by Charles Egan
The approach of cholera was slow. Its occurrence in Wakefield was followed by Huddersfield and then Bradford. Then all talk of it died away. It appeared, from all Murty could work out, that it had not been infectious. Very few had contracted it, and almost no one died.
Sinéad was not convinced.
‘They’re saying it was the wrong kind,’ she told them. ‘All the girls in the mill, they’re talking of the big one, this time. King Cholera is back, he’s killing shedloads of them everywhere.’
Murty was not concerned. He believed that what Sinéad had heard in the mill had only been stories. King Cholera! Utter nonsense. If there was any cholera, it had come and gone. There were more cheerful matters to consider.
The letters from Carrigard had astonished and delighted him. He was relieved that Fergus was dead. Far more than that though, was that Kitty was coming. She had always had a calming influence on Aileen. Not to say that this was as critical as it had been. Sinéad too, had a soothing effect, and the work in the woollen mill, hard as it was, meant that Aileen was no longer brooding at home. He was delighted too at the thought of three other younger women joining them. He noted they were from Kilduff and the names were unfamiliar to him, since they had not attended his school in Carrigard. He reckoned he knew of their families though.
The days exhausted him beyond measure. Most evenings, he had his dinner with the family. It was at times like this that he appreciated the fact that he was lodging with a Mayo family. In many ways, they were gentle people, but with all the hardiness to survive the harsh conditions of Bradford.
Their use of language intrigued him. At home, the women always spoke in Irish. At first, Murty found it difficult to follow since he was not used to the dialect of the west of the county, but he understood it well enough and, within days, his own dialect of the language was changing.
The girls spoke English with no difficulty. This was no surprise, since they would have had to speak it in the mills and, being young, they would have little difficulty. Tomás Kerrigan was content to speak either language. When talking to Murty he spoke in English, sometimes in Irish, and Murty felt that Tomás was not even thinking of which language he was using. Sometimes he referred to Máire and Sinéad as Mary and Jane, and Murty guessed that these were their Mill names.
There was never any question of Bríd speaking English though. She never worked in the mill and spent all her time either at housework, or as an outworker stitching shirts on the table for the manufacturers. Murty felt that, while she might have had a basic understanding of English, she was not fluent, and, not wishing to embarrass her, he spoke mostly Irish when she was part of the discussion.
He learned that the family had left Mayo in the time of the 1840 hunger. They were not married, though as Murty noted, Bríd had already taken the name of her man.
‘And a hard time it was too,’ she told him. ‘Four children, we had then. My youngest daughter died of fever. My oldest son died too, and he was a sore loss. He worked on the railways like yourself, travelling Yorkshire. He met with an accident, but as to what killed him, we never found out. And where he’s buried, God only knows.’
*
Many evenings, Murty sat at the table with Tomás; both men smoking their pipes and drinking whiskey. Tomás worked as a woolcomber; spinning being regarded as work for women and young men. As Murty soon discovered, he was a radical political thinker, something Murty had never expected among the grinding poverty of Bradford. He had been a member of the Bradford Mechanics’ Institute Library for many years, where he had learnt how to read and write.
‘And most important, I learnt to speak English there,’ Tomás told him. ‘That was always the first thing, knowing how to speak it, even before reading or writing it. There’s many the man couldn’t speak it when he first came to Bradford. You’d hear all sorts of languages being spoken in the Institute – Russian, Swedish and Polish, but German more than most. And the German speakers, they had all sorts of ideas of Unions and the rest of it.’
‘The mill owners wouldn’t like that.’
‘They didn’t,’ Tomás said. ‘But they wanted us speaking English. They didn’t like all these notions the German fellows had. But sure what could they do? Stop the lectures in the Library? They didn’t want that either. They needed the workers. And anyhow, reading and writing isn’t against the law.’
‘It’s not,’ Murty said. ‘But I’m amazed the mills are taking on so many workers. There was talk of a crash in the markets.’
‘That was last year,’ Tomás said, ‘and a dreadful crash it was too. Thousands and tens of thousands thrown out of work, right across the Yorkshire mills. Lancashire too. But then the market turned. Don’t ask me why, but in a matter of a month or two, the mills were screaming out for workers. And they knew that in Mayo too. It’s just like the time of the Railway Mania, when there was famine in Ireland and great want of men in England, then the Irish came over to England in their hundreds of thousands. And who, most of all? The Mayo men, of course. The men for the railways, and the women for the mills.’
‘Hardly surprising, with all the evictions in Mayo,’ Murty said. ‘Lucan and the rest of them, it’s them are driving everyone out of Mayo.’
‘I know,’ Tomás said. ‘It’s hard on them. Hard on you too, working on the railways.’
‘Sure what choice do I have?’
‘Not a lot, I’d say. It’s either that or the workhouse.’
‘This woolcombing, though, is it as hard as railway work, would you say?’ Murty asked.
‘The combers would like to say it is, but in all honesty, once you learnt the way of it, it wasn’t so hard. But it hardly matters now. They brought in the accursed combing machines last year. Now, half the combers are gone.’
‘Gone?’
