The Bobbin Girls

by Freda Lightfoot

  Harry was not promoted to the job of foreman and was, in consequence, bitterly disappointed. Everyone in the mill had been certain he would get it. Even Bill Lindale, when he walked into the lathe shop to make the announcement, cast a sorrowful glance in his direction by way of apology.

  Boring but safe Arthur Thistlethwaite was given the job instead.

  ‘Well, he might save our souls.’ Edith dryly remarked. ‘But that’s about all.’

  ‘Which will do naught to put any more bread on our plates,’ Minnie grimly agreed.

  ‘Right, Arthur, what we need is better wages and shorter hours,’ Annie Cockcroft informed him. A stocky, determined little person with a fiery temper, she was not a woman to be ignored.

  ‘And a new lavatory,’ Deirdre giggled to a chorus of approval. They all hated the three closets, only one of which was functional since the middle one hadn’t worked for years and the end seat was covered with a board and piece of sacking for the girls to enjoy an illegal break if they wanted a cigarette. It had been known to hold as many as five girls, all gossiping and smoking in that one cubicle.

  ‘Nay, that ain’t my job,’ he mourned. ‘I’m on the side of management now.’

  ‘Whoever told you that rubbish?’ Edith scorned. ‘See if you can get Lizzie back. We need her to make our dinners. I’m fair sick of sandwiches. She looked after us, Lizzie did. Put plasters on our cuts and injuries. We need her. She’ll happen come back part-time, if she gets enough money to help pay someone to mind Ray.’

  Alena didn’t hear any of this for she was taking very little interest in the conversation at all. Her troubled eyes were fixed on Dolly, who was even now casting languishing glances in the direction of Danny Fielding. Had it really been her wild sister-in-law under the bridge? Up to God knew what with that no-good piece of work. How could she, when she was married to Tom? And what should Alena do about it?

  ‘Got dust in your eye?’ Dolly remarked, coming to stand by her while the list of tasks for the new foreman continued to lengthen, and the debate heated up.

  Annoyed she’d been caught out in her curiosity, Alena hissed furiously, ‘Are you quite mad? What do you think you’re playing at?’ At which Dolly pushed her face close up to Alena’s and spat the words back at her.

  ‘What am I playing at? I’m minding me own bloody business. Which is what you’d best do, if you know what’s good for you.’

  Annie Cockcroft’s booming voice rang out again. ‘And ask for a new first aid box while you’re at it, lad. We’ve naught left in this one bar an eye bath and a bit of old bandage and sticking plaster.’ Poor Arthur began to look bemused by this growing list of requirements, quite changing his mind about his good fortune and wishing that someone else had got the foreman’s job. It didn’t seem to occur to him to exercise the new authority he’d been given and send them all back to their machines.

  Mickey didn’t join in the conversation either, half his attention being on Alena, the rest on Bill Lindale who remained in the lathe shop, frowning at the fracas resulting from this management decision which had been made in spite of his advice to the contrary. Mickey kept his head down, wanting Lindale to see how hard he was working, but he made sure he took in the gist of what was being said, in case it should come in useful later.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Alena grasp hold of her sister-in-law’s arm and heard the fierce hiss of her voice. ‘If you were to mend your ways, then maybe it would be easier for me to mind my own business.’

  Now what, he wondered, was all that about?

  Alena was furious with Dolly. How could she be so cruel to poor Tom? First trapping him into marriage and then betraying him. What sort of wife would do such a thing? It made her heart ache to think how differently she would behave with Rob, given the chance. At least Sandra, she noticed with some satisfaction, was the first to offer sympathy to Harry.

  ‘They’ll realise their mistake,’ Alena heard her say, as the girl reached out to touch his arm. ‘They’ve picked the wrong man. You are by far the best one for the job,’

  ‘In your opinion.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Alena couldn’t help feeling pleased to see the two smiling into each other’s eyes. They’d been seen walking out together once or twice since the Sunday Sandra had helped him with the letter. And even though his application hadn’t paid off, this new friendship might be doing them both a world of good. Alena knew that her friend was tired of living with her aunt, who apparently found the responsibility of bringing up her brother’s daughter something of a chore. Most of all, Sandra longed for someone to love and cherish her for her own sake, and not out of duty. A feeling Alena could sympathise with entirely. Didn’t everyone long to be loved?

