by Valerie Wood
Her mother was just rising as she went back inside. The fire was crackling and Grace put more firewood onto the blaze and a piece of coal, then put a half-filled pan of water on top.
‘Stay where you are, Ma,’ she said, ‘and I’ll make some gruel seeing as we haven’t any tea.’
‘No, it’s time I was up.’ Her mother gave her husband a pinch. ‘Come on, get up. It’s Sunday, day of rest.’
He grunted and rolled over. ‘What am I doing today that I can’t do another day?’
‘You can go to ’riverbank and see what ’tide has brought in. We need some kindling for a start.’
Bob gave a grin and pulled the blanket over him. ‘In that case I can stay abed a bit longer. Look in that sack yonder, Gracie,’ he said. ‘That one in ’corner.’
‘That’s Daniel’s,’ she said. ‘He said it was firewood.’
‘Not that one.’ He pointed a lazy arm. ‘T’other one, next to it.’
She opened it up at the neck. ‘Firewood!’ she exclaimed. ‘Loads of it!’
‘Aye. Boss said I can tek as much as I need, all ’short bits that they can’t use for owt.’
‘Put some more on then. Let’s have a blaze.’ Her mother was delighted. ‘We can have hot water for washing and as soon as weather clears up I’ll wash all our clothes.’
Grace opened up the other sack which Daniel had given her and told her to use for firewood. She put her hand inside. ‘This isn’t firewood!’ She frowned. ‘These are things he’s made!’
She pulled out a model of a schooner with a sharply pointed bow, three slender masts intact but bare of sail, the planed deck smooth and level, its hull polished and gleaming. ‘Da!’ she breathed. ‘Look at this.’
Her father got out of bed and padded towards her. ‘Firewood!’ he blurted out. ‘This is a craftsman’s work. What’s ’lad thinking of, chucking it out?’
Grace put her hand further into the sack and brought out a model of a small building. ‘It’s a farmhouse,’ she said excitedly. ‘Look at ’little doors and windows and this is a barn at the end.’ The model was of plain wood. It hadn’t been painted or polished and she thought that she would like to paint it and put some curtains at the windows.
There were other items, a wooden box, polished and lacquered, the type that a lady might keep her letters or private correspondence in, a wooden doll with arms and legs and a head, but without a face. A toy cart and several peg dolls.
‘These are like you used to make me, Da.’ She held up a peg doll. ‘And Ma and me used to dress them and paint their faces.’
‘Aye.’ He took it from her. ‘But I never made ’em like this. Why, ’lad could make a fortune making toys like this.’
She nodded thoughtfully and put them back in the sack, placing them carefully, rather than throwing them in one on top of another as Daniel had apparently done. Was he angry when he put them in? she wondered. Was he thinking that here was the end of his dream of becoming a master craftsman like his father?
‘I’m going to Dock Green,’ she announced as they finished their gruel. ‘Unless you want me to do anything, Ma?’
Her mother shook her head. ‘No, there’s nowt, but why are you going there? Is there somebody special speaking?’
‘Yes.’ Grace got up from the table. ‘There is.’ Her mother and father looked up expectantly.
‘Who?’ they chorused.
She gave a sheepish smile and raised her eyebrows. ‘Me!’
They both laughed. ‘You!’
‘Yes.’ She picked up the stool that Daniel had made for her. ‘Daniel made this for me to sit on, but he won’t mind if I stand on it.’
‘But what are you going to talk about?’ her mother asked.
‘Injustice!’ she replied defiantly. ‘I’m going to ask if folk think it’s right that lads should have to give up their chance of a trade because they haven’t any money to live on. And is it right that young women should have to become street women in order to eat.’
She saw the shocked look on her parents’ faces, then realization dawning on her mother’s. ‘Not Ruby?’ her mother grieved.
‘Yes. I probably shouldn’t have told you, but you’d find out anyway. She can’t keep her mother and herself and pay ’rent on two days’ money.’
‘She could scrub floors,’ her mother protested. ‘If I thought that you –’
‘I won’t,’ Grace declared. ‘But I’m not as desperate as Ruby is, and I’ve got you and Da. We can pull together.’ She appealed to them. ‘She’s tried for work. Please don’t blame Ruby.’
