Northern Stars

by Laurence Cockcroft

  Marion was amazed not only at Susanna’s free thinking, but also at her efficiency as an organiser of both Chartist associations and of cooking pots. By four o’clock in the afternoon, nearly all the marchers had been fed and the fires were being allowed to die down. As Susanna became less busy, she began to speak less and had more time to listen to the story of Marion and the children’s trek from the north.

  She was delighted to meet Jess Midgeley when he came looking for Ruth and Joshua.

  In his usual straightforward way, he said: ‘We’re right grateful to you, Miss Inge, for what you and your friends ’ave done. We’d none of us ’ave eaten today without you.’ Susanna smiled.

  ‘An’ what’s the plan, Dad?’ said Ruth.

  ‘’Ave we got to listen to more speeches?’ asked Joshua.

  ‘No, you might get off that, lad,’ said Jess. ‘We’ll ’ave to camp ’ere tonight, and then early tomorrow there’ll be a mass assembly ’ere wi’ London lads and…’

  ‘Dad, ’ow can tha’ talk o’ lads when tha’s just been fed by Susanna and ’er friends ’ere?’ said Ruth.

  Jess looked at her in great surprise but saw her meaning.

  ‘Oh, aye. Tha’s reet enough, lass. Well, let’s say there’ll be an assembly ’ere wi’t London Chartists. Then we’ll march straight t’square outside Parliament; they say it’ll take about three hour. Then there will be a few quick speeches from Mr O’Connor and t’rest. Then Mr Fielden and Mr Attwood will take the Charter and petition into t’Chamber and then that’ll be it. And then we’ll ’ave to think about ’ow we get the members to turn it into law and ’ow we get you ’ome.’

  Susanna could see that this was too simple.

  ‘Be careful, Jess,’ she said. ‘There may not be as many turn out as you expect – lads or lasses. Not everyone in London is our friend. And the police are definitely our enemy. If there’s any trouble on the march, they’ll haul anyone in sight off to gaol. And they may try and block us from getting into Parliament Square, in which case there’ll be no meeting and you might not even get the Charter as far as the doors of Parliament, never mind inside the Chamber.’

  Jess looked somewhat taken aback. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘we’ll ’ave to take as it comes. There’s no turning back now.’

  ‘Well, whatever happens tomorrow, don’t worry about these two tonight’ said Susanna, pointing to the children. ‘I’ll take them home, and you too, Marion, and they can join the march tomorrow from where I live near Soho Square. You’ll be coming down Oxford Street, and that’s very close to my father’s printing shop.’

  Jess was glad enough to know that his children would be in good hands. ‘That’s grand,’ he said, ‘an’ I’m right sorry about the lasses, Miss Inge. I’ll never forget ’em again.’

  ***

  Ruth and Joshua couldn’t believe that they were actually going to stay inside a house again, or that they might even eat a normal supper round a table. Leaving the cooking pots to be used for breakfast porridge, and after Marion found Jim to tell him their plan, she and Susanna set off with the two children. Leaving the area of rough grassland where the marchers were camping, they quickly found that the fields sloped away down towards a mass of buildings. As they came close to the bottom of the hill, they found themselves on a bridge over a canal, which was swarming with traffic.

  ‘That’s the Regent’s Canal,’ said Susanna. ‘Named after our late King George IV when he was a regent for his mad father – and a gambler and spendthrift.’

  ‘That’s a right lot o’ boats,’ said Joshua.

  ‘Carrying grain and coal, mainly,’ said Susanna. The grain comes in from overseas to Limehouse Docks on the Thames and then up here and on as far as Birmingham on the Grand Union Canal. And the barges bring back coal from the north to keep London smoky and grimy – and warm,’ she laughed. ‘But don’t go and work on one, or you’ll never earn more than five shillings a week.’

  Crossing the canal, they could now see that the road they were on was about to branch into a broad thoroughfare running to left and right. Scores of horse-drawn coaches, carriages, and small cabs with dark black hoods were running in each direction. Hundreds of pedestrians were walking on both sides of the road. Many of the men were wearing top hats and dark black suits; others were dressed in the rough neckties, shirts and jackets which were more familiar to Ruth and Joshua. Marion was envious of the rich clothes worn by some of the ladies, and the rustling of colourful silk dresses was music to her ears. Ruth felt that the old faded dresses worn by other women would be much more comfortable. Ruth, Joshua and even Marion felt rather lost in the huge crowd, through which Susanna was confidently making her way. In the middle of the road was a tower about twenty feet high, which had the effect of dividing the traffic.