  Where was Rob? Did he still love her? If so, why didn’t he come home?

  Olivia sat at her dressing table asking herself the very same question. One hand clenched tightly around a silver hairbrush, the other clutching the nightgown to her throat.

  ‘It’s all right, don’t fret,’ her husband snarled. ‘I’m not about to ravish you. If you won’t come to me willingly, I’ll certainly not make you. I came to enquire if you’ve done anything yet about my request for one of your dinner parties?’

  ‘Yet another scheme to dupe some poor fool into doing you a favour? And using my services to achieve it, without a care as to what I really want from life.’

  ‘What can you possibly want that I haven’t generously provided?’ James tetchily responded. ‘You could try being equally generous with me.’

  ‘Generous? Why should I be generous when you’ve robbed me of my precious child? Why won’t you allow him to come home? I thought you loved him.’

  ‘I do love him. He’s my son.’ James said it with the kind of possessiveness in his tone that he might use over a horse or piece of land.

  ‘Well then.’ Olivia felt quite light-headed with nervous energy, and what she recognised in herself as lonely despair. There were days when she could feel depression settle upon her like a suffocating shroud. She’d long since given up on her marriage, accepting its stultifying limits with dull resignation. She was expected to be grateful because James didn’t have affairs, or, if he did, with such supreme discretion she’d detected no sign, apart from that little fling with a housekeeper some years ago. Even that hadn’t lasted long for he’d quickly come to regret it and dispensed with the woman’s services without any prompting from his wife. But then James was quite unable to express love and tenderness, so perhaps the woman left of her own accord.

  Olivia stared at her reflection in the mirror, mentally tracing the fine lines around the eyes, the droop of discontentment at the corners of her mouth. Where had her youth gone? When had she grown older? Life is passing me by, she thought, fear joining the tumult of emotions surging inside her, together with a righteous anger.

  She needed warmth in her life. Love. No one should be expected to live without it. And if her husband had none to give her, then where else could she find it but from her precious son? She wanted - needed - Rob. Why had he driven the boy away? Was James so blindly arrogant that he didn’t realise they risked losing him entirely? Not once in all these years had the boy been allowed home on a proper visit. ‘Your sister in Edinburgh sees more of him than I do, his own mother. And you’ve only allowed me to visit the school twice. It won’t do, James, it simply won’t do.’

  Recognising the rising tension in her voice, and the way she kept picking up brushes and perfume bottles and clattering them down again in that agitated manner he had come to detest, James attempted to defuse the situation. ‘Very well. I’ll buy you a train ticket tomorrow. You can go and visit the boy. Take him out to tea. Then go on and stay with my sister for a while in Edinburgh. Perhaps the change of scene will do you good. We can postpone the dinner until you get back.’

  At which point he walked from the room thereby putting an end to the discussion. Olivia threw the silver brush after him. It hit the closed door, and she hated h
erself for losing control.

  Days later, she stood at Lake Side station, calm and almost regal in an emerald velvet travelling suit, very much the squire’s lady. And if, with the matching hat which cost more than all of Birkwith Row spent on bread in a month, and a cluster of fashionable luggage at her feet, she appeared to have everything in the world that a woman could ask for, then that was only because no one could see into her heart. Except perhaps Frank Roscoe, who, suddenly appearing from the huddle of station buildings by the lake, caught his breath at sight of her pale beautiful face.

  Thanking his lucky stars that he had on his best blue serge suit and was wearing a tie today in place of his usual muffler, it being a Saturday and he on his way to a hound trail meeting, he politely doffed his neat checked cap and introduced himself.

  ‘Ah, yes, Mr Roscoe. You found our two naughty runaways.’ Her beautiful eyes lit up and, without hesitation, she shook his blue-stained hand. ‘I’m on my way to see Robert now as a matter of fact, at his school in Northumberland. Then I go on to visit my sister-in-law in Edinburgh, if she’ll have me.’ She gave a tinkling laugh, suddenly feeling delightfully light-hearted at the prospect of a few weeks away, almost like a holiday.

