The Girl from the Mill

by Chrissie Walsh

  ‘Night Matt, thanks.’ Joan walked the last few yards to her door alone; Matt headed for The Plough and a pint.

  Turnpike Lane was just one of several narrow streets of Victorian terraces Hector Brearley had had built more than fifty years before to house the mill workers in his employ. Joan had always lived here, and as she walked between the rows of cramped and fetid houses she pondered on how miserable life would be without the solace of Netherfold Farm and Lacey’s staunch friendship.

  3

  Saturday dawned dry and bright, the early morning sun promising another hot day. Lacey, still in her nightgown, packed a basket with sandwiches, buns and bottles of Ben Shaw’s pop whilst her brother Jimmy washed in the kitchen sink.

  ‘Your shirt’s on the winter-edge, our Jimmy.’ Lacey gestured to the wooden clothes horse on which the freshly washed and ironed garment now hung. ‘An’ next time give Mam a bit more notice. You should have thrown it to wash earlier in t’week.’

  Jimmy glanced over at the shirt and shrugged. ‘I never thought,’ he said, ‘I din’t realise it wa’ mucky ‘til last night.’

  ‘That’s the trouble wi’ you, Jimmy. You don’t think. You wait for others to do it for you.’ With this riposte Lacey left the kitchen and climbed the stairs.

  In her bedroom she slipped into the green dress, the feel of silk against bare skin making her shiver with delight. It was too hot to wear stockings so she popped her bare feet into shiny brown sandals with T-bar straps and little heels. Pleased with the effect she sat in front of the cheval mirror, rolling and pinning her long chestnut hair into thick glossy coils then, careful not to disturb them, she pinned on a straw hat decorated with a bow made from a strip of left over green silk. A final glance in the full length mirror and she descended the stairs, ready for the day ahead.

  In the kitchen, Jimmy hopped impatiently as Edith fluttered round him like a mother hen. Spruced up in his clean shirt and Sunday trousers, his unruly curls parted and flattened with a liberal application of sugar and water, he was a handsome young man.

  ‘Come on,’ he urged, ‘we don’t want to miss the charas.’

  Edith gave Lacey a fond smile. ‘You look lovely, our Lacey: now get off the pair of you and have a good time.’

  Out they went into the sunshine, Jimmy marching on in front, heedless as to the last minute problems his clean shirt had caused, and utterly oblivious to Lacey lugging the heavy picnic basket.

  At nine o’ clock sharp, Lacey rapped the door of number thirteen, Turnpike Lane. Joan bounced out, a basket over her arm, her eyes alive with anticipation. She looked so fetching in the kingfisher blue dress, her blonde curls newly washed and fluffed out under a straw boater, that Jimmy whistled and gave her a sly wink.

  ‘Eh, Mr Cleverclogs, none of your cheek,’ Joan admonished, although Jimmy’s open admiration had her flushing with pleasure.

  ‘Let’s be off,’ Lacey said, ‘we’ve to be at Townend for half past. The charas won’t wait.’

  Arms linked, Jimmy in the middle, they walked smartly down Towngate to Townend, meeting with fellow mill hands heading in the same direction. As they approached the crowd of waiting workers Gertie Earnshaw ran to meet them, full of excitement. ‘Guess what! The boss’s son’s coming on t’canal wi’ us.’

  Jimmy guffawed. ‘Yer daft clout; Nathan Brearley’ll be doing nowt o’ t’sort. Them lot don’t bother wi’ t’likes of us.’

  Gertie pointed to a group of Mill office workers. ‘Look! He’s there; the tall fellow wi’ fair hair.’

  Lacey looked over at the group.

  Nathan Brearley stood head and shoulders above his companions, his bright hair gleaming in the sunlight, a bemused expression on his handsome face. He doesn’t look too comfortable with the situation, thought Lacey. Had his father forced him to come? Was it part of his training? Getting to know the workforce before he took over the running of the Mill.

  It was well known that Jonas was keen for Nathan to learn the business first hand. For more than a year now, on his return from school, twenty year old Nathan had been involved in the process of worsted manufacture; carding, spinning, winding, weaving and finishing.

