‘It is so loud, Mr Grindley,’ shouted Dickens.
‘You can’t spin cotton by being quiet.’
Dickens stared at the hive of activity in front of him. The mules made a clack, clack, clack as they moved backwards and forwards on their cast-iron wheels set in grooves on the pine floor, the spindles spinning rapidly to wind on the lengths of cotton.
In front of the machines, workers – both men and women – attended to the spindles, moving quickly from one to the other, repairing breakages and ensuring the shuttles were running freely. Beneath the mules, Dickens could see the small figures of children crawling between the moving machinery, the fingers reaching up and darting down to avoid being caught by the moving metal arms.
The air was damp and humid, thick with motes and fibres of cotton dust floating like a thin mist above the machines.
He bent close to Mr Grindley’s face and shouted in his ear, ‘Why is it so hot?’
‘To prevent the cotton drying and breaking. Cotton loves damp and warmth. Even in the middle of winter, we keep our mill nice and cosy.’
One or two of the workers glanced up at Dickens quickly before returning back to the shuttles and their cotton.
‘How long do people work here, Mr Grindley?’
‘Only twelve hours a day, Mr Dickens. I don’t believe people should work longer than that. Plus they have every Sunday off for church and the like.’
Dickens coughed twice, finding the fibres irritating his throat. A worker in front of him raised her hand and, almost mechanically, another took her place as she left the mule.
‘Time for a water break. The cotton dries the throat, Mr Dickens. And talking of dry throats, would you like to partake of some luncheon? I have rather a pleasant wine I’d like you to try.’
‘That would be most agreeable, Mr Grindley.’
The mill owner took him by the arm and led him from the floor. Dickens took one last look over his shoulder at the never-ceasing movement of the machines and the people manning them.
Nobody looked back at him.
Chapter twenty
Wednesday, December 18, 2019
Christie’s Bistro, Manchester
Jayne Sinclair turned up early at Christie’s Bistro to find Tom Smithson already waiting for her.
The contrast between this meeting and her last at Mackie Mayor couldn’t have been more obvious. Here she was surrounded by books, stained-glass windows, high ceilings and portraits of old professors of the university.
‘Have you ever been here before, Mrs Sinclair?’
Jayne did a 360-degree turn to take in the place. ‘No, I haven’t. It’s impressive, isn’t it?’
‘It’s the old Science Library, now repurposed as a café and restaurant. I remember it when it was a quiet place to escape and read. Now it’s packed during term-time but, as you see,’ he pointed to the empty tables, ‘it’s a little bit too early for most students. Can I get you a coffee?’
‘No, please, it’s my treat as I am picking your brains this morning.’
‘I’ll have another latte then. My brain needs more of a kickstart than it used to when I was young and I find caffeine to be the one drug that works effectively.’
‘I know the feeling.’
After ordering lattes for both of them, Jayne returned to the comfortable armchairs and sat down.
‘How can I help you, Mrs Sinclair? I’m afraid I must be so direct as I have to leave in an hour for one of those interminable staff meetings to discuss cleaning arrangements. The bane of any lecturer’s life, I’m afraid.’
‘No problem, Mr Smithson. I’d like you to tell me as much as you can about Charles Dickens and his relationship with Manchester.’
The old don nodded his head. ‘Before I answer your question, may I ask why you are so interested in this topic? I thought you said you were a genealogical researcher?’
‘I am, but I’ve been asked to find the family of a Robert Duckworth who lived in the city in the 1840s.’ Jayne continued to explain the request from Michael Underwood and Ronald Welsh, showing Smithson the photocopies of the book.
‘Fascinating. This would be a discovery of immense proportions in the world of Dickens scholarship. Firstly, an unknown first edition, and secondly, a link to the city and Dickens’ visit here in October 1843.’
‘He did come here?’
‘Oh, definitely. The speech at the fundraising event in support of the Athenaeum was reported in all the major newspapers, including the Manchester Guardian .’
‘So there is a possibility that the dedication on this book is important?’