‘No, I won’t blame her,’ her mother said bitterly. ‘But I’ll blame her ma. Bessie. She’s got a lot to answer for.’
Her father said nothing, but leaned his elbow on the table and rested his chin in his hand. He kept his eyes lowered and Grace wondered why he didn’t comment. ‘Do you want to come with me, Da?’
‘I might,’ he murmured.
‘I’ll come,’ her mother determined. ‘If I can walk that far. I’ll deal wi’ hecklers.’
‘Hecklers!’ Grace was startled. ‘Why should there be hecklers?’
‘You don’t expect everybody to agree with you, do you, girl?’ her mother asked. ‘There’s some folk who make it their business to go around disrupting meetings – stirring up trouble.’
‘But I don’t want any trouble,’ Grace contended. ‘I onny want to say what I feel.’
‘Then that’s what you must do if you think that folks will listen,’ her mother agreed. ‘Pass me your hairbrush. Let’s show ’em that we can be clean and tidy and proud, as well as poor.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Grace walked to Dock Green alone. Her mother said she would take her time and come when she was ready, and her father was undecided whether to come at all. There was a nip in the air heralding snow and she remembered the lady who had given her a ride in her carriage, saying that no-one wanted to stand out in the rain to listen to speakers. Well, it wasn’t raining, but it was very cold and who would want to stand outside on a winter’s day?
But she also knew that the poor would walk anywhere if there was a chance of free entertainment, and often the fresh air of outdoors was preferable to the stale and damp air of their houses.
There were one or two speakers climbing onto their boxes but only a few people wandering around Dock Green, along with some stray dogs sniffing at trees and bushes. She noticed two ladies in voluminous cloaks carrying opened umbrellas over them, even though it wasn’t raining. Then, as a chaise drew up at the entrance, they hurried across to it.
The coach driver jumped down from his seat and helped two ladies out, and handed a small box to one of them. The four ladies looked around the area before making their way to a particular spot where they put down the box. Another chaise drew up, and from it descended the same gentlewoman who had previously given Grace and her father a ride towards home.
Grace watched curiously, then followed her as she joined the other ladies, took out a bundle of papers from her reticule, and stepped up onto the box.
She’s going to speak, Grace thought, even though there are not many folk here. Then she saw that more people were coming onto the Green, small groups who were obviously together, not poor folk from the town, Grace observed, but well-dressed people. Men in top hats or caps with ear flaps to keep out the cold, and heavy overcoats down to their ankles. The women too were dressed against the cold with wool capes over their wide skirts, and velvet bonnets perched on their heads. Most of them carried black umbrellas.
So who are these people? Grace wondered, and clutching her stool drew closer. What have they to talk about? Surely, judging by their dress, they are respectable and comfortably off? They can have no complaints to speak of.
She put down her stool and stepped on it. I’ll tell them, she determined, I’ll tell them of difficulties which they cannot imagine as they sit in their fine houses and drive in their carriages.
‘My name is Grace Sheppard,’ she began, and
raised her voice as she saw more people arriving. Shabby, ordinary folk, like herself.
‘Why would I choose to stand here on a cold February morning?’ she shouted. ‘When I could be enjoying the luxury of a straw mattress and a bowl of gruel? Why? Because I want summat better, that’s why!
‘I’m not yet seventeen, yet I have been working since I was nine years old at ’cotton mill. Eight hours a day I was allowed to work when I was a child, and I was grateful. I was very grateful, for it meant that I was helping my parents to pay ’rent and put food into our mouths.’
She was aware of the crowd edging towards her. She was the first of the speakers to find her voice, although there were others now who had placed their boxes strategically around Dock Green. She saw the group of ladies looking towards her and murmuring together. Perhaps they think I’m stealing a march on them, she thought.
‘But now,’ she continued. ‘Now that I’m a grown woman, there’s no work for me.’ She lifted up her hands. ‘I’m not blaming my employers for ’decline in ’cotton industry. But is it right that children should be employed to climb beneath moving machines in order to clean them, to swab down floors, to breathe in ’cotton dust on their poor little chests – for less money than I’d be given for that same work?’
