And now, in almost the same words, Drew had pronounced that that was his hope, that he wanted nothing more than to live the rest of his days in idle luxury, as Pearce had said. Where was the Drew Greenwood who had taken up any challenge flung at him? Flaunting and arrogant and sure of himself, was he now, sadly, merging slowly into the weaker, or perhaps gentler character his brother had possessed?
He was still babbling on: ‘. . . we could sell Greenacres. There are a dozen new manufacturers who would be only too glad to take it off our hands,’ he added contemptuously ‘and buy an estate where there is a bit of rough shooting, farming land . . .’
‘Don’t be foolish, Drew.’ His mother’s voice was more amused than angry, for had anyone ever heard such nonsense and could anyone be expected to take it seriously? Sell the mills? Sell Greenacres! One might as well decide to sell one’s own flesh and blood to those who dealt in the slave trade as sell this heritage of theirs, her smile said, and when her husband chose to ignore his son’s outburst, she was not surprised.
‘You would let others support you then? For that is what you are saying. Your Aunt Jenny and Charlie would do the work whilst you spent the money they earned?’
‘Could I not employ a man to do my share? To . . . to do whatever it is you are asking me to do?’ Drew was sullen now, his grand scheme which, Tessa was completely aware, would suit his nature better than any other, flung back in his face.
‘Jenny and Charlie can do that,’ his father’s cool voice told him, ‘most efficiently too, and there are a score of managers under their directorship, but do you not think it unfair that they alone should take the responsibility of what belongs to you?’
His son twisted about like an animal trapped in a cage which is far too small to accommodate it and for a dreadful moment Tessa thought he was about to spring it and flee, away from his father and mother, away from the prison they were preparing for him, away from his new wife who was all that was holding him together. But her hands steadied his and she drove her unfrightened will directly into his wild eyes, telling him with her own that she was here, that they were together, and the boy who had, for the first eighteen years of his life, been one half of a whole part and had thought he would never survive the loss of the other, sat back and the fear fell away.
‘I’m sorry, sir. Forgive me. I was somewhat stunned and spoke without giving the matter any thought. You must not worry about me, about us.’ He turned to smile at his Aunt Jenny, then at Charlie and they all relaxed quite visibly.
‘Aunt Jenny, Charlie and I will, I’m sure, work out some arrangement convenient to the three of us. After all, the mill belongs to us all and we would not see it go to the wall for the lack of a decent commander, would we?’
His manner was vital and confident, a complete reversal of his terror of a moment ago, letting his parents see that, though he might not have the slightest idea how he was to do it, he would run his concern as he damn well pleased. It was a gamble he took for the documents which were to make the mill his were not yet signed. Yet his father appeared prepared to take that gamble, for surely it would make a responsible man of this valiant son of his?
‘Then it only needs all our signatures then me and your mother will be off back to that sunshine which, they tell me, is keeping me alive. And you and your bride can be away on your wedding journey which I’m sure you’re eager to begin.’
He made love to her that night and indeed every night of their stay abroad with an intensity that told her he was in some desperate straits which only the act of love could assuage – the act of mindless, greedy lust which, though he loved her, was really nothing to do with her, nor him, but the dread of what hung over him and which must somehow be hidden. He groaned and shuddered, giving no thought to her desire, should she have had any, nor her pleasure, should she have had any of that, lying against her, still trembling. His face in the lamplight was drawn, his eyes staring sightlessly to the corners of the shadowed room. When she touched his shoulder he turned again to her, violently, nuzzling his face to her breasts, curling his body about hers, a hurt child seeking comfort and reassurance, protection from the demons which had come to plague him.
‘I can’t do it, you know,’ he said unnecessarily.
‘It would be difficult at first.’ Her voice was careful.
‘You aren’t listening to me, Tessa. I cannot do it.’
‘Then what are you to do, my darling? You heard what Uncle Joss said.’
‘Yes.’
‘The papers are signed.’
‘They are nothing to do with me, Tessa.’ His voice had become sullen. ‘I didn’t ask for this.’
‘Then . . . will you refuse?’
He flung back the bedcovers and with a rapid stride moved to the table beside the fireplace. His tall, naked body was brown and beautiful in the lamp’s glow. He poured himself a whisky, throwing it down his throat in one neat swallow. He had another, then turned to her, his face irritable, his eyes perilous but very sure.
‘Oh, no. If I refuse my income will without a doubt be taken from me and I will be forced to manage on some schoolboy’s allowance, or whatever they think I am worth. They must give me something since I am the son, but the bulk will go to Aunt Jenny and Charlie, and wouldn’t Laurel be pleased about that?’ His laugh was harsh.
‘Does that matter?’
‘It does to me. She is not a true Greenwood.’
‘Neither am I.’
‘You are my wife and will have what is your right.’
He stood by the fireplace, his body brooding and taut, staring into the fire which still blazed. ‘Besides, there must be more than enough for us all. Let us say my contribution will be to help them spend it.’
