The Violin

by Lindsay Pritchard

  On the outskirts of Birmingham, in the village of Digbeth, he stopped for rest and refreshment at The Grapes, an old, rundown public house. Here he spent the last of his wages. He sat in the taproom wondering whether to have the mutton pie and find some shelter outside to sleep, or to have a hungry belly but at least a warm bed. Explaining his predicament apologetically to the landlord, Henry Watkin, he was provided with both.

  “Well young man, you shall have both but we shall only charge you for the one. I can recognise an honest face and I know a young fellow will be good for it some day and …” in an aside to his plump and evidently warm-hearted wife, “you reminds us of our boy.” He looked at his wife with a rueful expression that suggested unspoken tragedy.

  They bustled about getting Joseph’s dinner and a mug of beer, then showed him to a clean, simple room.

  The following day, after feeding the protesting guest a handsome breakfast of bacon and kidneys, and knowing of Joseph’s ambitions in the metal trade, his hosts gave him some names and addresses to start his search.

  Within the week, Joseph found both employment and lodgings. One of the names furnished by the Watkins was that of James Dash, a small-scale manufacturer of metal items such as chains and buckles. With characteristic energy it was no time before Joseph was working on his own account.

  He became a garret-master; half-workman, half-businessman. He bought materials, made up his work with his own hands and tools, and sold his finished goods to local merchants. When his trade extended, he rented bigger premises in Bread Street, a slum area, down for clearance, and became an employer in his own right. But, mindful of his early lessons in the cutlery industry, he was a good employer who paid his staff well and treated them fairly. In return he had honest and industrious employees.

  He had an eye for mechanical work far above that of an ordinary workman and his innate ingenuity enabled him to execute his goods in the readiest way with the least expenditure of time and labour. He became familiar with the power of the foot lathe and the hand press; he was able to make machine tools – he even began to design and make the machines themselves.

  Joseph, the dutiful son, did not forget his family, writing regular letters and detailing his progress in business and sending money to help the family.

  *

  By 1830, Joseph was an established manufacturer employing around twenty people and living in more salubrious lodgings. He still found time – heeding the good advice of his parents – to attend church regularly. It was here that he met Maria Mitchell.

  She was plain and a little on the plump side. Joseph was attracted to her because of her gentle interest in others and her quiet, kindly disposition. It seemed to Joseph, who was now an attractive prospect as a husband, that the fairer the face the harder and more self-interested was the heart. Maria was self-deprecating and modest but with a flash of humour which he found endearing. It was not long before they were betrothed. Later Joseph would say that it was God who had arranged the union for it was indirectly through Maria that he was to make his fortune.

  Maria’s two brothers were John and William Mitchell, who were working on a ‘new thing’, steel nibs for pens. The process, Joseph observed, was expensive and laborious. The nib shapes were cut out of solid steel then fashioned and trimmed with files. Ideas began to form in Joseph’s mind. The brothers worked by rule of thumb making an article that was expensive, around one shilling and sixpence which was a day’s wages for a labouring man. Most people, therefore, used quills but even they were relatively expensive and Joseph saw his opportunity to bring writing to the masses but also to make a handsome profit for himself and his business.

  He worked into the night designing and developing presses that would cut out many nibs automatically. He also designed a process to pierce the metal to enable the ink to flow, annealing to establish his name and trademark and side-splitting to give the pen flexibility.

  At first he worked for others, selling his pens for sixpence apiece to a firm of stationers called Bielby and Knott. His business rapidly outgrew the Bread Street premises. He moved to new works in Graham Street, New Hall Hill. With his groundbreaking inventions, a dependable work force and shrewd negotiations with both suppliers and customers, he made his fortune. He became a man of repute. A self-made man of means, sporting the accoutrements of prosperity including mutton chops and a gold fob watch.

  He liked to recall his business history to Maria.

  “On the very morning of our marriage, I began and finished a gross of pens and sold them for seven pounds and four shillings before going off to church to marry my love and my inspiration!”