  ‘That’s King’s Cross,’ said Susanna. ‘Built by Edward I, one of the Plantagenet bloodsuckers, for his wife, Eleanor. This road’s so busy now because Euston Square Station’s only half a mile away. You’ll see it in a few minutes. Now everyone is trying to go by train somewhere or other.’

  They picked their way down the busy pavements of Euston Road. Susanna turned left and led the way down a broad well-gravelled street which quickly came to a rough open square. Although surrounded by tall terraces of houses built from light brown brick, the square seemed to be an oasis of grassland and shrubs amidst the noisy streets.

  ‘Oh, this is nice enough,’ said Marion.

  ‘Yes, nice enough,’ said Susanna. ‘It’s Russell Square and owned by his Lordship the Duke of Bedford. He’ll keep it rough like this until the price of land goes up even further – and then he’ll build all over it. Just wait and see.’

  They crossed the park in the middle of the square and as they came to the south side caught sight of an enormous rectangular building built in sandy stone of a completely different complexion to the brick houses of the square.

  ‘Well, that’s something useful anyway,’ said Susanna. ‘The British Museum – that’s where they’re collecting ancient things from all over the world. What’s more, anyone, like you and me, can go in there without paying a thing. Even a government made up of Chartists couldn’t do better than that! We’ll walk round the front – it’s even grander, used to be part of a lord’s house.’

  It was now close to six o’clock, and as it became darker and they walked down the street, west of the museum, they passed a lamplighter lighting one of a series of gaslamps that seemed to stretch as far as they could see.

  ‘Well, we never saw owt like these lights in Manchester,’ said Marion. ‘Tha’s got to see there by lights o’ mill windows.’

  ‘Where children never cease working,’ said Susanna knowingly. ‘Now we’re coming out of Russell Street and into Oxford Street.’

  Here, the gaslamps seemed to be even more frequent and to burn even brighter, illuminating a street which stretched further than they could see. Every second building appeared to be a shop, and Marion and the children marvelled at the fine clothes and leather goods which dominated the window displays. Susanna led them for about five minutes down the bustling street and then turned left down a street only wide enough to take a single coach. It was only dimly lit with two lamps, and they had to press themselves against the side of one of the houses lining the street as a coach and four horses sped past them.

  In another hundred yards they found themselves in a better lit, pretty square with flowers and shrubs in the centre. Pointing across to the west of the square, Susanna said:

  ‘That’s us. Inge and Sons, Printers. Sandwiched between the piano makers and linen drapers. And they’d be glad to be rid of us, I can tell you. They don’t like some of what we print. I mean the radical stuff. They think it’s bad for their business, seeing the kind of rich customers they have. Come on, let’s go in.’

  She led the way to the door of Inge and Sons and, pulling it open, greeted a middle-aged man with
glasses, dressed with an inky apron tied round his waist, who was pulling the levers of a large printing press. Three oil lamps lit the room. The machine hissed as the printing blocks were raised over the paper and clattered down with a bang on the reams of paper. He looked up as he saw them enter but waved them on.

  ‘That’s my father; you’ll see him later,’ said Susanna, picking up one of the oil lamps and leading the way through a door which opened onto a flight of steep wooden stairs. At the top they found themselves in a comfortable but simply furnished room, with a small table in the centre, a sofa and one easy chair, and a desk full of tidily stacked papers against the window. Marion noticed several copies of the Northern Star.

  ‘This is where we live,’ said Susanna. ‘There’s nobody else here. Mother died about five years ago and I manage this house myself, as well as working with father in the shop.’

  ‘What about the Sons bit in Inge and Sons?’ asked Marion.

  ‘Well, it’s my father that’s the son. I’ve got no brothers,’ said Susanna.

  ‘So shouldn’t it be Inge and Daughter?’ said Ruth.

  ‘Of course it should,’ said Susanna. ‘You’re getting the idea now. Whether Father would have it, I don’t know; but the customers wouldn’t like it. Not even the Chartists. Can you imagine Mr O’Connor having the Northern Star printed at Inge and Daughter? That would be the day. Come on, let’s go further up. I’ll show you where you’re sleeping.’