One or two women in the crowd, dressed in cotton skirts and shawls as she was, raised their hands and clapped, and one shouted, ‘No, it’s not right. They should be given ’same, then we’d all be well off!’
Grace looked at her in dismay. ‘That’s not ’point,’ she contested. ‘They shouldn’t have to work.’
‘I know.’ The woman laughed. ‘It was a joke, dearie! But how would we manage without our bairns working?’
‘Children shouldn’t be allowed to work,’ Grace emphasized. ‘There should be a law against it. And working men and women should be given a decent wage so that their childre’ didn’t have to work! Why should an apprentice lad be forced to give up ’chance of a trade, because he can’t afford to live? And why, as a last resort, should women have to take on night work?’ She waited a second for the right impact. ‘Yes.’ She nodded her head. ‘Night work! Out on ’streets selling their bodies for a shilling so that they might feed their families.’
There was a silence for a moment, then someone, a man, shouted, ‘Shame! It’s a sin! There’s no excuse for immoral prostitution.’
Grace put up her hand for silence as women in the crowd heckled him. ‘My father would kill me rather than I should take such a step. But what of those women who have no such guidance? Who have no other means of dragging themselves from ’depths of poverty? Starvation is a valid excuse.’
She pointed in the direction from where the voice had come. ‘I ask – have you ever felt such despair? Have you ever been without food or a blanket to keep you warm, or been unable to pay your rent? Or have you, sir, had ’comfort of a warm bed and the promise of food next morning and so had ’energy to moralize on others less well off than yourself?’
She didn’t know where her words were coming from. She seemed to be opening her mouth and they poured out. She only knew, by the murmurings and ripple of conversation running through the crowd, that she had them firmly in her hand, and the man who had spoken so vehemently was silent.
‘Rights for women!’ A voice called out. ‘Equal rights as men. Sisters, is that not what we deserve?’
Heads turned towards the other voice, and Grace looked too. It was the lady from the chaise. ‘Our young sister here’, she pointed towards Grace, ‘has learned at a tender age that women don’t have the same rights as men.’
Grace frowned. I wasn’t talking about equal rights, I was talking about working children! And why is she calling me sister? How could I possibly be a sister of hers? We’re from a different world. Has she ever known poverty?
‘Madam,’ she called back in reply. ‘I don’t have equal rights as men. I was a poor child and am now a poor woman. I have no rights at all!’
A great shout rose up, for now most of the crowd were the townspeople of Hull, outnumbering by far the well-dressed element who had obviously come to hear the other speaker. But Grace stepped down from her stool, satisfied with her reception.
‘Grace!’ Her mother stood there. ‘I couldn’t believe it was you up there! Where did you get such learning?’
Grace took her mother’s arm, for she seemed tired. It was a long walk from Middle Court to Dock Green. ‘It could only have been from your knee, Ma,’ she said. ‘Yours and Da’s, for where else have I been to learn?’
‘Nowhere else, it’s true,’ her mother agreed.
‘You taught me to think for myself, Ma. To be honest, and to expect to work for what I need.’
She stopped and looked up at a figure hovering near. It was Martin Newmarch, and a lady was standing beside him.
‘Miss Sheppard,’ he greeted her. ‘Congratulations on your excellent speech!’ He raised his eyebrows and she suspected the slight twitch of his lips was humour, though it was gone in a second, as he continued, ‘And many thanks for not blaming your former employers for the lack of work.’
Former employers! She took a breath. So her work at the mill was finished. She inclined her head but didn’t dip her knee as she once might have done. ‘Mr Newmarch.’
He turned to his companion. ‘May I introduce Miss Grace Sheppard – Mrs Westwood.’
They both inclined their heads and Grace, not to be outdone, turned to her mother. ‘Ma, this is Mr Martin Newmarch, from ’cotton mill. Mr Newmarch and Mrs Westwood, this is my mother, Mrs Elizabeth Sheppard.’
Martin Newmarch made a short bow. ‘Mrs Sheppard, you have a very remarkable daughter.’