She lay beside him as he tossed and fretted the rest of the night away, her mind struggling to retain the pleasant pictures of her wedding day. She wondered desperately if Joss Greenwood was aware of the box of imps he had opened and set free in his damaged son. She knew he had thought to provide Drew with an incentive to take up his duties by making him head of the firm, whereas he had merely turned his son from an irresponsible, but engaging pleasure-seeker, into a cheat and a liar.
22
The machinery in the mill had been running for twenty hours, two shifts of ten hours each, when it was turned off at eleven o’clock on Saturday night. Tomorrow was Sunday, the one day of the week when the mill was quiet, and as the operatives poured out of the gates their wooden-soled, steel-tipped clogs made a merry clatter on the uneven cobbles.
The evening, though dark by now, of course, was still warm with the residue of the heat left over from the day and the navy blue sky was clear and punctured by the light of a million stars.
They were weary, all of them, especially the women who, after a morning of washing and mangling, of cleaning and donkey-stoning the steps of the neat houses they rented from Mrs Harrison, had stood for ten hours on their shifts, spinning, carding, weaving, or toiling in the bleaching and dyeing processes which created Chapman cloth.
But tomorrow was their day off and with the prosperity which had come in the past few years as the textile trade of Lancashire flourished, many of them would be taking a train on an excursion to Preston or Blackburn, Bolton or Oldham where there might be a fair or a circus, a band playing or an open-air troupe of travelling players. Parish Jack, a singer, fluter and fiddler, was a great favourite, appearing regularly in Lancashire cotton towns at ‘stirs’ and merry-making, in beer-houses and inns. There might be games, a country wake or two, quoit playing, bowling, wrestling, ‘bumble-puppy’, bull-baiting, all contrived to entertain those who, in the last decade, had the means now to jingle a few spare coins in their pocket.
There were railway day trips to Southport and Blackpool, costing rather more than the working class could afford at two and sixpence a head, but on special days the fare was to be reduced to a shilling for children, one and sixpence for women, and two shillings for a man. With the increased wages the unions were promisi
ng them, another ten per cent it was said, it would not be long before they would all be paddling in the sea which few, as yet, had ever seen.
Life had changed since their parents’ day when times had been hard. Not that they were easy now but at least families did not starve as once they had. And conditions would continue to improve as their ‘Association’ fought to achieve an even better standard of living. A pair of self-acting spinning mules which one man or woman could mind had brought about a higher wage trend that was gaining for the minders an aristocratic position within the industry. They had to work harder, naturally, for the higher spindle speeds made for a greater intensity of labour, but in one ten-hour day they earned more than their fathers had in sixteen.
The overlooker in the blow room, a man with the necessary half-crown to spare for such things, was off to Blackpool himself the next day. He had been dwelling on the delight of taking off his boots and dipping his feet in the sea, or even, greatly daring, changing in one of the bathing huts he had heard tell of and immersing his whole body in the sparkling wavelets. There might even be some lass with whom he could strike up an acquaintance, leading to who knew what pleasures. He was adjusting the small wheel on the carding machine which laid the raw fibres of cotton parallel, and further cleaned them, when the factory bell began its clangour signalling the end of the shift. Wrapped up in his dreams of tomorrow, the tool he had used for the adjustment was left carelessly teetering on the extreme edge of the machine.
What caused it finally to lose its precarious balance would never be known but when it fell it struck the metal wheel with which the overlooker had been tinkering.
The enormous building was empty by now. The nightwatchman had said good night to Mrs Harrison an hour since, and one by one the managers and Mr Greenwood, the last to leave, had nodded to him as he touched his cap to them. He’d go and have a ‘brew’ as soon as the gate was locked, he told himself, for though the night was warm and a pint of ale would have been more welcome, Mrs Harrison and Mr Greenwood allowed no strong drink in the premises.
Although it was dark in the blow room the outline of the machinery showed up clearly in the light of the stars and the splinter of moon which hung in the sky just above the window. It was quiet and when the spark jumped as metal struck metal, the flare no greater than that of an instantly extinguished match, the sound seemed quite loud. After that there was a hush, almost as though the ghosts which peopled the room – of those workers who had just gone thankfully, wearily, even blithely if they were off on a jaunt the next day – were holding their breath, waiting for what would happen next.
The machinery, once so lethal to small, unwary children, was now properly and securely fenced with wooden casing, miles of it, not just in this room but throughout the factory. The machines were cleaned regularly, of course, for cotton fibres collected inside, mixing, if they were not taken away, with the oil used to grease the parts. There was dust and fly and a collection of flake almost an inch thick in some places and it was to this that the spark jumped.
Like a small but voracious animal it fed on the dust hungrily, disposing of it in seconds before looking round, considerably grown by now from a spark to a flame, for something else with which to feed its appetite. As it grew so did its hunger, and gathering strength it gathered speed.
When the flame reached the soft fibre within the casing it ignited like gunpowder, only a small explosion as yet but loud enough to turn the head of the nightwatchman whose kettle had just come to the boil. He listened intently, prepared to guard against intruders as was his duty, but the sound was not repeated and the hot water was ready to pour on to the tea leaves. He poured it, sniffing the aroma of freshly brewed tea, then sat down and reached for the newspaper which he had found left behind by some manager. It was The Times, costing only threepence now the newspaper tax had been abolished. It was not a newspaper he himself would have chosen, Frazers Magazine, or Punch which both had pictures in them being more to his taste since his reading was not all that good. Still, this was better than nothing and he’d just pick out the headlines whilst his tea mashed.