  Lacey had seen him at the Mill but, to her disappointment, his time in the weaving shed had been spent with the ‘Mrs Weaver’, Lizzie. Until today she hadn’t seen him for several weeks. Unbeknown to her, Jonas had sent Nathan on a research tour. Whilst the Mill manufactured the finest worsted in the valley, Jonas was keen to meet the increasing demand for cheap woollen cloths that imitated Scotch tweeds so, with Brearley’s always to the forefront, it had been Nathan’s job to investigate the possibilities.

  Now, seeing him again, Lacey’s heart skipped a beat. Not for the first time, she noted how handsome he was. Now there’s a head I wouldn’t mind turning, she thought, recalling Joan’s words. No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than Nathan Brearley looked in her direction. Their eyes met and Lacey’s heart skipped a few more beats.

  *

  The charabancs trundled down the valley into Huddersfield town. At Aspley Basin on the John Ramsden narrow canal they drew to a halt, the passengers tumbling out, some still singing the catchy tunes they’d sung on the journey. On the wharf they admired the newly painted barges waiting to take them down the canal to Hopton.

  It was customary for the bargees to paint their crafts for such outings and the owners of these had spared no effort. Bright blues and yellows clashed with greens, reds and white. All gaily decorated with flowery symbols, they contrasted sharply with the dingy coal barges moored nearby.

  The Mill manager, officious as usual, chivvied everyone onto the barges. Jimmy chose the one painted blue and yellow, the girls following him aboard. Lacey glanced round to see which barge Nathan was on but sadly it wasn’t theirs.

  Ropes cast off, the horse straining in its harness, the barge glided away from the wharf, its passengers leaning over the side to watch the dark, oily ripples as it ploughed through the water.

  ‘Do you remember ‘The Titanic’, Joan?’ Jimmy made his voice deliberately scary.

  Forced to recall the disaster of the previous year, Joan shuddered. ‘Ooh, don’t be saying that, Jimmy.’ She whirled round to address Lacey. ‘Do you think we could sink?’

  Lacey rolled her eyes. ‘It’s highly unlikely, an’ I’m absolutely certain there’s no icebergs on t’canal.’

  Huge mills and engineering factories lined the canal banks, the barge sailing sedately between walls green with slime. The passengers crowded the deck, laughing, chatting, singing and calling out to their workmates on the red and white barge cruising behind. When the barge negotiated the first lock the noise suddenly subsided.

  ‘Oh, I can’t say I like this,’ squeaked Joan, as the barge entered the gloomy lock chamber, its towering walls on either side festooned with slimy green clumps of waterweed and lichens. Lacey held her breath. The lock gates shut and the water rushed in, the barge’s gradual ascent into the sunlight accompanied by Joan’s screams.

  Lacey chirped, ‘Better get used to it, Joanie, there’s nine more locks before we reach Hopton.’

  The mills and factories behind them, the barges glided through open countryside, the towpaths lined with hawthorn, grasses and wild flowers, the passengers no longer afraid of the locks. A kingfisher skimmed the water. ‘Look at that!’ Jimmy pointed to where the bird, now perched on a branch of overhanging willow, preened itself.

  Lacey looked to where he pointed. ‘Ooh, look at the colour of its feathers, Joan. It matches your dress.’

  ‘Aye, Joan’s t’bonniest lass out today.’ Jimmy’s remark caused Joan to blush yet again.

  ‘If I didn’t think he was too young, I’d say our Jimmy fancies you, Joan,’ said Lacey. This time it was Jimmy’s turn to blush.

  The barges eventually arrived at Hopton and the holiday makers disembarked to stroll along the towpath to a pretty public house close by an open field and a small wood. Lacey and Joan found a comfortable spot in the field and
unpacked the picnic baskets. A rowdy game of football kicked off, and the men who hadn’t sloped off to the pub joined in or ran races the length of the field. The girls and older women sat in groups, chatting or watching the antics of their male colleagues. The office workers kept to their own company, Nathan among them.

  ‘It’s lovely to be out in t’open air away from all the fluff,’ Lacey commented, having just taken several deep breaths. Inhaling the loose, hairy fibres that floated from the fine woollen worsted they wove was one of the many daily hazards the weavers had to contend with; congestion of the lungs a common complaint. She gestured towards the footballers. ‘Even the racket that lot’s making is better than clattering looms.’

  ‘Aye, it’s fair grand,’ said Joan, stretching out her legs and leaning back on her hands, her head tilted to feel the sun on her face. A sharp nudge from Lacey soon brought her upright.