  True to himself, Joseph ensured that no employee of his endured the harsh hours and conditions that he and his father had suffered in the Sheffield cutlery works. The factory had windows on both sides of the shop floor for maximum light. Workers were thoroughly trained and advised about hazards. He rarely changed his managers and never had a dispute with his hands, the majority of whom were women and girls, who were considered to be quicker and more dexterous. He established a benevolent society, liberally funded by himself to help those of his workforce who fell on hard times. He paid the best wages in Birmingham, staying true to both his economic and philanthropic principles.

  With mass production, the price of a gross of pens reduced dramatically. By 1840, it was £2 and by 1850 it was £1 with a common variety at ten shillings. But the simplicity, accuracy and readiness of his processes, coupled with a vastly increasing market, including the USA, enabled Joseph to consolidate his fortune.

  The young, lean thruster of twenty years in cheap lodgings became the prosperous figure of fifty, comfortable by his own fire. Maria supervised the household and three children with cheerful benevolence. Joseph made good his promise to entertain his aged parents in style and to set them up in comfort. Nor did he forget the Watkins at The Grapes public house. Hearing that their house was to be sold for a pittance to make way for the Museum Palace, Joseph bought them out at an enhanced rate allowing them to retire well. He directed the workmen to cut out a particular square of the settle in the taproom, that he had first sat in all those years ago, to be made up into an armchair for his sitting room in his fine home in Westbourne Road, Edgbaston.

  *

  Later in life, Joseph came to appreciate art. His face was familiar most evenings at the Birmingham Theatre before he adjourned to The Hen and Chickens Hotel to smoke his churchwarden pipe and talk with friends. He also became fond of paintings. As soon as he had money to spare, he began to buy pictures for both pleasure and investment. He particularly supported English painters – Linnell, Mulready, Prout, Etty and an especial favourite, J.M.W. Turner. His house was soon full of art and Joseph, with bargaining ingrained in his character, would buy and sell expertly.

  It was during a bargaining with the novelist Edwin Atherstone that an incidental interest arose in violins. They were experiencing difficulty in adjusting the balance on a deal for three pictures.

  “Well, I will throw in this fiddle as a counterweight,” said Atherstone.

  “That would be to no purpose,” remarked Joseph, “for I have neither knowledge of music nor of the fiddle.”

  “I am aware of that,” said Atherstone, “but violins can be of extraordinary value as works of art in their own right. I have heard of Italian fiddles running into many hundreds of pounds.”

  Joseph, with his mind now open to the idea of a fiddle being both a work of art and an investment, agreed to the deal and the business was settled. A few months later the floor of his gallery in Edgbaston was lined with cases, violins, violas, cellos and bows. For a while he was fascinated by his collection, which was the biggest by a single individual. But, almost as suddenly as he had become an enthusiast he became disenchanted. He disposed of a number. The remainder were laid aside in outbuildings at the Victoria Works where they were to gather dust and slumber, unplayed, for twenty years.r />
  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  John Handyside barged through his front door, stooping as he went. His face was fixed with the look of a man with important news. He swung off his long coat and threw his bag into the corner by the fire. Ellen looked up from her sweeping.

  “Oh you’re back then. We was beginning to wonder if you’d got lost or deserted us or got murdered seeing as how we haven’t heard a scrap from you…” she tailed off meaningfully. “So, what you got to say for yourself? How did your ‘business’ go in London? Hope you watched out for them filching, light-fingered robbers down there. What you done with that old violin then? You get anything for it?”

  John gave a shrug and turned down his mouth.

  “Thought not. Two a penny down the market, like I said. If it had been worth anything then Antonio would have sold it. See that place he lived in and how he went hand to mouth. Nah. I knew it were a pointless chase. Just cost you money, hasn’t it?”

  John was outwardly frowning, but inwardly, he was delighted and wished to prolong the secret further until he could extract the maximum surprise from Ellen. He pulled a pained face.