  Oh, and she was undeniably glad to be going! But what she wanted more than anything was to bring Rob home. Then why didn’t she do that? Why didn’t she disobey James’s hard-hearted rules and fight for her son? Even as she considered the impossibility of this dream she felt the tears start, right there on the station platform. Utterly shaming. She became aware of Frank Roscoe watching her, not with criticism but kind concern, and dabbed at her eyes with a scented handkerchief.

  ‘Mothers,’ she laughed. ‘So soft where their sons are concerned.’

  ‘Indeed, I remember him as a son to be proud of. But what a coincidence! I’m heading over the border myself, by way of business.’ Frank lied with such smoothness that he almost believed it himself. Olivia, looking into the velvet brown eyes in the weathered face, hadn’t a single doubt.

  ‘Oh, how splendid.’

  The train rushed into the small station, making everyone jump and cover their ears against its piercing whistle whilst shielding their eyes and noses from the belching steam and smoke. Frank gathered up Olivia’s luggage with careless ease and stowed it safely aboard, with himself beside her on the plush leather seat.

  Chapter Ten

  In the days following the appointment of the new foreman, the atmosphere at the mill became strained, as if no one quite knew what to expect or what was expected of them. Arthur did his best but often became confused and uncertain, left in no doubt that most of the workers would have preferred Harry in the job.

  Sandra’s mind was fully occupied as she worked on the blocking machine. She desperately prayed that his lack of promotion would not impede her growing friendship with Harry. But then she also prayed that something more than friendship would grow between them. She liked to think that Harry appreciated her support at this difficult time. He hadn’t yet asked her out, but then he understood her difficulties with Aunt Elsie. There were times when Sandra hated her aunt, which was really quite dreadful. Almost a sin. But was he serious about her, or simply enjoying her company as a friend when he walked her home a couple of evenings a week? She longed to know but didn’t dare ask, for fear of scaring him off.

  If only she had more confidence in herself, could dazzle him with her wit and charm and enchant him as Alena plainly enchanted Mickey Roscoe. Not that her friend noticed or even seemed to care half the time, what effect she had on that young man.

  Sandra struggled to keep her mind on her work. On this machine she had to push the tops of the thinner poles against a saw which sliced them into suitable lengths for bobbins, though still of differing diameters at this stage. These rough blocks would become the 24s, used for sewing, and consequently very small. It was a monotonous job that grew ever more taxing as the hours slipped by and feet and fingers grew colder. The most difficult part was holding the final inches of pole when fingers were dangerously close to the saw which, on this machine, had to be constantly sharpened to be safe.

  Driven by a fast pulley there was no safety guard and it was impossible to lock off the pulley while the blade was sharpened as this would have wasted time, and time was money, so it was left to run loose. Sometimes everything went smoothly; at other times, like this morning, her fingers felt clumsy and nervous. The blade never seemed sharp enough, and the pulley did indeed seem to be playing fast and loose with her. For this reason, out of all the machines in the mill, Sandra hated this one the most.

  It was very nearly twelve-thirty and her thoughts were already straying to a half-hour break with her feet up, a mug of tea and the potted meat sandwiches she’d made for herself. The bread would not be fresh, and certainly there’d be more jelly than meat between the slices. Even so, as soon as the hooter sounded, she thankfully left the machine and hurried to the canteen.

  Many of the girls were already seated at the trestle table with Lizzie once more installed in the kitchen, for at least a few hours each morning, from whence came the tantalising aroma of vegetable broth. This would also contain her famous suet dumplings, Sandra guessed, as light as they were warm and filling. Without hesitation she bought a dish of the broth with her last few pennies and ate the food with gratitude, feeling the welcome heat of it spread through her stomach, her fingers and toes tingle as life returned to them.

  ‘You were ready for that,’ Alena teased, laughing at the speed with which she’d cleaned her plate. Sandra told her just how cold it was in the outer workshop, how she hated the blocking machine and how she was all fingers and thumbs this morning.