  Joan squinted, startled to see Stanley Micklethwaite looming over her. He coughed nervously. ‘I wondered if you’d like to take a stroll, Joan. I fancy a walk on t’towpath an’ I thought you might like to join me.’ Joan looked to Lacey for an answer.

  Lacey rolled her eyes and pouted her lips, her comical expression hinting at pleasures to come. ‘Aye, off you go, Joanie. I’ll be grand.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’ Joan took Stanley’s outstretched hand and he pulled her to her feet.

  ‘Not at all; go off an’ enjoy yourselves.’ Lacey closed one eye in a naughty wink. She knew her cousin admired Stanley and that he had hankered after Joan for some time but was too shy to do anything about it until today. Lacey wondered if he’d been to the pub for a drop of Dutch courage. Lost in thought, she was surprised when someone spoke her name.

  ‘It’s Lacey, isn’t it? Lacey Barraclough.’

  Lacey gazed up into Nathan Brearley’s enquiring grey-blue eyes, noting the long, fair lashes and the way his tawny blonde hair fell over his forehead and curled round his ears. Oh but he was a good looking man. He lowered himself down on the grass beside her. Lacey slid her eyes sideways to admire his tall physique and neatness of dress, thinking how clean and fine cut he looked.

  ‘That’s right,’ she replied. ‘Fancy you knowing my name.’

  ‘Lacey’s a rather intriguing name, not one you’d easily forget. How did you come by it?’

  ‘I’ve me mother to thank for it. She’s a great one for reading an’ remembering old stories. Apparently there was an important family lived in these parts a long time ago called De Lacey. She liked the sound of it, and what with it being part of the history of Garsthwaite she thought I should carry it on.’

  ‘I like that,’ Nathan said. ‘I’m interested in both history and reading. Do you read much yourself?’

  They chatted for some time about books and then Nathan’s travels to mills as far north as Scotland. Intrigued, and eager to prolong the conversation, Lacey asked lots of questions about the places he had seen, at the same time thinking she had never before talked with a man who stirred her spirits as did Nathan Brearley. He didn’t drone on about whippets and betting on horses or talk down to her as did other chaps she’d courted; he openly acknowledged she had a brain and knew how to use it. Even so, Lacey couldn’t help thinking he’d soon move on, that on days like this he probably considered it his duty to chat to the workers. But she was wrong.

  Captivated, Nathan listened to her unpretentious opinions on literature and life in general, fascinated and impressed by her intelligence and easy charm. Furthermore, he liked the way she responded to him; no hint of servant to master as was usually the case when speaking with other mill workers. That, combined with her glossy brown hair, the richness of her full mouth and those eyes fringed with long sweeping lashes had Nathan wishing he could stay forever.

  After a while Nathan stood and stretched his legs, Lacey saddened to think he was moving on to socialise elsewhere, but to her surprise he suggested they go for a walk in the woods, saying a stroll in the shade would be welcome.

  Lacey jumped up and smoothed her skirts. Nathan silently admired her trim figure. Just then Jimmy arrived back, having abandoned the football game. ‘Where’s Joan?’ he asked.

  ‘Gone for a walk with Stanley Micklethwaite.’ Crestfallen, Jimmy helped himself to a ham sandwich from the picnic basket and ran back to the game. Lacey smiled fondly after him. Poor Jimmy, he was smitten, but he was almost four years younger than Joan and his love was unrequited.

  Nathan offered Lacey his arm and they crossed the field into the shade of the trees. Not once did they run out of conversation, Lacey silently blessing Stanley Micklethwaite for taking Joan for a walk.

  When Lacey and Nathan returned to the field they met with sidelong glances and murmured innuendo. ‘You taking a walk with me has caused quite a stir,’ she remarked. ‘The gossips are having a field day in more ways than one.’

  Nathan flushed and shuffled his feet. Then, his tone formal and polite he said, ‘Thank you for sharing your time with me, Miss Barraclough, it was most enjoyable. I hope we’ll meet again soon.’

  To Lacey’s disappointment he didn’t specify a time or place and, striding briskly across the field, he joined the managers and office workers.

  4

  On the Monday morning after the Canal Trip, Lacey met with a barrage of comments and questions as soon as she arrived at the Mill gates.

  ‘Hey Lacey! What did you an’ t’boss’s son get up to yesterday when you wa’ in t’woods?’ bawled May Skinner.

