The Girl from the Mill

by Chrissie Walsh

  Constance was beaming. ‘How clever you are, Lacey; I should have known I could rely on your advice. After all, the dress you made for Felicity was splendid; everyone admired it. By the way, Felicity’s longing to see you again; she’ll be down shortly.’ She glanced at the ornate grandfather clock and sniffed. ‘She’s never late for dinner.’

  Nathan chuckled, his relieved expression patently obvious. He spoke for the first time since he and Lacey had entered the drawing room. ‘Lacey is taking a few days off work and she and I are going to Fountain’s Abbey tomorrow, Mother. Lacey has yet to see it and I’m sure she’ll be impressed.’

  Constance smiled endearingly at him. ‘What a splendid idea, and afterwards you must take her to one of those splendid little teashops in Harrogate.’ This being news to Lacey she glanced from one smiling face to the other, pleasantly surprised but somewhat bemused by such a change in Constance’s attitude. The last time they had met, Constance had called her ‘common’ and ‘unladylike’. She had even accused her of being a fortune-hunter. Now she was urging Nathan to take her on a splendid day out.

  Felicity bounced into the room. ‘Lacey! How lovely to see you. I hear Nathan has plans for you,’ she cried, holding her arms wide.

  ‘A full itinerary for the next few days.’ he said.

  ‘Super,’ chortled Felicity.

  *

  ‘I did as you asked,’ said Constance, dinner over and Nathan taking Lacey back to Netherfold. ‘I made the girl welcome and to my surprise I found her quite charming. Of course, once Nathan’s in the army he’ll forget all about her.’

  ‘Mother!’ Felicity threw up her hands in exasperation.

  *

  A further three visits to Fenay Hall met with a similar welcome from Constance, Lacey was pleased for Nathan’s sake. However, she sensed an undercurrent of subterfuge in his mother’s unctuous manner, as though Constance was playing a part; and Lacey knew exactly what that role was. She’s still living in hope that once Nathan and I are apart he’ll forget all about me, she told herself, as Constance fussily conjectured how different things would be after Nathan’s departure.

  ‘They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but I find it usually means one forgets quite easily,’ she commented airily, as they sat down to tea.

  This, and several other pointed remarks were not lost on Lacey. However, Nathan, Felicity and Jonas appeared oblivious to Constance’s subtle jibes. You might have them fooled, thought Lacey, but I know your game; you might admire my dressmaking skills but you still don’t want me for a daughter-in-law.

  ‘Don’t be afraid to visit mother as often as you like,’ Nathan urged after the final visit, ‘keep up the ties you’ve formed.’

  Lacey set aside her misgivings and promised she would.

  *

  The chauffeur driven car purred through the valley on its way to Huddersfield, Nathan pensively gazing out at the familiar landscape, Lacey sitting silently between him and Constance. Felicity sat opposite on the rumble seat and Jonas was up front with the chauffeur.

  When he brought the car to a halt in St George’s Square his passengers alighted, Lacey gazing up at the tall Georgian columns and Classic pediment that fronted Huddersfield Railway Station. One of the finest pieces of architecture in the north of England, it loomed ominously in front of her. This was where Nathan would say his goodbyes.

  Inside, the station platform bustled with troops arriving and departing. Mothers and fathers, wives and children and sweethearts clustered round their men, smiles of welcome and relief on some faces, others stoically but sadly preparing to say farewell.

  Lacey silently observed the soldiers crowding the platform, categorising them by the expressions on their faces: bright eyed young men who had yet to do their training waited noisily, eager for the opportunity to serve king and country. The empty eyed, weary men home on leave, their faces lined and grey, had already witnessed death and destruction.

  The train pulled into the station, steam and smoke billowing onto the platform. Through the windows of the carriages already filled with troops from towns and cities further down the line, Lacey could see the faces of men who had already said their goodbyes. Doors flew open, the bright eyed young men on the platform surging forward, keen to be on their way.

  Lacey felt the tension in Nathan’s lean frame; he too was experiencing the excitement of the call to arms. But when he lowered his gaze to meet hers, his zeal faded. He held her close, his eyes memorising every detail. Lacey held his gaze, seeing in his eyes a love so deep she felt as though she was drowning. ‘I love you, Nathan Brearley. I always will. Come back soon.’