  The top room was a kind of attic with a small window and two mattresses rolled up against the wall. Marion, Ruth and Joshua eyed them gratefully.

  ‘Well, you two, you should be comfortable enough on those,’ said Susanna. ‘Just roll them out when you’re ready. Now we can go downstairs and you can tell me the story of your journey. I might even write it up in the Female Chartist when we get it out!’

  ‘Would tha’ mind if we just went to sleep?’ said Joshua. ‘I don’t think a can keep me eyes open another minute.’

  ‘Neither can I,’ said Ruth.

  ‘Well, go ahead,’ said Susanna. ‘It’ll have to be Marion that tells me your story.’

  ***

  When the two children awoke the next day, it was already light. They could see that Marion was still sleeping on the mattress they had left for her. Joshua went over to wake her.

  ‘Come on, Marion,’ he said. ‘Tha’s got to be ready. We might miss t’march.’

  ‘Joshua, leave ’er alone,’ said Ruth. ‘It’ll not be seven o’clock yet.’

  ‘An’ since when did you stay in bed till seven o’clock, Ruth?’

  ‘Well, it is summut new, I will say.’

  ‘An’ I can ’ear noise o’ that printing press,’ said Joshua, as they both recognised the hiss and clatter of the press on the ground floor.

  ‘Let’s look for Susanna,’ said Joshua.

  ‘You go,’ said Ruth. ‘I’m staying ’ere while I can.’

  Joshua could find no sign of Susanna either in the sitting room or down in the printing shop where her father was at work. When Mr Inge saw Joshua, he briefly paused in his work and said:

  ‘She’s gone to give the rest of your friends their breakfast. Left before six. Said you were to join the march as it passed here at Oxford Street. About eleven.’ He returned to the press.

  Joshua rushed back upstairs.

  ‘Ruth, she’s gone,’ he said. ‘Susanna’s gone. She’s gone back to the camping field.’

  At this, Marion woke up. ‘Susanna, tha’ means?’ she said sleepily. ‘Aye, that’s reet. T’march should be near ’ere about eleven. We can join ’er group or the Tod group as they come past. So don’t panic, lad. She’s even left some breakfast for us. Kitchen’s in t’back o’ printing shop.’

  ‘I’m off there then,’ said Joshua.

  ‘Aye, reet enough. I’ll see ya there.’

  After dipping heavily into the bowl of porridge which Susanna had left for them, leaving only just enough for Marion, the children ventured outside and into the square. It was a cold, bright autumn morning. There were buildings on all sides, many with large writing on the walls and with shops on the ground floor. Josiah Kirkman and Sons: Pianoforte Makers was next to the Inge Printing shop at number three. Gundry and Sons: Shoemakers to the Queen and the Queen Dowager was on the opposite side of the square at number nine. Hayes: Surgeons and Dentists was in the far corner.

  The garden in the middle of the square seemed to be a meeting place for all kinds of people. Some were smartly dressed and were moving from one shop to the other. Others, in threadbare jackets and unpolished boots, were standing huddled in small groups, talking amongst themselves.

  Ruth and Joshua, walking into the garden, were accosted by one of a group of six children of their own age, who were poorly dressed and looked down at heel.

  ‘Oy, mate! Wha’cha doin’?’ said the tallest of them.

  ‘Oh, we’re just ’aving a look round,’ said Joshua nervously.

  The boy could hear that Joshua was not a Cockney.

  ‘’Ere’s one what weren’t born within a mile o’ Bow Bells,’ said the lad. ‘Wha’s yer name?’

  ‘Joshua.’

  ‘An’ the girl?’

  ‘A’m Ruth. An’ tha’s right. We don’t talk like thee because we’re from a place in t’north.’

  ‘An’ where would that be?’

  ‘Todmorden.’

  ‘That’s a funny name,’ said the smallest boy in the group, whose features were black and so a big surprise to Ruth and Joshua

  ‘‘Old on a minute, Joe,’ said one of the others. ‘I’ve ’eard o’ that place.’

  ‘In’it where John Fielden comes from, Danny?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. You mean the one that’s goin’ to present the Charter to Parliament?’

  ‘Aye, tha’s right,’ said Ruth. ‘Mr Fielden is from Todmorden and we’ve walked ’ere so as ’e can present t’Charter and petition t’Parliament.’