  ‘Aye, we all saw you,’ Gertie Earnshaw cackled, ‘an we all know what his sort do wi’ lasses like us.’

  Lacey’s face flamed. ‘We weren’t doin’ owt we shouldn’t. We were just talking,’ she replied tartly, and head high she marched into the weaving shed. The women piled in after her, eager to have their say.

  ‘Take no notice of ‘em, they’re just mucky minded.’ urged Joan as they changed into their overalls; she made this last remark loud enough for the other women to hear but rather than deter them, it egged them on.

  ‘Aye, what sort o’ mucky stuff do toffs like him do when they get you on your own?’

  Lacey clenched her teeth and concentrated on tying the strings of her pinny. One of the older women gave her some sympathetic advice. ‘It’s not right dallying wi’ t’boss’s son, love. His sort aren’t really interested in the likes o’ you. He’ll be out for one thing, an’ you know what that is.’

  ‘Aye, he’s leadin’ you on, lass. He’s seen a pretty face an’ fancies he’ll get what he wants.’

  ‘That’s if he hasn’t already had it,’ sneered May.

  The women’s ribald laughter ringing in her ears, Lacey fished a cotton head square from her overall pocket, and as she tied it over her hair she mused on the women’s logic. She knew exactly how the hierarchy in the mills functioned. The owners, their sons, the managers and the overseers considered every girl fair game, assuming the right to foist their sexual perversions on them. It was a hazard of working life, and one Lacey had had to deal with on several occasions. So far she had been lucky, her quick wits and feisty nature protecting her. But Nathan wasn’t like that she consoled herself; he respected her. Arguing with the women was useless, so, giving a withering glance to all concerned she walked away.

  ‘You’ve some neck on you, Lacey Barraclough, I’ll give you that,’ said Flo Backhouse, shouldering past her as they walked to their looms.

  ‘Aye, what makes you think you’re good enough for the likes of Master Nathan?’

  Lacey’s temper flared, her determination to rise above the cat-calling and treat it with the contempt it deserved blown away by Maggie Clegg’s taunting remark. She whirled round to face the women standing at her back.

  ‘I’m as good as he is any day,’ she cried. ‘I might work in his Mill but it doesn’t mean I’m any less a person. The trouble wi’ you lot is you think you’re worthless, an’ if you carry on letting the upper classes treat you like serfs, that’s all you’ll ever be. It’s 1913 fo
r God’s sake, not the dark ages. It’s about time you lot bucked up your ideas; have some respect for yourselves, stop crawling round in the slime.’ She stomped over to her loom calling back, ‘An’ any road, I happen to believe God made everybody equal.’

  The women stared wide-eyed at Lacey’s tirade then, at a blast from the hooter they shuffled off to their looms, muttering and casting curious glances over their shoulders.

  Once her looms were in action Lacey kept her eyes on the job, her bad temper gradually dissipating. She was glad she hadn’t retaliated to the slurs with a slap or a kick. It wouldn’t do for her to be seen scrapping over the boss’s son. Perhaps she’d been a bit harsh on the women, but why did they have to assume they were lesser beings than the likes of Nathan Brearley.

  They’re just as bad as the upper class, she thought angrily, catching a loose end. They have such low opinions of themselves and their place in society they perpetuate the idea that a person must be born with a silver spoon in their mouths to have any worth. Think like that, she told herself, and you’ll always be treated as worthless. Everybody has something valuable to offer. If it weren’t for us women this Mill wouldn’t function.

  Round and round inside her head she contemplated the events of the morning so far, and as shuttles flew and cloth-beams thickened, the women’s taunts hurt less and less. More than likely they were just jealous, and anyway, nothing would come of her afternoon with Nathan Brearley; he was just being nice. Feeling in a better frame of mind she signalled to Joan, mouthing, ‘When are you seeing Stanley again?’

  ‘Tonight, after work; he’s walking me home,’ Joan mouthed back.

  Lacey winked saucily, mouthing, ‘Must be true love.’

  Lizzie Isherwood hove into view. Whilst Lizzie wasn’t a hard taskmaster, she didn’t tolerate shoddy work, her tongue razor edged when she spotted carelessness. Lacey paid full attention to her looms; she’d suffered enough slanging this morning. Two hours later the hooter signalled breakfast time.