by Anna Jacobs
Mr Graslow was standing outside his little office in the weaving shed. He nodded to Jack and muttered in a low voice, ‘Sorry about your father, lad.’
‘Thanks.’ Jack went to fetch the broom and started his first job, sweeping out Mr Graslow’s little office with even more care than usual. He then went to fill the oil cans. One or two people muttered words of sympathy as he passed and he wished they wouldn’t because they made him want to sob like a little lass.
Some faces were missing. No one commented or asked where they were.
There were people coming and going in the yard and office all morning, and men mending the broken windows, but no one in the weaving shed with its rows of noisy, clanking machines looked up, just kept their heads down and worked steadily. There was one woman in between each pair of machines tending them, the odd child fetching and carrying for the women, while the few men left in the mill now mainly worked in the engine house or drove the drays that fetched the yarn or took the bolts of cloth to be finished or dyed.
Jack had been kept on when other lads were turned off, either because they’d grown older or because the machines had been changed. Mr Graslow, the overlooker, said he was a smart young fellow and was training him up to act as assistant overlooker when he was older and the mill grew bigger, as Mr Rishmore said it would. Jack had been proud of being singled out for that, though if there were any other sort of work available he’d not have chosen to work in such a noisy, stifling place as the mill, with its rows of machines thumping away day in, day out. Now, as main bread-winner, he was terrified of being turned off and for all his grief he worked harder than any of the others.
The hours passed and Mr Graslow didn’t say a word about the machine breaking. What did this mean? Only - if they were going to turn Jack off, why had they let him start work? When Mr Rishmore dismissed anyone, they usually had to get out of the mill straight away, often with him beating them about the shoulders with his walking stick.
After the half-hour dinner break, during which people ate their snap in near silence, the overlooker laid a hand on Jack’s shoulder as he was about to go back to his work.
‘Mr Samuel wants to see you in the office.’
Feeling a hundred years old Jack nodded and crossed the yard to stand in front of the polished wooden counter in the outer office.
The elderly clerk in the corner had his head down and was scratching busily with his quill, while Mr Butterfield, the head clerk, was standing behind the counter, grim-faced. He greeted the lad with, ‘Wait over there, Staley.’
There were no seats, so Jack stood by the wall for a good half hour until the worry had built up inside him like a ton of lead. He felt sure now that he was going to lose his job, then they’d all be turned out of their house and have to go on the tramp to beg for a living. Or be sent to the poorhouse.
At last he heard a bell ring and Mr Butterfield came out from behind the counter to show him into the master’s room.
Mr Samuel, the master’s son, who was the same age as Mr Butterfield, was sitting behind his father’s big polished desk today, looking very stern. He said nothing, staring at Jack as if sizing him up. The lad stood quietly. He had never been inside this room before but it was just as luxurious as folk said, with a thick carpet on the floor, velvet curtains at the window and solid pieces of well-polished mahogany furniture everywhere you looked. He felt so nervous he wondered if he’d even be able to frame a word.
Mr Samuel was not as severe in his dealings with the operatives as his father, but he was still strict enough. He fined those who came late to work or who disobeyed the rules by leaving the places where they toiled without permission. There were rules for everything, it seemed sometimes. You had to sweep the floor where you worked four times a day, oil the machinery at regular intervals, not speak to anyone while you were working except about the work itself. Folk joked that you had to piss carefully, too, or they’d fine you for doing that wrongly. No one was joking today, though.
Jack usually managed to escape without a fine and he’d have to be doubly careful now because they would need every farthing he could earn. Every single one.
If he still had a job.
‘Go and stand in front of the desk,’ Mr Butterfield whispered, giving him a poke to make him move forward.
Mr Samuel picked up a piece of paper and studied it.
Feeling resentful as well as afraid Jack stood where the clerk pointed, clasped his hands tightly in front of him and waited. What did the paper say? Surely there was nothing they could accuse him of?