The fire in the blow room, on the far side of the building from where the watchman drowsed over his Times, spelling out words with a calloused forefinger, had devoured the whole room now. If the inhabitants of the cottages in Chapmans Row had turned to look in the direction of the mill they would have seen at least a dozen windows lit up like the hobs of hell, but most of them were tucked up in their beds, getting a good night’s sleep in preparation for tomorrow’s enjoyment. There was to be a cheap trip to Manchester and Belle Vue Gardens, starting at seven, and they’d need to be up early if they were to get there in time to see the great Fife and Drum Contest, as well as look round the splendid gardens. They dreamed about the visit, those who were to go, as the fire, having devoured the blow room, passed through shaft after shaft, all horizontal and encased in wood. Backwards it surged to the room in which the raw bales of cotton were stored, pouncing on them and causing such an explosion the roof of the building directly above it was lifted twenty feet into the sky; then forwards to the carding room where every drum was stretched tight with cotton and every can filled with the soft rope of yarn which came off the machines.
As the explosion lit up the sky every person within three miles sat up in their beds exclaiming in unison though not perhaps in exactly the same words, but with the same apprehension, ‘Good God, what the hell was that?’
Drew and Tessa had been making love, their sweat-slicked bodies entwined on the rumpled bed, the pale moonlight streaming through the drawn-back curtains and open window to touch them with a strange and unearthly beauty. He was at peace for the moment as though the spilling of his seed into his wife’s empty womb had released the devils which came more and more often to plague him. Though neither was consciously aware of it, each month both breathed more easily when it became apparent that Tessa was not pregnant. Sometimes Tessa reflected upon it, wondering why she had never conceived and why, now that she was safely married, she did not desire a child. If she cared to dwell on it she supposed the one she held in her arms at this moment was as much as she could manage. Drew, if such a thought were to enter his often confused mind, was aware that he could share her with no one. She was his mother, giving him security in a shaking and insecure world, as mothers should he believed, though he had not experienced it with his own. She was the only friend he had for despite his ‘pals’, the fellows with whom he roistered, he had no others. She loved him unquestioningly and he loved her. Since their marriage he had never been unfaithful to her, despite the many opportunities that had arisen, and he found great satisfaction in that and in the pleasure she now gained in his arms. She had become, in a completely feminine way, the twin he had lost and when their bodies were joined it was as though he and Pearce were returned to the safety of the womb.
‘Good God, what the hell was that?’
It took them no more than seconds to fling off the bedclothes and pull on shirts and breeches. Afterwards Tessa brooded on her own absolute certainty that disaster had struck though at the time she could not identify what it was that had them in such a panic.
‘Good God, what was that?’
The words were but a whisper in Jenny Harrison’s lamplit bedroom for did she have any real need to ask? Her experience told her. Her years in the cotton trade, her knowledge of mills and their workings had brought with them the fear which lies at the back of the minds of all manufacturers whose buildings are crammed with dangerous machinery, dangerous materials and substances which, if treated carelessly, bring the lot together in disaster, a chain of disasters which was the millowner’s nightmare. Of course, it might not be her mill, or even a mill at all, but the explosion, for that was what it was, had come from the east and in that direction lay Chapmanstown and Crossfold.
Charlie was out of the bed he shared with Laurel and across the room to the window almost before the echoes of the explosion had begun to resound from hill to hill, those
which stood guardian about the Penfold Valley. Even as he anguished on the certainty that disaster had struck his mill, for really, when he considered it, he had not actually heard the explosion since he had been deeply asleep, he was struggling into his breeches, hopping from foot to foot in his quite comical efforts to thrust the first one down the leg of his trousers.
‘What is it, dear?’ his wife asked, not particularly concerned since she had heard nothing.
‘I don’t know. Go back to sleep. I’ll just go and . . .’
The flames leaped merrily from machine to machine in the spinning rooms on each floor of the mill, racing each other to be first to the weaving shed. Bobbins ricocheted like bullets from wall to wall and just as lethally, exploding into a hundred tiny shards of wood on impact. Beams above the machines, wooden and impregnated with nearly thirty years of oil and cotton flake, caught fire, burned through and crashed down in the space of two minutes.
The nightwatchman, with his mug of tea still in one hand and his newspaper in the other just could not believe it, and stood with his mouth hanging open thinking he must be dreaming. It was no more than ten minutes since he had brewed up and whilst his back was turned, so to speak, someone had fired the whole bloody mill. He watched as the tape-sizing plant where the beams were full of yarn being sized to stiffen and strengthen the threads, became an inferno, the size bringing fresh life to flames which were already twice as tall as the building itself. The heat took his eyelashes and brows and he could smell his own hair beginning to smoulder and he moved then, screaming a warning, far too late, dropping his ‘brew’ and his newspaper as he raced for the mill gates.
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