  Nathan shook Jonas’s hand then hugged his mother and Felicity. Constance dabbed her eyes with a lace handkerchief. ‘Take great care, darling,’ she urged. Jonas echoing the sentiment, Constance was shocked when Felicity slapped Nathan’s shoulder, saying. ‘Give ‘em hell, brother.’

  A whistle blew, Nathan leaping aboard the train as it pulled slowly away from the platform. Lacey watched until it disappeared from view.

  16

  Lacey waited on the corner of Towngate for the women who had promised to meet her there, her moral fibre wilting as the hands on the church clock ticked relentlessly towards seven thirty. She glanced up and down the street but none of those who had shown interest in attending the Union meeting were in sight. Even Joan had let her down.

  Disappointed, Lacey entered the room at the rear of the Bull’s Head public house where the members of the Weavers’ Association held their Union meetings. Heads turned as she stepped inside.

  Twenty or so men sat on benches facing a long trestle table behind which sat four others, papers set out in front of them. Ascertaining these were the Union officials, Lacey walked towards them, ignoring the banter aimed at her from the body of the room.

  ‘Atta lookin’ for your old man, luv?’

  ‘Oy, if you’re lookin’ for custom you need to go round to t’public bar.’

  Whilst his allusion to her being a prostitute irked Lacey, she was even more annoyed to find herself flushing at the remark. ‘I’ve come to join the Union,’ she said to the men behind the long table. Much to her satisfaction her voice rang out clear and unwavering.

  A sudden hush in the room was just as abruptly broken. ‘This is no place for a woman. Bugger off home an’ mind your bairns.’

  Lacey turned to address the heckler. ‘I don’t have any, but if I did I wouldn’t want you to be the father of ‘em.’

  The men laughed at the sharp response, one shouting, ‘Hey up, we’ve got a right one here.’

  Lacey’s eyes roved her audience. ‘You have, and talking of rights, mine are just as important as yours. Like all of you I’m a weaver who wants the same improvements in wages and conditions. The more members you have the stronger you become, even if some of those members are women.’

  ‘Order, order,’ called one of the men behind the table, a man whom Lacey knew to be Harry Clegg. The noise abated. ‘Now lass, what can we do for you?’ His tone kindly, Lacey suspected he was merely appeasing her before refusing her request.

  ‘Like I said, I want to join the Union. You all know me, or at least you’ve seen me at work in Brearley’s Mill. Some of you I work alongside, so you know what I do. I’m willing to pay me subscription an’ abide by Union rules, so I don’t see how you can refuse.’

  Somewhat surprised by the directness of her answer, Harry Clegg looked from one to another of his colleagues, scratching his head as he awaited their intervention. None forthcoming he proceeded to deal with Lacey’s request unaided.

  ‘You’re right in what you say, lass. If you pay your dues and abide by the rules we’ve no reason to refuse you membership but…’ He scratched his head again, searching for words before adding, ‘we’re not used to women at meetings. T’language can be a bit rough sometimes, lass.’

  Lacey widened her eyes. ‘Mr Clegg, I’ve worked in t’mill for years. Don’t you think I’m used to a bit o’ cursing
and swearing by now.’ Her reply raised a ripple of laughter. Lacey relaxed.

  Harry hid a smile. The girl’s forthright manner was refreshing and he was enjoying the unsettling effect it was having on the other members. ‘Give us your details, lass, an’ sign there.’ He pushed a sheet of paper across the table. Lacey signed with a flourish.

  *

  The hot summer days faded into glowing autumn, the moors around Garsthwaite burnished with browning bracken and the ugliness of the town itself muted by early morning or evening mists. However, the townspeople’s attentions were elsewhere. As the war in Europe escalated it seemed to Lacey that everywhere she went people were discussing the implications of Britain being dragged into a war not of their making.

  ‘What’s it got to do with us?’ Joan wanted to know.

  ‘A hell of a lot,’ replied Lacey. ‘Rumour has it we’ll be on short-time afore long.’

  ‘But why?’ groaned Flo Backhouse.

