Block Printer
Ardwick
1819
Newberry St
Mary, 2 children
Clerk
St Annes
Time to quickly check out the 1851 Census for Manchester. She knew there were problems with these documents but she had to look at them. She typed in the name and pressed send. A note immediately appeared, stating that many records for the city’s Census had been damaged or destroyed. Jayne clicked on one of the links anyway.
The image was totally illegible.
‘Bugger,’ she said. Mr Smith looked at her as if offended by her language.
‘Sorry,’ she apologised.
He went back to sleep.
She went to her bookshelf and found a note she had written about the 1851 Census. ‘Family historians with ancestors in mid-19th century Manchester face a particular difficulty. Following the transfer of the enumeration books to the Home Office in London and an analysis of the contents, the area where the books were stored was flooded and the books were badly damaged. Some of the books were in such poor condition that it was not considered worth filming them. Others were filmed but much of the image appears blackened and the writing is not decipherable. The following areas are completely missing: Blackley, Harpurhey, and Moston, along with parts of Hulme, St George’s and London Road districts. Much of the Census for Deansgate, Ardwick and Chorlton-on-Medlock area is also completely illegible.’
That was exactly how she remembered it.
She checked the details of her Robert Duckworths. Most lived in the areas affected.
A previous case, however, had given her a way round this problem. It wasn’t completely foolproof but it was better than nothing.
The volunteers at the Manchester and Lancashire Family History Society had done a lot of work to retrieve information on these areas, accessing the damaged returns and transcribing them. Despite the damage, details of some 82% of the 217,717 persons whom the statisticians had counted had been transcribed.
She went back to her computer and entered the address for the ‘Unfilmed’ website. A simple search page popped up with the transcribed returns. It might not be totally accurate, but it was better than nothing.
She compared the two lists of names, putting red crosses against three that were missing from the Census in 1851, confirming two others had moved house, and adding three new people to her list, two of which were born in 1826, suggesting the singles had married.
The new list had now lengthened unfortunately.
Birth
Address
Family
Job
Residence
1801
Minshull St
Mary, 5 children
Twister
St James Ward XXX
1806
Rogers Rd
Elizabeth, 4 children
Calico Printer
Angel Meadow
1807
????
Mary, 2 children
Tailor
Collegiate Ward
XXX
1811
Minehead St
Sarah, 2 children
Cotton Weaver
Ancoats
1816
Howard’s Lane
Sarah, no children
Power Loom Operator
Stockport
XXX
1816
Ardwick Green
Helen, 5 children
Block Printer
Ardwick
1819
Newberry St
Mary, 2 children
Clerk
St Annes
1817
Halson St
Mary, 4 children
Editor
Chorlton-on-M
1826
Plymouth Grove
Eliza, 3 children
Fustian Shearer
Ardwick
1826
Hanging Ditch
Emily, 2 children
Clerk
Deansgate
She still needed to check out all ten names. Perhaps more, if her Robert Duckworth was on the 18% of returns for 1851 that couldn’t be transcribed. Or perhaps he had moved away. Or maybe he had just been missed by the enumerator.
She sat in front of the computer and scratched her head.
Ten names was far too many. Any of the people here could have been the book’s owner.
Or none of them.
That was the problem. There was just too little information to work with.
She needed to focus in on the period from 1841 to the end of 1843, when she knew Robert Duckworth was living in Manchester.
The documents did exist. Unfortunately, it involved another trip into the city. To the local studies section of Manchester Central Library, to be precise.
But that would have to wait until tomorrow, as it was too late to traipse all the way into town now. Besides, she wanted to check her research so far. Too often mistakes were made and they caused problems further down the line. Jayne was meticulous in making sure her research was accurate.
Would she be able to solve this mystery in time?
The truth was, she didn’t know.
Chapter FIFTEEN
October 4, 1843
The Adelphi Hotel, Manchester
Dickens woke the next morning, tired and irritable.
He had hardly slept, tossing and turning most of the night, missing his comfortable bed at home, Catherine’s gentle snores beside him a comforting sound.
He rose and breakfasted downstairs. A glorious affair of cold hams, venison pies, suet puddings, ham and eggs, kippers, Easterhedge pudding – a concoction of sorrel, nettles and barley mixed with eggs and butter – fresh breads, creams, curds and marmalades, served with a pot of hot coffee in the American style and a glass of Madeira as a digestif.
The middle class of Manchester at least knew how to eat well. He felt better, ready to meet his darling sister and face the day.
He returned upstairs and dressed, choosing a bright yellow silk waistcoat and matching it with a large sky-blue overcoat with bright red cuffs. He did like to look his best when he met his sister and her children. Even more, the bright colours would no doubt offend the susceptibilities of his puritan brother-in-law, Henry. A man he never minded upsetting.
He took one last look in the mirror and pronounced himself satisfied. One should always make a show for one’s audience; he believed, along with his beloved Shakespeare, that life was but a stage and he was a mere player upon it.
