A foul stench arose from a bubble of gas that had somehow broken through the sludge that had once been a river. Dickens jerked his head back.
Robert Duckworth pointed to each chimney. ‘Over there is a tannery. Those two are dyeing factories. You can tell the colour they are using on any particular day by the hue of the river.’ He moved quicker now. ‘A brewery, tripe works, another dyer’s, a foundry, a fustian mill, a calico printers. All their waste and effluent flows into this river.’
‘You forgot the waste of forty thousand people. Where else can it go but down there?’
One of the young boys saw them watching from the bridge and waved.
Dickens waved back half-heartedly. ‘Why do people live like this, Mr Duckworth?’
Lizzie Burns answered for him. ‘How else would they live?’
Dickens nodded once. ‘I think I have seen enough.’
‘Good, let us repair to one of my favourite places in Manchester. A relic of the past, but one I am sure you will enjoy, Mr Dickens.’
Chapter twenty-FOUR
October 5, 1843
Manchester
They retraced their steps slightly before turning left and ascending a slight hill past a planless, knotted chaos of houses.
‘Where are we going, Robert?’
‘To see my friend, Mr Jones. Hopefully Mr Crossley will be there too. They are both excited to meet you.’
Suddenly, the dark, satanic walls of the mills vanished and Dickens was in another world. The buildings were constructed from sandstone and were low to the ground, possessing a singular elegance missing from the rest of Manchester’s architecture.
‘This is Chetham’s, Mr Dickens. Founded in 1653 and still going strong. The college is on the right, but we are going to the library.’
They passed a gatehouse and went through a cobbled yard. The stone buildings were obviously medieval in style.
‘Here we are,’ announced Robert Duckworth.
Lizzie Burns was hanging back. ‘You go ahead. I’ll wait here. My sex is not permitted to enter, for fear we’ll damage the books with our feminine spells. Or be somehow infected with the desire to learn. Neither is a prospect the library desires.’
Dickens hesitated for a second before he was pushed forward by Duckworth.
Inside the wood was dark and there was that peculiar smell of old books; a combination of mould, dust and learning.
They clattered up some old steps and were met at the top by an ancient librarian, his skin and beard so white he was almost albino. It was as if the man had not seen the light of day for decades. Next to him stood a much more energetic man, whose whole demeanour radiated enthusiasm.
‘May I present Mr Jones, the venerable librarian of Chetham’s, and the head of the society, Mr James Crossley.’
The old librarian mumbled a welcome while Crossley leapt forward to grab Dickens’ hand. ‘A pleasure to finally meet you, sir.’
Dickens shook his hand firmly.
In front of him, shelf after shelf of books rose to a barn-like ceiling. Each bookcase was barred and locked. Inside, Dickens could just make out ancient tomes bound in vellum, their titles etched in gold leaf.
‘It is a beautiful library, sir. I did not know the like existed in Manchester.’
‘It suffices,’ muttered the old librarian.
‘We too are proud of our ancient library. Some volumes date back to the sixteenth century.’
‘Almost as old as you, Mr Jones,’ Robert Duckworth said light-heartedly.
The librarian cupped his ear. ‘What? What was that?’
James Crossley held out his arm. ‘Come this way into the Reading Room, Dickens.’
The room was wood panelled and quiet. A coat of arms hung over a marble fireplace. On the round table in front, two scholars were examining an old book together, their heads close. In the window alcove, a single man was writing, checking some figures from a book.
Crossley leant in, seeing where Dickens was looking. ‘A strange man. German, I think, from the Rhineland. Always borrowing books on political economy, family owns a mill in Salford. Now if you’d care to sign our visitors book, Mr Dickens, I would be obliged to you.’
An open book lay on the desk next to the two scholars. Dickens took the proffered pen, writing the date in letters and signing his name with the usual flourish of curlicues at the bottom.
Dickens then passed the pen to Robert Duckworth, who signed his name in a beautiful script below that of Dickens.
Mr Jones sniffed twice, eyeing Robert suspiciously. He brought the book up close to his face, blowing on the ink to ensure it dried.
‘Capital, Mr Dickens. Can I treat you to a glass or three of Madeira?’ said Crossley.
Dickens checked the time on the large grandfather clock in the corner. ‘I think not, Mr Crossley. I have to deliver my lecture at eight this evening and I would like time to revisit it beforehand.’
They shook hands. ‘Thank you for your time, and if you require anything in the future, please let me know.’
‘I will, without hesitation.’ Dickens turned to his young companion. ‘We should leave before Miss Burns abandons us.’
‘Of course, Mr Dickens.’
He stood for a moment in the library, gazing at the long rows of books, each in the locked and barred cabinets. ‘Such a wonderful place. Remind me to send you some of my books,’ he said to Crossley.
‘We would be honoured, wouldn’t we, Mr Jones?’
‘Naturally, all books are welcome,’ sniffed Mr Jones again, ‘even those from popular authors.’
From the sound of Mr Jones’s voice, it seemed popular was not a compliment.