  Lacey had the answer. ‘Because there’s a slump in the demand for worsted cloth; trade all over Europe’s being affected because countries are concentrating on killing each other rather than buying the stuff we make for export.’

  ‘How come you know so much?’ Flo asked.

  ‘Union meetings,’ replied Lacey, ‘you should come along.’

  *

  Within days rumour became reality when mill workers throughout the valley were reduced to working a three day week. The sudden drop in income caused hardship to many, particularly Joan who still lived with her mother-in-law, the dreadful Hettie Micklethwaite.

  ‘Now we’ll never save enough money to get a place of our own,’ Joan grumbled. ‘What with this baby coming we’ll be stuck forever, but there’s nowt we can do about it.’

  They were sitting in Lacey’s bedroom, Lacey at her sewing machine and Joan sewing buttons on a dress for Lily Hopkinson, landlady at The Bull’s Head pub.

  ‘Listen Joanie, I’ve been thinking,’ said Lacey, easing her foot off the treadle. ‘I’m still earning because I’ve a suit to finish for Mrs Brearley. Then Felicity an’ her friends, Miss Murgatroyd and Miss Earnshaw, all want dresses an’ I’ve more orders for alterations than I can cope with. If you help me run a little business on the side when we’re not at the Mill we can both make money.’

  But how can I help?’ wailed Joan. ‘I can’t treadle or cut out.’

  ‘No, but you’re good at hand sewing,’ Lacey told her. ‘I’ll do all the cutting out and making up, you’ll do the finishing touches; the fiddly, time consuming jobs.’

  Joan’s face lit up. ‘I could, Lacey; oh yes, I could.’

  Cheered by the prospect of increasing her earnings, Joan sewed the last button on Lily Hopkinson’s dress, the awfulness of living with Hettie Micklethwaite diminished. In return for Lacey’s ingenuity, Joan volunteered to attend Union meetings.

  *

  ‘There, that’s finished. What shall I do now?’ Joan snipped at the thread she had used to sew buttons on a coat Lacey had altered for the Baptist Minister’s wife, Mrs Pendlebury.

  Lacey looked up from the fabric she was cutting, using one of the new paper patterns now on sale in the haberdashers in Huddersfield. ‘Start on those,’ she said.

  It was the sixth week of working short-time in the Mill. Joan began to tack pieces of flimsy white muslin; two First Communion dresses for Lizzie Isherwood’s granddaughters.

  Lacey set aside her scissors. ‘We could end up with more money in our purses than we earn in the Mill once we’ve finished this lot,’ she said, gesturing at the garments cluttering the bedroom. She pointed to the now altered, outmoded heavy brown coat belonging to the Baptist Minister’s wife. ‘If I’ve managed to make that fashionable enough to satisfy Mrs Pendlebury, we might get more orders from the upper crust in Garsthwaite. We can charge them a bit more than we do the lasses from the mill.’

  Lacey picked up the scissors and resumed work. Alleviating her cousin’s financial distress pleased Lacey, but more importantly her little business had planted the seed of ambition.

  *

  On Monday evening Lacey and Joan hurried along Towngate, Lacey clutching a parcel containing Lily Hopkinson’s dress. They were going to the Union meeting in The Bull’s Head. ‘Will you raise the matter of the lavatories, Lacey?’ Joan’s eager tone had Lacey smiling at her new recruit.

  ‘I will if I can get them to stop talking about substitution and dilution for two minutes.’ Noting Joan’s blank expression Lacey elaborated. ‘Substitution means a man is being replaced by a woman who can do the job just as well as him, therefore she should be paid the same rate. Dilution means replacing men with women who don’t have experience, so they’ll be paid at a lower rate. Seeing as how we’ve always been paid less for doing the same jobs as men, I can’t rightly understand the argument. I know I work as hard as any o’ them fellows in our shed, an’ so do you, Joan, yet we’re paid nearly four bob less for every piece.’

  ‘We should bring that up at the meeting as well,’ Joan said, ‘equal pay for equal work.’

  Lacey laughed outright. ‘Listen to you. You haven’t attended a meeting yet and you’re talking like a lifelong member. We might mention it, but we’ve to go easy; we don’t want to get their backs up.’