Taking out a parcel from his carpetbag, he placed it in a paisley satchel he had borrowed from the innkeeper. The children would be amused by his new profession. He hoped so after all the long hours he had put in practising.
He rushed downstairs and called for a carriage, slinging the bag inside when it arrived. ‘Three Elm Terrace, Higher Ardwick,’ he called up to the driver.
‘That’ll be one shilling and sixpence, guvnor. It’s on the edge of the city.’
‘Just take me there.’
‘As your honour desires,’ the cabbie grumbled, clicking his tongue to encourage the horse to trot on. The carriage rumbled forward, bouncing up and down on the cobbles. The springs seemed to be absent or no longer functioning.
Outside, the mills still rumbled, rattled, hooted and boomed as they had been doing all day and night. Children no older than three or four ran barefoot through the muddy puddles, running alongside his coach for a moment, their hands held high in the air.
Dickens ignored them. Experience had told him that if he gave one boy money, soon there would be a veritable army of followers and his carriage would be a pied piper leading a long stream of waifs.
He believed in charity, but it must be effective. The simple doling-out of money was not the answer.
On his right, a whistle blew from the top of a dark, soot-blackened chimney. Within seconds, a gang of women, children and a few men rushed out, surrounding the hawkers who had gathe
red outside the mill gates, shouting out their wares: hot potatoes, bowls of thin gruel, bread soaked in warmed milk, steaming urns of tea. Workers clustered around the hawkers, quickly grabbing something to eat or drink before their break was over.
Dickens suddenly felt tired. He closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of the city all around him; the rattle of the carriage, the sharp peep of the factory whistles, the constant, deep throb of the steam engines. The noises of industry, red in tooth and claw.
Gradually, the harsh grating sounds gave way to something softer, more rural; the rustle of wind through leaves, the soft clop of the horse’s hooves against compacted earth, the chime of a church bell.
‘We is here,’ the cabbie announced.
Dickens popped his head out of the small window. The door of the house opened and Fanny rushed out to greet him.
‘Charles, how wonderful to see you.’
He bent down and kissed his sister on the cheek. ‘It’s even more of a delight to see you, dear Fan.’ He stepped back and held her at arm’s length. ‘You look well. Manchester seems to agree with you.’
He spotted his brother-in-law, Henry, standing behind his sister. ‘Burnett, how wonderful to see you,’ he said warmly, despite feeling absolutely no warmth for his brother-in-law. Hadn’t the man’s ridiculously puritan religious sensibilities stopped his sister from performing in the opera?
‘How was America?’ asked Henry.
‘Full of Americans, but despite that, generally enjoyable. An amazingly energetic place, there is much the Old World can learn from the New.’
‘I enjoyed reading American Notes .’
‘Unfortunately, the Americans enjoyed it less. They objected to my comments on slavery.’
Fanny took his arm and began leading him to the open door. ‘There are some people we’d like you to meet.’ She leant in and whispered in his ear, ‘Music and singing clients and the local Unitarian vicar and his wife. When they heard you were coming, they wanted to meet the great author. They support us so much, we could not say no. Also a Mr Watkin from the Athenaeum is dropping by later to discuss the arrangements for your speech.’
‘I was hoping to spend some time with you and the children.’
‘Later,’ she said, leading him into the hallway where a line of people waited to greet him.
‘May I present Mr Silas Grindley, one of our great supporters,’ she began.
‘Your sister has a wonderful voice, Mr Dickens, it seems the whole family is talented.’
‘I’m afraid my talents stretch to the twisting of words, Mr Grindley. It is my sister who is the true artiste.’
‘But what words and such characters. I never laughed so much at Sam.’ He imitated Sam’s accent, twisting his own northern vowels to achieve the right effect. ‘“I never heerd... nor read of nor see in picters, any angel in tights and gaiters... but he’s a reg’lar thoroughbred angel for all that.” You caught the man’s voice to perfection, sir.’
‘Thank you, Mr Grindley, I aim to please.’
‘Bah humbug, man, you do far more than that. You educate, that’s what you do. “There are very few moments in a man’s existence when he experiences so much ludicrous distress, or meets with so little charitable commiseration, as when he is in pursuit of his own hat.” Capital, my good fellow, capital.’
Fanny moved him along to the next man in line.
‘Herbert Packet at your disposal, a humble physician.’
‘Us laymen are often humbled at the knowledge of the human body displayed by a physician, Mr Packet.’
‘I would that it were always true, Mr Dickens. Why only—’
Another man stepped forward, interrupting Mr Packet. ‘The Reverend William Gaskell at your disposal, sir. It is an honour to meet a fellow Unitarian.’
Dickens had been spending a great deal of time since his return from America with Edward Tagart at the Unitarian church on Little Portland Street in London. It seemed to him a far more accepting brotherhood than the official church.