Chapter twenty-FIVE
October 5, 1843
Manchester
They rejoined Lizzie outside. She had been sitting on a bench at the front door, waiting for them impatiently. ‘About time, I thought you’d got lost in there.’
‘Nearly,’ admitted Dickens. ‘I fear time has no meaning in Chetham’s. Where to next, Mr Duckworth?’
‘I thought you wanted to return to your hotel, Mr Dickens?’
‘I do, but not now. It was necessary to tell a little white lie to escape. Much as I adore libraries, I fear being trapped in one is something Dantesque, a version of hell. One needs always to get out and about, to see the world as if it were a magic lantern. In a library, one only sees the world through the eyes of others, not oneself.’
‘But education is important, is it not, Mr Dickens?’
‘It is key, Mr Duckworth, but it has to be part of our world, not separate from it.’
They walked on past the cathedral and into Deansgate. The area had changed once again, now becoming more elegant and mercantile. Large warehouses, banks, shops, law offices and showrooms abounded.
‘This is Manchester’s centre of commerce, Mr Dickens.’
‘Grindley told me about it. The place where money is made.’
‘It is,’ said Lizzie, walking in front of the two men, ‘and another place so full of charlatans, rogues, vagabonds and thieves could not be imagined.’
‘It is not the making of money that is evil, Miss Burns, but the lack of sharing of it. Want and ignorance are the true evil, not those who make money.’
‘You should write a book on that theme, Mr Dickens,’ she replied.
‘I should, shouldn’t I?’ said Dickens under his breath.
Chapter twenty-SIX
Wednesday, December 18, 2019
Central Library, Manchester
Jayne ordered a latte and a cheese and ham sandwich for herself. Ronald had tap water.
‘You’re sure you don’t want to eat?’
‘Positive. I don’t like eating outside, I prefer to cook for myself.’
‘You cook at home?’
‘Always. Tomato soup. I’m very good at cooking tomato soup. And two slices of bread. I always make sure I have bread. The grains, you know.’
Jayne looked at him. ‘You only eat tomato soup
? Doesn’t it get boring?’
He stared back, not really understanding the question. ‘No, I really like it.’
They sat at the back of the café with their backs to the wall. After a minute or so, Ronald appeared to relax, asking, ‘What are we going to do next?’
Between mouthfuls of sandwich, Jayne mumbled, ‘Good question.’ She sipped her coffee, washing down the last of the food. She pulled out her laptop and showed him the list, ‘Here are the five contenders we have at the moment.’
Birth
Address
Family
Job
Residence
1806
Rogers Rd
Elizabeth, 4 children
Calico Printer
Angel Meadow
1811
Minehead St
Sarah, 2 children
Cotton Weaver
Ancoats
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
She scratched her head. ‘It could be any of these people.’
‘How do we narrow it down further?’
Jayne thought for a long time. ‘We’ve basically exhausted all the relevant Manchester documents. We could check out the parish records for these people, but that would only give us more information about them. What we really need is to discover a link between one of them and Charles Dickens. And particularly his visit to Manchester in October 1843.’
‘How do we do that?’
Ronald was relentless in his questioning. Jayne wracked her brain for an answer. She looked out over the library, focusing on the signs for the local studies department. Had she missed anything? Was there a resource that she had forgotten about? The librarian was still behind her desk, moving between her computer and a stack of files.
She drained the last of her coffee and stood up. ‘Come on, Ronald.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘When in doubt, talk to an expert.’
Chapter twenty-SEVEN
October 5, 1843
Manchester
They strode down Deansgate, past the butchers with its feast of carcasses; chickens, rabbits, ducks, turkeys, geese and pigs, all hanging from hooks in the open air. Three pigs’ heads and two geese were placed above the butcher’s block, as if staring at the man’s work on the carcasses of their relatives.
The geese always reminded Dickens of Christmas. There was nothing better than a roasted bird dripping with fat on a dining table.
The butcher, blood spattered on his once-clean white apron, was sharpening his knives on a whet stone, the rasping sound like the rattle of ghostly chains.
They turned the corner into Campfield and were at once confronted by the elegant columns of a splendid building. ‘The Hall of Science, Mr Dickens, founded on the principles of Robert Owen.’
Dickens glanced across at Lizzie Burns. ‘Wasn’t he a mill owner?’
She blushed.
‘He was, Mr Dickens, a most enlightened one. He believed the education, health and wellbeing of the working man was as important as the goods they created,’ answered Robert.
They ran up the stairs. They were immediately greeted by a factotum and welcomed generously to the Hall of Science. Inside was a large concert hall and numerous reading and lecture rooms. Dickens noticed a poster for a mesmerist, Spencer Hall, who was to give an exhibition of his art on Saturday.
‘I’ve seen three thousand people here on a Sunday night for a popular speaker like Mr Watt,’ said Robert proudly.
‘And the fairer sex is allowed to enter?’ asked Dickens, looking across at two women engaged in conversation.
‘The fairer sex, as you put it, is encouraged to enter,’ pronounced Lizzie firmly.
They walked on past another group of people, listening to a speaker talking about the poetry of Byron and Shelley. ‘Most of these people are working, are they not?’