  In the room at the rear of The Bull’s Head, Lacey and Joan sat with Lizzie, Maggie and Sarah, Lacey gratified by the increased female contingency. She’d delivered the finished dress to a delighted Lily Hopkinson and, receiving a shilling more than she’d asked for, Lacey felt ready for action.

  The meeting was called to order and the new recruits sworn in. Then there followed a heated discussion on substitution and dilution, the men arguing that if they enlisted in the army and were replaced by women in their absence, was there any guarantee they would get their jobs back once the war ended.

  ‘It’ll all be over by Christmas, so they say,’ argued one man, ‘an’ Christmas is only weeks away so I don’t know why we’re bothering talking about it.’

  ‘I know where you’re coming from,’ said Lacey, sympathetic to their argument, ‘but women should be paid at the proper rate while they’re doing the job. I’m sure they’ll be only too glad to return to being housewives once their men return.’

  The debate fizzled out, Lacey taking the opportunity to speak again.

  ‘It might seem trivial at times like this, but there is only one closet for all the women at Brearley’s, an’ that not fit for use.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Joan interjected, ‘sometimes at breakfast an’ dinnertime t’queues that long we don’t get chance to go before t’hooter blows us back to work.’ Thrilled at contributing to an issue she understood, Joan added, ‘An’ it doesn’t even have a lock on the door.’ She sat back, eagerly awaiting a response.

  ‘Did you come here to waste our time talkin’ about women’s shit holes,’ one of the men scoffed, ‘cos if you did you can bugger off.’

  Joan flushed; squirming in her seat she turned beseeching eyes on Lacey. Lacey stood up, requesting permission to speak. Permission granted she turned to face the aggressor.

  ‘I know it might not seem important to you but it is to us women. If the Unions can persuade employers to improve working conditions in any way, no matter how small, then they’re doing their job. Every improvement is an achievement – even lavatories. If we can force Jonas Brearley to install decent facilities it shows the workforce we have their interests at heart. Therefore I propose the Union should approach Mr Brearley an’ ask him to deal with the matter.’ She glanced down at Joan. ‘An’ I thank Sister Micklethwaite for her contribution.’ Joan flushed again, this time with pride.

  ‘She’s right tha knows,’ said an old codger at the back of the room. ‘Make bosses give us a bit o’ respect, no matter that we’re on’y asking for shit holes.’

  The motion was carried and the meeting ended. The girls departed, their steps buoyed with the sense of having made small but worthwhile progress.

  The following day news
of their minor triumph flew round the sheds, women weavers and spinners congratulating Lacey and Joan for raising the issue of the lavatories. The next meeting of the Weavers’ Association boasted six more new female recruits and Lacey was triumphant.

  *

  ‘This war’s getting worse,’ complained Edith, setting aside the Huddersfield Examiner. She read it from end to end every evening, commenting on the news as she went. ‘Here’s me thinking it ‘ud all be over in no time, an’ now they’re saying,’ she picked up the paper and quoted. ‘Conflict in Europe intensified.’

  Lacey snipped at the thread she was using to sew buttons on a coat she was altering for the coalman’s wife, then pinned the needle to the front of her cardigan. ‘There’s no sign of it coming to an end. You can see that everywhere you look. Nearly all the young lads in the Mill have answered Kitchener’s call, an’ most of ‘em have no idea what they’re letting themselves in for, poor sods.’ She shook her head despondently. ‘An’ now they’ve ordered women to take over their jobs there’s hardly a fellow under fifty in the spinning and weaving sheds. She gave a wry laugh. ‘It’s the same in all the mills in the valley; it must be the first time in history that women have been recognised for their true worth.’

  ‘Not that there’s that much for ‘em to do, what wi’ you being on short-time,’ said Edith, going to the sink to fill the kettle.

  Lacey grimaced. ‘Aye, I’m lucky I’ve got me sewing; even though most of it’s just alterations. It’s only the nobs can afford to buy new material these days.’

  ‘Well,’ said Edith slowly, as she placed the kettle on the stove, ‘if you keep in with the Brearleys maybe they’ll send more custom your way.’

  Lacey chuckled. ‘You make it sound as though I’m only marrying Nathan to make a few extra bob out of his wealthy friends.’