  ‘I can’t seem to get it to run smoothly. Perhaps it’s simply too difficult for me?’

  ‘Don’t run yourself down all the time, Sandra.’

  ‘Doesn’t everyone see me as stupid, a silly creature who is the butt of all their jokes?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ With shame Alena recalled her own laughter at the girl’s dog-like devotion to Harry. `You can change with me, if you like?’

  ‘Really? Oh, do you think Arthur would agree?’

  Seeing him seated at a corner of the table, Alena said, ‘Let’s ask.’

  He had no objection to the girls making the swap. Unlike his predecessor, so long as the work was done, he didn’t much care who did it. So it was Alena who went back to the dreaded blocking machine when the half hour was up, and Sandra to one of the pressing machines, upon which Alena had been working.

  Alena picked up the first pole, a good four feet long and little more than three inches in diameter, and while Sandra sat down with a sigh of relief, feeling much more able to manage, she started work with some trepidation. She really didn’t like it any more than Sandra did, but had wanted to prove her support and friendship. She set the pulley to run fast and as she pushed in the first pole of wood towards the rotating blade, Sandra happily pulled down the lever on the pressing machine, which instantly slipped from her grasp. She laughed as, with the pressure released, it sprang back - whereupon a block of wood flew free and at 4,000 revs per minute, struck her right in the eye.

  No one, not even Alena when she was informed of the accident, was allowed to go with Sandra to the local cottage hospital where she was taken, still unconscious, in Bill Lindale’s old Ford motor.

  To be one girl short was bad enough, he said, he certainly couldn’t afford to have two off work.

  Silent and grim-faced, the rest of the workers stayed at their machines, taking perhaps more care than usual.

  At the end of the shift, Edith drew Alena to one side. ‘I had a look at that lever on the pressing machine and, as I suspected, it were covered in greasy fat. Someone meant her hands to slip.’ The old woman sagely nodded her grey head. ‘A common enough trick, often played on newcomers for all it’s a dangerous one. But in this case, I don’t reckon it were meant for poor Sandra at all. No one expected you to change machines at dinner time. I’d say it w
ere meant for you, Alena. You should watch your back, lass. Someone’s out to get you. And I reckon I know who it might be.’

  ‘You’ve no need to tell me, Edith. I already know.’

  Alena tackled Dolly on the subject right away, catching her before she had time to make her way home. `Why? What’s your game? I thought we’d agreed all the practical jokes were over.’

  The mill yard was quickly emptying as workers turned up coat collars, tightened scarves, pulled out bicycles and hurried to avoid the first spatter of icy raindrops that was being flung at them in a funnel of wind from the hills that hung above the valley. Dolly, looking as if she’d like to hurry after them, did not offer her usual smirk. In fact, she appeared pale and shocked by the incident. ‘Why blame me, Alena Townsen? Why would I hurt Sandra?’

  ‘Because you meant it for me, not her. You didn’t expect us to swap, did you? Nobody changed machines under Stan, but Arthur is new and a bit soft. I know why you did it. It’s because I saw you under the bridge with Danny.’

  ‘We were only talking,’ Dolly mumbled, fearful suddenly that the very trees around them might have ears, and the information somehow reach Tom. ‘It were just for a laugh, anyroad. What’s wrong with a bit of a joke?’

  Alena drew in her breath slowly, appalled by the direction her relationship with Dolly was taking and desperately determined to say nothing that would make matters worse, for Tom’s sake at least. Yet her head was buzzing with words she’d like to use, given half a chance. ‘Some joke! That "accident" was too dangerous to be funny. And you and me are family now, so why the campaign?’

  Dolly’s lip curled, and, spinning on her heel, she flounced off along the path by the mill leat that led up to the sluice gate at High Birk Tarn, her feet slipping in the mud. With a sigh, Alena followed her. It was in quite the opposite direction from both their homes but neither girl felt ready to face anyone else yet. The sound of the rushing water muffled their words, and the smell of sweet earth and damp moss, strong in their nostrils as they walked up through the woodland, perhaps calmed their tempers somewhat.