‘More than important. Vital for understanding Dickens and his work, particularly his most popular novella, A Christmas Carol .’
‘Did he come to Manchester often?’
‘Many times, both to give readings, open libraries and to visit his sister and her children until her death in 1848. It is believed her child, Harry, was the inspiration for Tiny Tim in the book, but I have my doubts.’
‘Why?’
‘Harry was described as weak and sickly. Tiny Tim is far more handicapped, needing to be carried everywhere by his father, Bob Cratchit. At the end of the novella, Dickens portrays a happy future for Tiny Tim under the benevolent watch of Scrooge. In truth, Harry died six years later in January 1849. Even worse, Dickens’ beloved sister, Fanny, had died three months earlier.’
‘A sad story.’
‘Her husband, Henry Burnett, stayed in Manchester for at least ten years afterwards, marrying a woman from Bury in 1859.’
‘Dickens came back to see him?’
‘Probably not. He disapproved of his sister’s husband. The man’s religion meant that he had given up a career in the opera and forced Fanny to do the same. But Dickens had many friends in the city. Harrison Ainsworth, the novelist who wrote Rookwood and Jack Sheppard , was close for a time until they drifted apart. Dickens even met his mistress, Ellen Ternan, here when they both acted in a drama at the Free Trade Hall called The Frozen Deep . He eventually left his wife for this woman. The relationship was kept very quiet, though, for fear of offending Victorian morals and sensibility. You have to understand that Dickens was the rock star of his day, the most famous author in the world. Equivalent to a Mick Jagger or a George Michael.’
‘Or a David Bowie?’
‘Yes, he would be a better example.’
‘Does the name James Crossley ring any bells for you?’
‘Coming from Manchester, how could he not? He was the foremost collector of books in the city.’
‘Yesterday, one of my clients discovered an embossed symbol and a date in the book. It was 1848.’
‘Interesting, the date of Dickens’ sister’s death. A link, perhaps? Come to think of it, Crossley found the Chetham Society in 1843, the same year Dickens visited Manchester.’
‘Chetham Society?’
‘Really, Mrs Sinclair, you live in Manchester and you have never been to Chetham’s Library?’
Jayne shook her head. ‘Actually, it’s Ms Sinclair and I haven’t.’
‘The Portico Library? The Athenaeum? The Friends Meeting House? The Hidden Church?’
Jayne shook her head at all four.
‘It’s very Manchester to ignore the beauty of the city. You should come on one of my tours, where I explain the significance of all these places. You see, when Dickens visited Manchester it was the centre of the world’s cotton trade, the shock city of the Industrial Revolution. People came from all over the world to study the city; most were appalled at the conditions of the workers, but amazed at their productivity and industry. Engels wrote his ‘The Condition of the Working Class in England’ while living in the city and published it in 1844, the year after Dickens visited to open the Athenaeum. De Tocqueville, Tain and even Otto von Bismarck also came to marvel at the city’s excellence at manufacturing and moralise at the depths of its poverty.’
‘You said he gave a speech at the Athenaeum?’
‘You can
still see the building, it’s part of Manchester Art Gallery now. I think most people expected the standard address – happy to be here, a fine building, a worthy cause. You know the sort of thing. But Dickens used the occasion to lambast the mill owners, bankers and worthies assembled before him, telling them to do more to educate people and improve society.’
‘I bet that went down well.’
‘Like a slap around the face with a dead mackerel. But ten days later, he started writing A Christmas Carol and expounded on those very themes. Nowadays, nobody remembers the mill owners but everybody knows the story of Ebenezer Scrooge and Tiny Tim. The enduring power of art over commerce, I think. But I would say that, I’m a lecturer.’
He glanced at the large clock on the wall.
Jayne quickly asked him another question. ‘Have you ever heard of Robert Duckworth?’
Tom Smithson shook his head slowly. ‘I do not recall the name ever coming up in my research. But reading the dedication, it is obvious that he and Dickens had a close friendship. As far as I remember, Dickens did send out signed editions of A Christmas Carol , but only to his closest business or personal acquaintances. He was very proud of this book and wanted to share it.’