Mr Samuel finished reading, set the paper down and stared at Jack again. ‘You didn’t go machine breaking with your father and brother last night, Staley. Why not?’
‘I didn’t think it was right, sir.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you can’t stop progress, even when it hurts you and yours. And because the machines are your family’s property, not ours.’
Mr Samuel consulted another piece of paper. ‘I’m told you go to church regularly and are a member of the choir.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The main reason he went to church was for the school Parson ran after the Sunday services, where you could learn to read and write. Jack didn’t particularly enjoy the services or hold any strong religious beliefs, but Parson had coaxed him to join the choir when they found his voice had developed into a good baritone. He enjoyed the singing.
‘Parson Bradley speaks well of you, says you’re an apt pupil, rarely miss a reading class. And he says your voice would be missed from the choir.’
‘Yes, sir.’ He would thank Mr Bradley later for those kind words.
‘I’ve decided not to dismiss you, but I’ll be watching you carefully from now on. As long as you continue to attend church regularly and sing in the choir and -’
Jack debated whether to agree, then realised he could not build his new life on lies. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t think I’ll be able to do that, though I’ll be sorry to miss my Sunday classes, I shall indeed.’
Mr Samuel’s expression grew chill. ‘Explain yourself, if you please.’
‘I’m the main wage earner now, with Dad dead and our Tom - gone. I’ve got a mother, a younger sister and two younger brothers, one only two years old, to support. I’ll have to see if there’s any extra work to be had on Sundays and -’
‘On the Sabbath day!’
‘Sir, I don’t want to break the Sabbath,’ Jack said hastily, knowing the Rishmores made a fuss about Sabbath observance, ‘but I can’t let the little ’uns go hungry and we can’t live on my wages, let alone there’s the rent to find.’
Mr Samuel glared at him. ‘I’m minded to dismiss you for that impertinence!’
‘I wasn’t meaning to be impertinent, sir, truly I wasn’t.’ Jack heard his voice cracking with anguish as he got the words out. ‘But I don’t make promises I can’t keep.’
After a short silence, Mr Rishmore asked, ‘What sort of work are you likely to find on the Lord’s Day?’
‘Anything I can, sir. I don’t rightly know what. Maybe helping out at the livery stables or working on a farm. Whatever turns up. I can’t afford to be choosy, can I? It’ll be life and death for us.’
Mr Samuel was drumming his fingers on the desk now, frowning down at the piece of paper. ‘You’re living in one of our houses, are you not?’
‘Yes, sir. In Upper Bank Street.’
Silence, then Mr Samuel said, ‘We must find you another house. You won’t need the third floor now. And I will reduce the rent to sixpence a week on condition that you attend church every single Sunday.’
Jack gaped at him. ‘Sir?’
‘They say charity begins at home, do they not? I am a firm believer in Sabbath observance, but I can see that your money will not be enough to feed your brothers and sisters until you’re earning a man’s wages. You would not earn as much on a Sunday as the rent I remit.’
‘No, sir. I - don’t know what to say, sir. I’m that grateful!’
‘You showed principle, lad, both in refusing to join your father in his criminal attack on our property and in refusing to promise what you could not carry out. See that you continue to live an honest Christian life.’
Jack felt dazed as he made his way back to the weaving shed. Mr Graslow smiled, clapped him on the shoulder and said he was glad not to have to train someone else. But as well as the burden of his sorrow, Jack now had the added burden that for the first time he and his family needed to accept charity. He hated the feeling being beholden gave him, as if someone had put shackles on his feet. Until now he had been able to get away occasionally on fine weekends, going for a tramp across the moors and clambering up the crags. He loved rock climbing, though his mother would have a fit if she knew about that. But now he wouldn’t dare take a single Sunday off.
He looked round as he started to sweep his corner of the floor for the third time that day, and it came to him even more forcibly than before that if he ever had a chance to get away from all this, he would. His father had protested about him not getting his own loom at home, but any fool could see that the days of handloom weaving were nearly past so Jack had got a job at the mill instead.
