mr. Blair to make unofficial