Dickens shook his hand.
‘And may I present my wife, Mrs Elizabeth Gaskell. I’m afraid she has pretensions to join your profession.’
‘You are a writer, Mrs Gaskell?’
The woman reddened, glancing at her husband. ‘I have a written a few articles and short stories.’
‘You should send me them. Magazines in London are always looking out for new voices.’
Next in line was a thin, ascetic man staring through pince-nez perched on the end of his nose. ‘Thomas Caulfield, editor of the Courier , sir,’ he said stiffly.
‘Ah, my former profession. I hope your paper is doing well?’
‘As well as can be expected given the times, Mr Dickens.’
Finally, a round, fat, sweating man presented himself. ‘Micawber, your servant, Mr Dickens. It is a pleasure to meet you.’
‘And what do you do in this town, Mr Micawber?’
‘I lend money to those who need it and can pay it back. A banker, sir.’
‘Ah, it is the paying back that is the issue, isn’t it, Mr Micawber, not the needing of money?’
‘You understand my profession well, sir.’
‘Please go through, Charles, we have a light luncheon for you and our guests,’ said Fanny, guiding him towards the front room.
‘We calls it dinner round here, Mrs Burnett. If you are to live in our city, you need to get used to our ways,’ said the banker, walking with Dickens into the room.
The light luncheon consisted of mutton and veal three ways, a brace of woodcocks, a pair of Moffat ducks swimming in their own fat, pots of braised eels, a selection of vegetables which few people had the temerity to try, a ragout of celery and, for dessert, apples, pears and chestnuts accompanied by a whole Stilton cheese, blackcurrant jelly and a lemon fool.
When all the courses had been served, Dickens sat back and opened the bottom two buttons of his waistcoat. ‘I swear, Fanny, when I return to London, the railway will charge me double for the amount of weight I have put on.’
‘Aye, we know how to eat well in Manchester,’ said Mr Grindley. ‘In my mill, we’ve put in a canteen so my operatives can eat their lunch.’
‘I saw on my way here, workers surrounding hawkers, all trying to get something. It gladdens me that you treat your workers so well. I saw the mills in Lowell in America, and they—’
‘It is not about “treating them well” as you say, sir,’ Grindley interrupted. ‘It is more efficient for the operatives to stay in the factory during a break. They can be back at their machines on time. It is a fact that a healthy worker is an efficient worker.’
‘And it is also a fact that you make money from providing the meals, don’t you, Mr Grindley?’ said Mr Caulfield.
‘We do, sir, and I am proud of it. You don’t get owt for nowt in this city. I run my mill efficiently and based on science. Facts are all that matter, sir. If it can be measured, it can be improved. I have little time when it comes to feelings. Feelings don’t pay the rent.’
‘And yet you support my brother-in-law in his musical endeavours. Is not the power of music a “feeling”?’ asked Dickens as politely as he could.
‘I do support Mr Burnett, and gladly, but my motives have a factual basis, a utilitarian foundation.’
‘And what are they?’ asked the physician.
‘Two reasons, sir. Firstly, my workers must enjoy some culture, they cannot live on work alone. It keeps them amused during their leisure hours. And secondly, Manchester is a great city, the centre of cotton production in England and the world. Why, last year, my own factory exported cotton goods as far afield as Chinee and the Indies. So you see, sir, we must maintain our leadership in the Arts as well as Industry. Our reputation depends on it. Otherwise, we might lose out to our neighbours to the West. I speak of the city of Liverpool, sir.’
‘And what of the riots last year. Have they ceased?’
‘The militia soon put them down. The rioters were nothing but ag
itators, saboteurs and infiltrators, all of them. The Charter is a blueprint for chaos and anarchy.’
Mr Micawber, the banker, coughed. ‘For the last few years, the price of bread has risen and there were fewer markets for Manchester’s cotton, therefore wages declined. The situation for a worker can be simply put: annual income – twenty pounds; annual expenditure – nineteen nineteen and six; result – happiness. Annual income – twenty pounds; annual expenditure – twenty pounds ought and six; result – misery.’
‘You simplify too much, sir,’ said Mr Grindley. ‘Facts, facts, facts are all that should matter. And the fact is that cotton is doing well, therefore Manchester is happy. If cotton does badly, Manchester suffers.’
‘True, sir, but what of the education of your workers?’ asked William Gaskell. ‘Surely if they are to improve their lot in life that can only come about through the improvement of their learning.’
‘Bah humbug, sir, a little learning is a dangerous thing. And it becomes more dangerous when it is delivered by the likes of Mr Caulfield there at his Hall of Science.’
‘I must disagree, sir,’ protested Dickens, ‘I—’
Fanny clapped her hands. ‘Enough disputation, gentlemen. I feel it is time for some entertainment. I think you start, Charles, by showing us your magical tricks.’
The Christmas Carol: A Jayne Sinclair Genealogical Mystery Page 7