‘Aye,’ her mother said proudly. ‘That I know. She’s our onny one and I’m glad of it, for she’d tek ’shine off any others that we might have had.’
‘You are not of the opinion, then, Mrs Sheppard,’ Mrs Westwood spoke in a soft well-modulated voice, ‘that the more children parents have, the more money can be earned when they are of age?’
‘No, ma’am. I’ve never thought that.’ Lizzie Sheppard gazed squarely at her. ‘I didn’t bring any bairns into ’world just for them to earn a living, though childre’ sometimes come along even when they’re not wanted. But there’s nowt such as us can do about that. No,’ she emphasized. ‘We wanted one, or mebbe two that would follow our family line, for continuity’s sake you might say.’
Grace stared at her mother. Now she knew for sure where her words and thinking came from. From her parents. From her father who had taught her to read, and from her mother who wasn’t afraid to express an opinion.
‘You are very fortunate, Mrs Sheppard,’ Mrs Westwood remarked, ‘to still have your daughter’s company. I have a young son and daughter whom I am not allowed to see.’
‘Not allowed to see?’ Lizzie exclaimed and drew closer to her. ‘How’s that then?’
‘I have left my husband, Mrs Sheppard. He is an extremely cruel and brutal man, and as a punishment for leaving I am banned from seeing my children.’ She glanced at Grace. ‘That is why I am here today, to support Miss Gregory’s campaign for equal rights for women.’
‘I didn’t realize,’ Grace whispered. ‘I thought –’
‘You thought that only the poor suffered?’ Martin Newmarch looked down at her and smiled as she nodded. ‘Well, it’s probably true that the poor suffer more than most, poverty and hunger must be deplored, but others too can suffer when deprived of home and children.’
‘So what did your husband do that you took ’drastic step of leaving?’ Lizzie asked. ‘It must have been summat bad for you to leave your bairns behind.’
‘He beat me in private,’ Mrs Westwood said quietly, ‘and insulted me in public. That is why I am not afraid of speaking of him now. His character is common knowledge.’
‘Well,’ Lizzie considered. ‘It wouldn’t happen with our kind. A beating, yes, and insults, but those sort of men would throw their bairns out after their wives, and be gla
d to see ’em go.’
‘So what would happen to them? These women and their children?’
‘Workhouse,’ Lizzie replied, matter-of-factly. ‘I have— had a friend in such a situation.’ Her face seemed to tense. ‘It was ’onny place she could go.’
Mrs Westwood shuddered. ‘Then I am fortunate indeed that I have good friends who are willing to help me and give me shelter.’
‘Have you no family or money of your own?’ Lizzie asked curiously. She appeared quite unembarrassed and not at all intimidated by this well-spoken gentlewoman as they strolled side by side, leaving Grace to fall behind with Martin Newmarch.
‘My parents are elderly,’ Mrs Westwood said. ‘But they are of the opinion that I should have stayed with my husband no matter what his conduct might be. I have no money of my own, what was mine is now my husband’s.’
‘So what will you do, Grace?’ Martin Newmarch murmured to her. ‘You said that you would look for other employment.’
‘I’ll continue with my two days at ’mill until I find something else,’ Grace said. ‘If I’m still wanted.’ She looked up at him, trying to assess his opinion. ‘If nobody finds out that I’ve been speaking against child labour.’
He frowned and glanced quickly at her. ‘Do you think that I –?’
‘I don’t know, sir,’ she said frankly. ‘But word will get out eventually. There are some mill workers here today.’
‘It won’t come from me,’ he assured her. ‘I am a believer in free speech. That is why I come here. But you must be careful, Grace. You could so easily make enemies.’
The following day, Monday, word was around the mill that the quiet and angelic-looking Grace Sheppard had been on a speaker’s box at Dock Green. Whispered conversations buzzed around in odd corners in the weaving shed, the scutching house, the warehouse and eventually the office block.
The foreman beckoned her at the end of the day. ‘You’re to go and get your wages. Sorry, Grace, but you’re up ’crooked path, that’s for sure. You’re to be finished. You’ll not be asked back, not after speaking your mind.’