  “All a bit of a shock it was. That’s not a world I know very well, me, just being a Derbyshire labourer an’ all.”

  “Aha,” said Ellen knowingly. “An’ I bet two pins to a half crown that you spent more on getting there and back and filling your belly than you got for the fiddle! But don’t worry about us up here. We’re just your family. We got bread. We got porridge. We’ll make do and mend while you just gallivant.”

  “Well don’t you know a thing or two. But I did manage to cover my costs, well just about.”

  “Well then, perhaps,” said Ellen, “you might just want to dip into that pocket of yours and hand over a little bit so that I can get the rent paid and maybe get a few scraps for the little’uns?” Eyebrows raised. Lips pursed sarcastically.

  John sensed that he had played her long enough. He rummaged in the folds of his shirt and pulled out a heavy bag, thumping it dramatically on the table. Ellen pulled a long-suffering face.

  “What’s this then? You got a cheese for it?”

  “Go on. Open it.”

  Ellen tipped out the contents spilling gold sovereigns in a glittering cascade over the table and onto the floor, some of the coins running to the corners of the room.

  “Oh my dear Lord. What’s all this? Have you gone and robbed somebody? This has all got to go back John! John?!”

  And with that she looked heavenwards, open-mouthed. John stood up and laughingly gave Ellen a bear hug.

  “It was the violin. Turns out it was a rare old thing they ain’t seen before. And it was seen and played by all them musical types, people I never heard of. Antonio knew it was valuable. More’s the pity he didn’t sell it himself, God rest him. But I suppose it wasn’t something he was able to do, it being the last thing he had to remind him of his grandmother and poor old dead mother. But… Ellen, this means we can get the children fed and shod and schooled. We can get ourselves our own little home. You can get yourself a good dress and a nice hat. And maybe there’s a bit left by to start up a little business…?”

  Ellen looked askance at him.

  “Well, you’ve had them little business ideas before so I’ll make sure you don’t do anything daft. Anyway,” looking at the mound of coins, still stunned, “how much is there?”

  John held her by the shoulders and pronounced, with emphasis, “Seven hundred and fifty pounds! They wanted to give me something called a banker’s draft but I said no, I want it all in coin of the realm thank you very much. They took a day or two to organise it from the bank. I wanted to show you. Although they were proper people. I mean, what did I know? They could have fobbed me off with ten guineas and I’d probably have gone away happy. You don’t know what it’s been like getting it back from London. I’ve had it secreted on me, all in the folds of my shirt and under my coat. I’ve slept with it, counted it, bitten it to make sure it’s real. Seven hundred and fifty pounds Ellen! That’s about four or five years hard graft!”

  Ellen slumped down in a chair. She fingered the strings of her apron. Then, overcome, she began to weep quietly. She wept for all the years of hardship, the children’s illnesses, her mother expiring slowly and painfully in front of the fire. She wept for the time lost in the struggle to live. She wept for her hard-working and honest husband. And she wept for Antonio who had rescued them.

  *

  The following day, John took the money to the bank. He had had no cause to visit before and enquired of the teller how he could put it safely away. When the teller asked John what sort of a sum they were talking about, John – after carefully checking around – showed him the bag of coins. The teller walked over to the manager who was attending to important paperwork and looked a little irritated at the approach of his subordinate. John saw him whisper into the manager’s ear and he gestured over towards John. The manager immediately scraped back his chair and came over to John, straightening his frock coat and running a loosening finger under his starched collar. He viewed his potential new investor with supercilious surprise.

  “My teller advises me that you have a substantial sum to bank today. May I enquire whence cometh this… windfall?” he questioned somewhat superciliously.

  John showed him the receipt of sale from Hill’s of London and the manager now had to accept that, indeed, this poorly clad man in front of him was a man of means.