‘Gone from combing. There’s still lots of jobs in the mills though. They’re working as labourers, sweepers, ragsorters – all sorts of things. It’s tough on them too.’
‘I’d say it is,’ Murty exclaimed. ‘Low wages too, I’d guess.’
‘Very low. But it’s not just that. Now they’re looked down on as the lowest of the low in the mills. It’s a terrible thing for any fellow who takes a pride in his craft. Aristocrats of labour, they’d call themselves. Now they’re no-one.’
‘But…but what about you, Tomás.’
‘I’m fine. I was lucky enough to stay on, and now I’m working the combing machines myself. But right now, for every job in combing there’s dozens of men wanting it.’
‘And what of other men’s work in the mill? Would there be openings?’
‘No. They don’t want Mayo men pushing the wages down and bringing fever. The combers who were dismissed, they’re angry as hell with their low wages now, and the last thing they want is Irish fellows working for less. No, there’d be no chance for you in the mills.’
‘But you? You’re Irish.’
‘Ah yes, but I’ve been here many years. There was a time the hate was not as forceful, but this Famine has put paid to all that. They resent all the Mayo men in Bradford now. It’s easy enough for the women to get work, harder for the men. And when the men get work, the hours are long. The women are held by law to no more than sixty hours a week, the young people the same. But for the men there’s no upper limit, they work us for as long as they wish. And who makes all the profit? The mill owners, who else?’
‘Will it ever change though?’ Murty asked.
‘Not until we organise. Strong Trade Unions, that’s what we want.’
‘Would that be possible?’
‘It was possible before,’ Tomás said. ‘We had a strong Union once, acting for the combers and weavers. They organised a general strike, twenty thousand mill workers walked out, and thousands others joined them. All they wanted were wage increases – God knows, they’re low enough – and Union recognition too. They held out for half a year, but in the end, hunger forced them back. Back in 1825 it was, they still talk about it around here.’
‘I’d say they do.’
‘They do. They’ll never forget the ’25 strike in the woollen towns. They’re proud of it, and they still bear the bitterness. But where does pride and bitterness get you? We’d never organise a general strike now. The Chartists tried again in ’42, and that went nowhere neither? Then the miners tried in ’44, but they were starved into surrender. Another strike that’ll be remembered for the rest of time.’
Murty was soon to learn more about mining in Bradford. The following Sunday, he and Tomás were smoking pipes as Bríd cleared up after dinner. The front door opened, and two young men entered the kitchen.
‘Your new lodgers, Tommy?’ one asked. ‘More Irish?’
‘Will ye go on out of that,’ Tomás answered. ‘This is an Irish house, ye’ll have to put up with Irish neighbours. Won’t ye?’
‘We will right enough.’
‘Two Sassenachs,’ Tomás said, introducing them. ‘Arthur and Samuel.’
‘Yeadon,’ the man called Arthur said. ‘English and proud of it.’
‘Miners too,’ Samuel said, ‘and proud of that too.’
Tomás waved them to the table, as Bríd took out four cups and filled them with a white spirit. Arthur tasted it.
‘Poitín,’ he exclaimed.
‘Good God, your first word of Irish,’ Tomás said. ‘We’ll make Irishmen of ye yet.’
‘Not a snowball’s chance in hell, Tommy,’ Arthur said.
Murty discovered much about the Yeadon brothers. The first was that there were three of them. They were miners, working in the Bunkers Hill mine about a mile distant. Murty reckoned Arthur and Samuel were both in their early twenties, if that. Their parents were country people, their father working as a country labourer until the agricultural crash of the 1820s, when he had lost his job and moved to the coalmines of Bradford. Their mother, a widow now, was living in the next house, in a single room with the three brothers.
No-one had mentioned the third brother by name, and Murty did not ask.
*
‘Nice fellows,’ he commented, after they had left.
‘They are,’ Tomás said. ‘We’ve known them for many years, well before the ’44 strike. There’s many in Bradford hate the Irish for that, you know.’
‘For the strike? But…why?’
‘There were stories of Irish scab miners. Thousands of them, they’ll tell you. Some say it was Irish scab labour that broke the strike.’
‘Was it true?’
‘Not at all. Or could I put it this way. If there were a dozen Irish in all of the mines through the strike, I’d be surprised. But you know the way it is – the story grows in the telling, and a dozen becomes a thousand. If there were scab miners, they were brought in from Cornwall. There’s many miners there, and well able to work hard, unlike the starving Irish. But the Bradford people wouldn’t know the difference between the Cornish tongue and the Irish, so Irish they became.’
‘So what will the miners do now? Will they strike again?’
‘Arra, I don’t know. The Miners’ Association has collapsed. They were the best hope for Union power in England. They were strongest in Bradford, mind you, and the Bradford miners held out the longest, well into ’45, until they were hollowed out with the hunger. Once the Bradford strike was over, the Association was finished, and we haven’t heard a whisper of them since. I doubt there’ll be another strike, and no wage rises either.’
‘And what of Arthur and Samuel? What do they think?’
‘Oh, they can tell you all about the strike. They were great Union men once. Their father was all wrapped up with Unions too before he died, long before the Association was begun even. He was some sort of Union officer once. He damned near beat it into the three of them. But now it’s over. All over.’