The lecturer sat forward in his armchair and gathered his books.
‘Does any of these date or addresses seem familiar perhaps?’ She put the list of Robert Duckworths on the table she had discovered in the census. Smithson picked it up and read intently.
‘As I said, I’ve never come across a Robert Duckworth in my research. And looking at their occupations, these people are all mill workers. Dickens enjoyed the company of many people from different walks of life, but cotton piecers were not generally part of his normal milieu in Manchester.’
He handed the paper back to Jayne and stood up.
She thought quickly. ‘One last question, Mr Smithson – if you wanted to discover Robert Duckworth, where would you go?’
Smithson stared into mid-air and then pointed to the bookcase behind Jayne. ‘Given that James Crossley once owned this book, I would go to a library.’
‘Which one?’
‘The one he was most closely connected to. Chetham’s.’
‘It’s still in Manchester?’
‘And has been since 1653. You might find your missing Robert Duckworth there.’
‘Thank you for your time, Mr Smithson.’ She reached into her wallet. ‘If you think of anything else, please don’t hesitate to call me, Mr Smithson.’
He accepted the card and picked up his books, taking a few steps towards the door, before turning back. ‘You might also want to check out the John Rylands Library. Dickens and another Manchester writer, Elizabeth Gaskell, were close. He published her first short story and serialised her novels North and South and Cranford in his Household Words magazine. There are quite a few letters in the library from him to her.’
‘Thanks, I’ll bear it in mind. I still want to go to Central Library and check out the rate books and the parish registers.’
He turned to go and then turned back once more. ‘You know, I would love to see the book.’
‘It’s being auctioned tomorrow, but I can ask my clients if they could let you see it before it leaves the country.’
‘It’s going to America?’
‘They believe an American library will buy it.’
He shook his head. ‘Shame. What a shame.’
Chapter twenty-ONE
October 5, 1843
Manchester
Dickens was feeling rather full as he waited outside the cast-iron gates of Grindley’s mill, even though he had eaten little of the vast array of dishes on offer.
Northern mill owners were proud of keeping a good table for lunch. Tongues in aspic, cold collations, a selection of fowl, roasted and boiled vegetables, desserts, cakes, trifles, puddings and nutty Cheshire cheeses, all accompanied by the most excellent Rieslings and a fine port.
The company had been fascinating; Silas Grindley was obviously proud of the factory and its productivity. His managers were quiet in his company, only speaking when asked a direct question.
‘And what do you do, Mr Fotheringill?’
‘He makes me money is what he does, Mr Dickens,’ interrupted Grindley. ‘Fotheringill here is the best maintenance engineer of steam engines in the city. My engines are always working, never a day off for steam, hey, Fotheringill?’
‘No, sir, Mr Grindley. Mr Roberts and Mr Fairbairn builds a fine engine. As long as you look after her, she will look after you.’
‘You use the feminine pronoun, Mr Fotheringill?’ asked Dickens.
For the first time the man looked animated. ‘Indeed I do, Mr Dickens.’
‘The steam engines are as temperamental as women and twice as expensive to run,’ said Grindley. ‘But in Fotheringill’s good hands they become as docile as whipped dogs.’
‘Thank you, Mr Grindley. I will remember that for the future.’
Dickens checked his gold hunter. The man, this Mr Duckworth, was late. Dickens felt decidedly uncomfortable standing outside the factory gates, everybody staring at him as they walked by.
Where was he??
Just as Dickens was about to turn and re-enter the mill, a man ran up and shouted, ‘Mr Dickens, Mr Dickens.’ He was slight and small, but with a pleasing freshness and innocence, not more than twenty-five years old, Dickens guessed.
‘Sorry I’m late, sir. It took me longer than I expected.’
The man was slightly out of breath and the voice was northern, that mixture of vowel sounds resembling brass and muck.
‘Are you Mr Duckworth?’ Dickens asked.
‘I am, sir.’ A woman joined him, panting too.
‘Sent by Mrs Gaskell to guide me around Manchester?’