The noise of the machines seemed twice as deafening that afternoon and he felt as if the walls were closing in on him. That made him feel angry at his father, who was to be buried in a pauper’s grave the next day; angry at Tom, too, for they’d spoiled his life as well as their own.
But he and Tom had shared a bed all their lives, knocked around together, protected one another. He would miss his brother so very much. Tears welled in his eyes at the thought and he brushed them quickly away with his sleeve, hoping no one had noticed.
At the end of the day he put his things away and filed out quietly with the others, saying, ‘Good night, Mr Butterfield,’ to the clerk who was counting them out, as he or the other clerk counted them all in every morning.
The following morning Mr Butterfield beckoned to Jack when he arrived at the mill and the lad’s heart began to thump in panic. Had Mr Rishmore changed his mind? Was he going to be dismissed after all?
‘There’s a house in Feather Lane. Mr Samuel says you’re to move there at the weekend. And the rent will be sixpence a week only.’ When Jack said nothing, the clerk added quietly, ‘He’s being very generous. You should be grateful.’
‘Yes, sir. I am.’
‘And I mentioned your father’s funeral. Mr Samuel says you can have an hour off to attend and he won’t dock your wages.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Jack would rather not have gone. It horrified him how his grief for his father was all mixed up with anger. But he would go for his mother’s sake. During the night he had heard muffled sobs from the front room downstairs, where she had slept with his father.
Yesterday evening she had looked like an old woman, her hair straggling and unkempt, her eyes red and swollen. And she’d shrieked at little Joey for laughing softly over some game or other. As if a child of two could understand what was happening!
It had galled Jack to see how touchingly grateful she was to the Rishmores for their charity. Grateful! To the very people who had called in the soldiers and caused his father’s death!
He had no older brother to laugh with now, nothing to laugh at, either, and the anger seemed to have settled inside him in a hard, hot lump.
2
It was four weeks before George turned up in Manchester again, and though he sent a couple of messages through his cousin Gus, who was a carter, Madge’s spirits sank lower and lower as the days turned into weeks.
When there were heavy footsteps on the stairs one afternoon she looked up eagerly. That sounded like ... There was a double rap on the door and she called, ‘Come in, George!’
He peered round the door, grinning at her. ‘Not interrupting anything, am I?’
She squealed in delight and flung herself into his arms, laughing as he swung her round and kissed her soundly.
‘Where’s the girl?’ he asked, breathing deeply.
Madge smiled knowingly. ‘Out buying a loaf. She’ll not interrupt us if I tell Ma Hurley to stop her coming up.’
‘I don’t think your daughter likes me.’
‘Oh, she’ll come round. Give her time. She doesn’t trust men, that’s all, and she’s not old enough to find them interesting, thank goodness.’
‘She’s going to be pretty, though, when she grows up. Very pretty.’
Madge forced a laugh. ‘When she learns to wash her face properly and comb her hair. Anyway, I’ll just nip down and tell Ma I’m busy.’
When she got back he was sitting at the table. He opened his arms and pulled her down on his lap. ‘It’s all fixed, love, an’ I’ve found you an’ the lass a place to live. Took me longer than I’d expected because there’s been some trouble in town - a group of fools trying to smash Rishmore’s new looms. They brought in the military and one fellow was shot dead. Serve the stupid bugger right. There are others waiting for trial. They’ll be hung or deported.’
‘Poor things.’
‘You’re too soft-hearted. I keep telling you that.’
She shrugged and changed the subject to the one nearest her heart. ‘Where’s our new house, then?’ When he said nothing, she pretended to punch him. ‘Where? Tell me about it.’
‘It’s in Weavers Lane.’
She stilled. ‘Where exactly in the lane?’ It was the main street of the long narrow town and there were good parts and bad.
‘Just past Grandma Hickley’s shop.’
Her face fell. ‘Oh, George, no! Those old weavers’ cottages were falling down when I lived in Northby. They must be in a dreadful state now. Which one have you rented for me?’