‘But what would they think of the Irish now?’ Murty asked.
‘Arthur and Samuel? They know the truth of it. They know there weren’t no thousands of Irish scab miners, no matter what anyone says. And anyhow, we’ve all been friends this long time.’
*
One day, Murty was back working on the McCormack Cutting. He was stronger now. His wages had been increased, but he was an old man. How long could this last. He was always aware of the Edwardes & Ryan contract only a short distance away. Mayo men too, and what were they being paid? A shilling a day, if they were lucky.
And what of Murtybeg? Was he as rough as Danny? He was not certain. Certainly, Murtybeg had been a gentler lad when he was younger. But here he was, working with that Irene woman, and she was surely tough – tougher than any woman he knew. And now she owned Edwardes & Ryan. Murtybeg hated her, so why was he still working with her? Was it only money?
Could he himself work with Edwardes & Ryan again? An easy job in an office. Higher pay too, abusing Mayo labour. Working with the Molly Maguire gang? Danny had used them; he was sure of that. Would Murtybeg work with them though?
All these questions became more urgent that morning, when Roughneen appeared on the site.
‘Johnny,’ Murty exclaimed. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you again.’
‘And you might not have,’ Roughneen answered. ‘It was hard enough to find you. It took me an hour asking after you.’
‘It’s a big site,’ Murty said, ‘but you must have some great interest in me to go to all that trouble.’
‘I have. Or should I say, your son has.’
‘Be careful. You’re not working for Murtybeg on this site. If the foreman spots you dossing, you’ll be sacked.’
‘Sure I don’t work here anyhow.’ Roughneen said. ‘I can pretend though.’
He picked up a shovel and started work.
‘So what is it Murteen wants with me?’ Murty asked.
‘He wants you to work with him again.’
‘He does, does he?’ Murty said ‘Would that be his call though? He works close with that Miller woman, and she hates my guts.’
‘That hardly matters anymore. Murtybeg fired her.’
‘He what?’
‘Fired her. Lavan was there, he saw it.’
‘But she owns the business.’
‘She might have. She doesn’t now.’
Murty was puzzled. Was all the talk of her ownership just nonsense?
‘So what now?’
‘Murtybeg wants you back.’
‘But I don’t want to go back.’
Roughneen leaned on his shovel.
‘But this work, Murty, it will kill you, and you know it.’
‘Yes, Johnny, you’re right, and I know you’re right. It’s a hard call for me to make either way. So you’ll say I’m a fool, but I must tell you, I don’t think I’d return. One way or another, I’d never want to work for Edwardes & Ryan again.’
‘Would you not at least think about it,’ Roughneen said.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ Murty answered. ‘Go and tell young Murtybeg I’m mindful of his generous offer. If I decide to work with him, I’ll go over and talk to ye, and ye can pass the message on to him. But to be honest, Johnny, I don’t think I could.’
Murty watched Roughneen walking back across the site towards the Colne Extension. Then he returned to shovelling muck.
In spite of everything, it had been a very hard decision for him. Might that change in years to come? Navvying was tough work for a man who had been a teacher. And teaching was a respected profession. Now he was nobody, working hard in the stink of Bradford. What would happen when he no longer could? Approach Murtybeg again, and ask for office work. No. With or without Irene, he had no wish to work for Edwardes & Ryan.
There was Aileen to consider too. She was earning money, and from all accounts becoming most able on the spinning machine. Her wages had been increased. He knew of the brutal conditions in the mills, and the long hours, though the ten-hour limit meant she worked less than the men, Tomás included.
*
He returned home that evening, carrying his shovel over his shoulder. A young woman rose from
the table.
‘Kitty!’ he exclaimed. ‘Kitty Brennan, is it? Arrived at last?’
‘Who else would it be,’ Kitty laughed. ‘It’s great to see you again.’
‘And this young lady?’ he asked, switching into Irish.
‘Peg McHugh,’ Kitty said. ‘The Reilly sisters are next door; you’ll meet them in time.’
Bríd went to serve him.
‘So how are you liking it here?’ Murty asked Kitty.
‘Sure she loves it,’ Bríd answered for her. ‘I gave herself and Peg mattresses in with Sinéad and Máire. They’ll take the girls over to the mill tomorrow.’
Murty sat and cut into a block of cheese.
‘You’re looking well,’ he said. ‘Ye must be tired after your journey though?’
‘Tired enough,’ Kitty said. ‘It was a long journey.’
‘Which way did ye come? Was it out of Westport?’
‘Not a chance of that. It was across Ireland we went, walking.’
‘A long way.’
‘Indeed, and far longer for me who had never even been to Castlebar in my life. ’Tis a mighty big country, Ireland. Six days crossing the country and all.’
‘And you should have seen her crossing the Shannon,’ Peg said. ‘Thought she’d drown, didn’t you?’
‘Arra, go way out of that.’
‘She couldn’t understand how it was two rivers either. No one told her there’d be an island in the middle.’
‘Would you listen to her teasing me,’ Kitty said. ‘It’s fine for some. She’s been working on the English harvest for years. I haven’t.’