‘Most work in the mills or warehouses hereabouts.’
‘If they are working long hours, how do they find the time to come here?’
‘How can they not find the time, Mr Dickens? Men—’
‘And women,’ interrupted Lizzie.
‘—are not succoured by food and drink alone. If the working man is to achieve the aims of the Charter…’
‘Universal suffrage?’
‘That is the main demand, yes, but there are others. If they are to achieve it, only education can help. Only education can set mankind free. And not just the study of books, Mr Dickens, but of who and what he is.’
They walked past one room. Dickens could hear the sound of raised voices. Robert pushed open the door and the sound of a Christmas carol suddenly filled the air around them.
The choir was arrayed on a balcony overlooking a meeting room that looked more like a small chapel than anything else.
A conductor in the well of the room maintained the tempo with a firm stroke of his baton.
HARK! the Herald Angels sing
Glory to the new-born King!
Peace on Earth, and Mercy mild,
God and Sinners reconcil’d.
Joyful all ye Nations rise,
Join the Triumphs of the Skies;
Nature rise and worship him,
Who is born at Bethlehem.
‘Isn’t it a little early to sing carols?’
‘Not if they want to be ready for Christmas,’ answered Robert.
Dickens thought of his own preparations; his magic tricks, the trips to the toy shop hunting for presents for the children, the laborious preparation of Christmas pies and cakes and sweetmeats. He loved it all. A time when families came together to celebrate, when want and greed and money were forgotten.
He stood there and listened to the voices offering up praise for the joy of Christmas. Had people forgotten this simple joy? Had people become so obsessed with utility and efficiency that they no longer celebrated Christmas?
Hail the Heav’n-born Prince of Peace
Hail the Son of Righteousness!
Light and Life around he brings,
Ris’n with Healing in his Wings.
Mild he lays his Glory by,
Born that Men no more may die;
Born to raise the sons of Earth,
Born to give them second Birth.
Dickens loved the idea of being given a ‘second birth’. To rise again from some earth-bound hell and rediscover what it was to be a man.
The voices rose and the music soared to a dramatic end. The carol finished, and the conductor at the front tapped his music stand with a baton. ‘A competent rendition, but where is the joy, ladies and gentlemen, where is the joy?’
It was a question Dickens was asking himself.
Chapter twenty-EIGHT
Wednesday, December 18, 2019
Central Library, Manchester
Jayne strode up to the librarian’s desk. ‘I wonder if you could help us?’
The woman looked up and smiled.
‘We’re looking for the links between Charles Dickens and Manchester, particularly his visit here in 1843?’
The woman’s smile broadened. ‘Dickens? Funny you should ask, I did my dissertation on him at uni. My studies were on Bleak House , though.’
‘Great, so you can help us?’
She stood up. ‘We’ve got rather a lot of stuff on him. All the books, obviously, plus he’s mentioned in quite a few of the Manchester biographies of the time – Edward Watkin, Elizabeth Gaskell, James Crossley, Richard Cobden. His sister lived in Manchester during the 1840s. You could all check all the articles on JSTOR?’
‘What’s JSTOR?’ asked Ronald.
‘A depository of academic dissertations, ar
ticles and theses. There’s lots on Dickens there, you may find what you’re looking for.’
‘Sounds great.’
‘Give me a moment and I’ll get all the books for you. You can log on to JSTOR on the computer over there.’
Jayne and Ronald sat down beside the computer as the librarian searched for the correct books. They logged on to the website and in the search area typed in ‘Charles Dickens’ and ‘Manchester’.
There were 743 results.
‘That’s too many. Let’s try searching for “ A Christmas Carol ” and “Manchester”,’ said Jayne.
Now 121 results.
‘Better. Let’s start here and then we can expand later if we have to.’
They began reading the first few articles. Most seemed to be general academic studies of Dickens that mentioned A Christmas Carol . After they had read eleven articles and found nothing of interest, the librarian returned carrying a pile of books.
‘These are what we have on hand. They are mainly biographies and memoirs of the leading citizens of Manchester during the period. Plus a few biographies of Dickens we have, including the first one written by his friend, John Forster, in the year after he died.’
Jayne stared at the mountain of books. ‘Ronald, do you feel comfortable checking out the articles while I go through the books?’
Ronald nodded, still staring at the screen.
Jayne found space on the table and began going through the old books one by one, checking in the index for references to ‘Duckworth’, ‘1843’, or ‘Charles Dickens’.
After ten books, she had merely confirmed what she already knew. Dickens was in Manchester in October 1843, and he had made a speech at the Athenaeum but there was no mention of a Robert Duckworth.
She picked up the eleventh book, Dickens: Interviews and Recollections , published in 1981. It was a book of contemporary accounts of Dickens’ life and work. She flicked through it and finally found gold. An account of the meeting at the Athenaeum by Sir Edward Watkin MP, who was a Director of the Institution. She read it through quickly looking for the name of Robert Duckworth.
The Christmas Carol: A Jayne Sinclair Genealogical Mystery Page 12