‘Not a whole cottage, just a room. You can’t get a whole cottage for love or money at the moment unless you work for Rishmore’s. All the cottages not belonging to them are crowded out. But Jen Miggs has a spare room and she’ll see you’re all right. It’s the biggest room in the place, the front bedroom.’
‘One room? Only one room? We’ve got two here. What am I going to do with Emmy while I’m working, pray? She’s old enough to notice things, you know.’ Madge tried to get off his lap, bitterly disappointed that he had broken his promise, but he wouldn’t let her go. So she pushed his shoulders away with her hands, stared him right in the eyes and said firmly, ‘I’m not going back to live in those conditions. I’d rather stay here.’
‘And how will you manage without me? I can’t spare the time to keep coming over to Manchester to see you once I’ve got my new alehouse up and running. It’s bigger than the old one and it’s going to make my fortune.’ He chuckled. ‘That and the girls upstairs!’
Still she held him off. ‘I’ll have to find someone else to look after me, then, won’t I?’ But her heart sank at the thought.
‘You won’t find anyone else as generous as me and you know it, Madge Carter. You were desperate when I met you, selling your body to feed yourself.’
‘It was only a couple of times.’
He threw his head back and laughed. ‘We both know that’s not true. You’ve been doing it for years. And who got you the job in the boozer anyway? I’ve only to say the word and you’ll lose it again.’ As she stared at him in shock, he changed tactics and said persuasively, ‘Ah, Madge love, give it a chance with me. The room is just a start. When I’m making more money, I’ll move you somewhere decent, I promise. And I’ll make sure your customers pay well, pick and choose them myself - not like now. If it wasn’t for the girl you could live over the alehouse with my other lasses, but you said you didn’t want her there and I can see why.’
There! He’d said it openly. Her customers. Tears came into Madge’s eyes and she stared down at the folds of her skirt. ‘I wanted to - stop having customers. Just be with you, George.’
His voice grew sharper. ‘Madge lass, I’d far rather keep you for myself, you know I would, but how can we get any money together if you don’t help out? You do want
us to have money, don’t you?’
She was weeping now, tears sparkling on lashes that were still long, brimming in eyes that were still pretty. ‘Promise me you’ll move me out of that house as soon as you can, George. Promise me you’ll let me stop doing that as soon as we can afford it.’ She took a deep breath. ‘You said once you’d marry me.’ She felt him stiffen against her and it was a moment before he spoke.
‘Well, I can’t marry you or anyone because I’ve got a wife already. When she took bad I thought I’d be free and I would have wed you, but she up and got better, the bitch. She can’t compare with you, Madge, an’ I pay her to stay away from me - her and her sharp tongue.’ His wife had died the year before, but he kept up the pretence that she was still alive because there had been a few women after him. He kissed Madge’s lips and wiped away her tears with one callused fingertip. ‘I will move you somewhere better, though, just as soon as I can. I promise.’
She sagged against him. ‘Oh, George, I did want us to be married properly. I love you so much.’
He rolled his eyes at the ceiling. Stupid bitch! Did she think he’d marry someone as old as her? He enjoyed her company because she was not only good in bed but fun to be with. Best of all, though, he knew he could make money from her. She might be old, but she knew her trade.
He kept soft-talking her, choosing his words carefully. ‘Mmm, I know, love. I wanted us to get wed, too. But it wasn’t to be.’ He let her snuggle up to him for a minute or two more, stroking her hair, which he knew she liked, then said more briskly, ‘So are you coming to Northby or must I find myself someone else?’
‘I’ll come.’ But she sighed even as she spoke.
‘Right then, my cousin Gus will come and pick you up tomorrow morning about ten o’clock. He’ll drop off a couple of crates and some straw tonight for you to pack your things.’ He looked round and said pointedly, ‘You’ve not got much stuff to move, have you? Stick with me and I’ll buy you some much prettier things. You and Emmy will be settled in Northby by teatime tomorrow.’