  He clapped away a couple of minor clerks and steered John to a private office in the rear of the building, unctuously ensuring that John was afforded the attention that his wealth now merited.

  The money was counted. Then counted again. An entry was made into a large leather-bound ledger. A formal receipt was issued. He and Ellen would have to decipher its meaning later. John asked politely if he could take five pounds for immediate use.

  “My dear sir, it is yours to do with as you will. However, may I take the liberty of arranging a further meeting in due course to discuss how you might wish to invest your savings?”

  John agreed and then was shown out with a bowing and scraping that he had not enjoyed on his entry to the bank.

  *

  Within six months the family had settled into a fine gritstone house in the high part of town with decent furniture and a trio of servants. Often they had to restrain Ellen from cleaning out the fire, dusting the ornaments or preparing meals.

  John invested a good proportion of the money in a shop on the high street where the owner had recently died. It sold ironmongery and hardware and was soon restyled as HANDYSIDE’S – PURVEYORS OF QUALITY GOODS. The business flourished. John was recognised as an honest man with a reputation for speedy and polite service. It was not long before one of his sons, who had trained with figures, was able to take over the running of the business, which henceforth became HANDYSIDE’S AND SON.

  In a side room of the shop, he and Ellen also established a small sewing business that would run up dresses, make repairs and sell all manner of haberdashery – wool, pins, ribbon, darning needles, lace, buttons.

  He sent for Jesse, the daughter of Antonio and Susan who was living in some penury with her grandmother still. He persuaded her to come and manage the shop and its team of assistants and seamstresses. It was one last service he was able to do to repay Antonio.

  John and Ellen’s children were schooled and were set fair for careers.

  “Using their noddles, not their two hands like their old dad started out. Making money for the bosses.”

  The youngest child, a girl, was sent to a good Christian private school in nearby Buxton. She was showing some musical aptitude so her parents arranged for her to have violin lessons.

  Her given name was Rebecca. But to John and Ellen she was always known as Marie.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Joseph Gillot’s business in pen nibs continued t
o flourish. A model employer with a unique and very profitable product that was changing literacy at home and abroad was always going to attract attention. A visit by the Prince of Wales to the Victoria Works in Graham Street was followed by an announcement that the company had been officially designated as Pen Maker to the Queen. Even more exotic, an American business was opened in John Street, New York City. Reeds, quills and dipping pens were outmoded. No longer was writing the province of the rich and the few. It was said that 10,000 British and American classrooms used Gillott pens. A young aspiring author called Dickens was moved to write a short but glowing encomium of the new-fangled instrument. The works now provided employment for 450 who produced 5 tons of pens a week. With mass production, the price reduced from a shilling a pen to four pence a gross helping to democratise writing.

  As Joseph moved into his seventh decade and the sun became lower on his horizon, some of the entrepreneurial fires dampened. However, his business received fresh impetus from the introduction of his son, young Master Joseph. He had inherited his father’s eye for mechanics and efficiency improvements but also demonstrated a mettlesome nose for negotiation with suppliers and merchants. The business was in good hands with Gillott Senior only exercising a touch on the tiller when young Master Joseph suggested economies with staff costs. The lessons of the Sheffield cutlery works left a deep groove.

  Joseph Senior was able to enjoy a glass of wine in his garden in Westbourne Road. He continued to trade in works of art. It gladdened his heart as he walked through his private gallery to admire the collection of European old masters and – his particular joy – the works of contemporary English painters. He had a shrewd eye. A painting would have to catch his fancy but the speculator in him also reckoned up a mental calculus of value and potential.

  As for his temporary fascination with fiddles, his interest never rekindled. The collecting was the thing. Joseph was fond of quoting Dr Johnson, “There is no disputing against hobby horses. The pride or pleasure of making collections furnishes an amusement not wholly unprofitable which might otherwise be lost in idleness and vice.” And Joseph was a lifelong stranger to idleness and vice. Enjoying his late evening years, only his eyesight betrayed him in old age.