‘Again correct, sir. And this is Miss Lizzie Burns.’
The woman nodded her head.
‘And you are to guide me too?’
‘I am, surr.’ This voice was decidedly Irish. She was dressed in the shawls and long skirts common for the workers in the mills, but there was none of the deference usually displayed by the factory hands about this woman. She looked him straight in the eye with her head held high rather than staring down at her feet. ‘And what does Mr Dickens want to see?’
‘Everything. The good, the bad and the phenomenally ugly.’
‘There is plenty of the last in Manchester,’ said Lizzie Burns.
‘Lizzie knows areas of Manchester where even I would not dare to go, Mr Dickens,’ added Robert Duckworth.
‘Lead on, MacDuff.’
They began to walk down the road away from the mill. ‘It’s “lay on”, Mr Dickens.’
‘Pardon?’
‘The quote from Macbeth. It’s “lay on, MacDuff”.’
‘You have read your Shakespeare, Mr Duckworth?’
‘I have, sir,’ said the man, proudly. ‘All except the later plays. But I’m working my way round to them when I have the time.’
‘And when you don’t?’
‘I work to support my family, sir.’
‘Your profession?’
‘A clerk, sir. To an ancient firm of solicitors, Voles and Harmison.’
‘Yet you have time to guide me today?’
‘I have recently been dismissed, Mr Dickens.’
Dickens frowned. ‘Dismissed? What for?’
‘I had the temerity to request a day off at Christmas.’
‘And you were dismissed from your post?’
‘Precisely, sir. Mr Voles was most adamant that Christmas Day was one of the normal working days of the year.’
‘How will you survive?’
‘I will get by. Something will turn up. The good Lord will provide.’
Dickens glanced across at Lizzie Burns. ‘You have a wife and children?’
Robert Duckworth saw the look and answered immediately. ‘I do, sir. A wife and two children. Lizzie here is a friend from the Hall of Science.’
‘Hall of Science?
’
‘A place where working men and women can meet and talk and read and discuss the issues of the day.’
‘I would like to see such a place.’
‘We were planning on showing you it today,’ said Lizzie over her shoulder.
They reached a crossroads. Duckworth stopped and pointed left. ‘That way is to Piccadilly, the hospital and your hotel. Straight on is Angel Meadow and the River Irk.’
‘What do you suggest, Mr Duckworth?’
‘If you want to see how people really live, I would go straight on.’ Lizzie issued the challenge to Dickens.
‘I see no point in returning from whence I came. Not yet, anyway. Lay on, Mr Duckworth and Miss Burns.’
‘You might not like what you see, Mr Dickens, being a gentleman and all that.’
Again, the memories of shoe-blacking in London flashed through his mind. If only they knew what he had been through. ‘I have seen a lot in London, Miss Burns.’
‘You haven’t seen Angel Meadow.’
They carried on walking, Lizzie Burns leading the way.
Across the street a sweep was pushing his cart followed by two coal-blackened boys, one of whom was eating a sooty piece of bread with relish. ‘Weep, Weee-eeeep for hire. Weeeeeppppp,’ he shouted as the other boy banged a sooty drum, staring at the pedestrians, their white eyes and teeth a stark contrast to their soot-blackened faces.
On the road next to them, carts hurried past laden with bales of cotton or rolls of finished goods, the rattle of their metalled wheels a sharp contrast to the deep throb of the steam engines and the clatter of the looms in the mills lining the road.
Dickens looked around, taking it all in, making mental notes of all the sights and sounds; the streets of Manchester his own magic lantern showing him image after image.
Lizzie turned a corner. ‘Angel Street is this way. Most of the people here are Irish. Some from Mayo and Roscommon, others from Tipperary. There’s even a few spalpeens from Cork, but we avoid those tinkers.’
In the blink of an eye, the area had changed. On the main roads, the gutters were relatively clean and the streets cobbled. But just a few steps away, they became little more than compacted earth with a trench on either side, filled with foul-smelling mud.
The Christmas Carol: A Jayne Sinclair Genealogical Mystery Page 10