  ‘Well, that’s good enough,’ said Danny. ‘We’re all for t’Charter ’ere and we’ll be joinin’ the march when it passes dahn Oxford Street there.’

  Joe spoke up again. ‘We’re all tailors’ lads that work fer sweaters in slop shops.’

  ‘What’s a “sweater”?’ said Joshua.

  ‘An’ what’s a “slop shop”?’ added Ruth.

  ‘Sweaters are men ’oo get work from others ’oo are the ones ’oo’ve really got the contracts,’ said Joe. ‘They make us sweat, yer see. An’ they put us to work in slop shops – not real factories. There’s a lot in the cellars round the back of this square ’ere. You can’t see ’em, but we can tell yer they’re there all right.’

  ‘An’ ’ow long does’t a work then?’ said Ruth.

  ‘Well, when we’re in work, from six in the morning till ten at night, which is longer than my father worked as a slave in St Kitts, before ’e were freed and came ‘ere’ said Joe.

  ‘And there’s somebody who works even longer than us, Joshua,’ saidRuth.

  ‘That’s when we’ve got work,’ said Joe. ‘But when sweaters ’ave finished a job, we’re all aht.’

  ‘Last July, I worked ten weeks with aht a break fer old Smithwick who ’ad bought a contract off Mason and Sons fer new liveries for the Queen,’ said Danny. ‘Joe and I were on the same job. We agreed to poke each other with a needle whenever we looked like falling asleep. ’Cos old Smithwick throws you aht if yer fall asleep on the job.’

  ‘So when you’re working, ’ow much does’t a get paid?’ said Joshua.

  ‘Never more’n six shillin’s a week, an’ sometimes only four,’ said Joe.

  ‘Six shilling a week!’ said Joshua. ‘That’s as much as me mam gets, never mind us childer. We’re lucky to get one shilling and sixpence a week.’

  ‘Well, none of us would work for less than four bob,’ said Joe prou
dly. ‘The London tailors’ lads wouldn’t turn up fer less, eh, boys?’

  ‘Right enough, Joe,’ said Danny. ‘But what we want is not less than six. An’ that’s why we want the Charter. So as a Parliament elected by every man in the country can fix wages. A fair day’s work for a fair day’s pay – an’ no sweaters.’

  Ruth held her breath and just managed to restrain herself from taking on the whole group whose idea of votes for all left out half the human race. She changed the subject.

  ‘Do you think there’ll be a big turn-out for t’march?’ asked Ruth.

  ‘Yeah, probably a good ten thousand,’ said Danny.

  ‘Ten thousand!’ said Joshua. ‘That’s nothing. We ’ad twenty thousand in Manchester, and London’s supposed to be bigger.’

  ‘Well, not everyone sees it the same way ’ere,’ said Joe. ‘There’s twenny thousand tailors alone in London, and a good ’alf of ’em – those that don’t work fer sweaters – is making eight shillin’s a week. But we’re all fer yer.’

  ‘Anyway, ’ere’s six that don’t wanna be left aht!’ said Danny. ‘Let’s get to the edge of Oxford Street and wait for ’em there.’

  Looking at Ruth, Joshua said, ‘What about Marion?’

  ‘Aye, we’d best pick ’er up,’ said Ruth. Turning to the group of boys, she said: ‘We’ve just got to pick up our friend. We’ll be back in a few minutes.’

  The boys agreed to wait as Ruth and Joshua ran over to Inge and Sons to pick up Marion. Within five minutes, they were back, quickly introduced Marion to the group and set off for Oxford Street.

  ***

  The street looked very different to the previous evening when the glow of the many gas lamps had made it seem welcoming and comforting. In broad daylight, it seemed much less attractive, with piles of horse dung in the centre of the road, unswept litter outside many shops and a sense of unease in the air. Some shopkeepers, fearful that the marchers might resort to violence, had already boarded up their windows. Many of them remembered the massive demonstration of 1834, five years previously, when one hundred thousand had marched from Copenhagen Fields and along Oxford Street, first to Parliament and then to Kennington Common. That had been to protest against the government’s decision to transport seven trade unionists – the Tolpuddle Martyrs – to Australia to do hard labour in the outback. Although it had been largely peaceful, several shops in Oxford Street had their windows smashed as the marchers passed by.