The Girl from the Mill

by Chrissie Walsh

  On a bitterly cold Monday morning in February she hurried towards the Mill gate, her thoughts on the Union meeting she would attend that night. Thank God I joined, she told herself as she entered the Mill yard, otherwise my life would be totally devoid of excitement: at least I’m assured of a bloody good row if nothing else.

  She thoroughly enjoyed the cut and thrust of debate and rarely missed the opportunity to voice her opinions. However, just lately she felt somewhat constrained, the male members sidelining the issues she raised in favour of constantly discussing substitution and dilution.

  We’re stuck in a rut, she told herself as she trod precariously over the icy cobbles towards the weaving shed. We asked for lavatories and hot water and got them; now we need to make further demands instead of sitting back on our laurels.

  Inside the shed, wearing a thick woollen cardigan over her overall to combat the chilly draughts, Lacey watched the shuttles roving her looms. Every now and then she rubbed her cold hands together to keep her fingers nimble, and as the cloth beams thickened she pondered on how to improve the working day? The obvious answer was better pay, but the Unions had been wrangling over that for years. Besides, she thought, it’s too big an issue to resolve quickly. Our next demand should be one that’s easily met to keep the pot boiling.

  She glanced over at the large wall clock, its huge hands indicating half an hour and more until breakfast time at eight. Her tummy rumbled noisily as she thought of the drip sandwiches and scalding mug of tea waiting for her. Jonas had installed a huge hot water urn, and as she mulled over that small but vital triumph Lacey knew exactly the issue she would raise at tonight’s Union meeting. Her eyes bright with excitement she turned to her left, ready to share the idea with Joan.

  Joan, her distended belly obstructing her movements, was reaching into her loom, her face creasing with pain as she bent forward to catch a loose end. As she came upright, a gush of wetness trickled down her thighs. Panicked, Joan stopped her looms.

  Lacey saw her distress.

  ‘Me waters have broken,’ Joan mouthed above the din.

  Lacey dashed to find Lizzie Isherwood, then Clem Arkwright, the new overlooker. ‘Joan’s baby’s on t’way,’ she mouthed, ‘I’m taking her home.’

  ‘Right you be, lass. Get back when you can.’ A welcome change from Sydney Sugden, Clem treated all the women in the shed with respect and dignity.

  ‘I’ll go an’ all,’ Lizzie said. ‘I’ll see ‘em to t’door an’ be straight back.’

  Joan in the middle, the three women slipped and skidded along the icy pavements to the house in Scar End. Hettie Micklethwaite opened the door, her sour face expressing no concern for her daughter-in-law when she learned why they had come.

  ‘They sleep in t’back bedroom.’ Hettie pointed to the narrow flight of stairs leading up from the lobby. ‘Do you want me to boil t’kettle?’

  ‘Fetch Ivy Vickerman,’ cried Lacey, hoisting Joan on to the first step of the stairs. ‘An’ tell her to get a shift on.’

  Hettie sniffed. ‘I’ll go as quick as I can. It’s bad underfoot, you know.’ She glanced scathingly at Joan’s back. ‘I’m not fit to be running about after her.’ She unhooked her coat from behind the door, plodding out to fetch the midwife.

  ‘How far on is she?’ Ivy panted, as she entered the bedroom.

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Having only attended the birthing of lambs at Netherfold, Lacey had no idea how urgent Joan’s case might be. She only knew her best friend and cousin was in distress and needed professional help.

  A swift examination and Ivy turned to Lacey. ‘She’s fully dilated, it’ll be a quick ‘un, will this.’

  Downstairs, Hettie Micklethwaite sulked in a chair by the fire, complaining when Lacey entered the room to fetch the kettle.

  ‘I’m not well,’ Hettie moaned, ‘I can’t do wi’ all this carry on, yon lass of our Stanley’s has no consideration for my nerves; a proper torture she’s been ever since she set foot under me roof. Has me running day an’ night, so she does.’

  Knowing this to be to be a downright lie, Lacey ignored her. She knew Joan’s willing nature wouldn’t allow her to impose on the older woman, and from what Joan had told her it was she who did all the housework and cooking in the house in Scar End. Lacey hurried back up the stairs.

  *

  James Stanley Micklethwaite squalled his way into the world an hour and forty-five minutes after his mother had stopped her looms. Flushed and bonny, Joan cradled her son to her breast, none the worse for her experience.

  ‘If he’d a bin a racehorse he’d have won The Derby would that one,’ Ivy remarked, as she handed Lacey the pile of damp newspapers containing the afterbirth. ‘Put them on t’fire lass, an’ make a cup o’ tea.’

  Lacey went back downstairs. Hettie was slumped in the chair, eyes closed. Thinking to waken her and tell her she had a grandson, Lacey decided to let her sleep; she’d find out soon enough.

  Joan comfortable, the teapot empty, Ivy prepared to depart. ‘I’ll come back this evening after Stanley gets home. He’ll be fair proud you’ve given him a son. So will Hettie, although nowt much pleases her.’ Cackling, Ivy picked up her bag. ‘I’d a thought she’d a’ been up to see him by now.’

  ‘She was sleeping when I went down to make that pot of tea,’ said Lacey, following Ivy down the stairs and seeing her out.

  Hettie was exactly as Lacey had last seen her, save for her eyes and mouth: they hung open grotesquely.

  ‘Ivy,’ Lacey yelled after the departing midwife, ‘come back. Quick!’

  *

  Stanley stood in the bedroom, a bemused expression on his face. ‘I don’t know whether to laugh or cry,’ he mumbled, his love for his wife and son radiating from his eyes, his features otherwise gloomy. ‘Bad an’ all as she could be, she was me Mam.’ He shuffled towards the door. ‘I’ll go an’ get the undertaker.’

  ‘I’m ever so sorry, Stanley love,’ sobbed Joan, inwardly chiding herself for some of the tears were tears of relief. Now they had the house and their new son to themselves. As she cradled her son she comforted herself in the knowledge that, even though she loathed the woman, she had never been deliberately unkind to her.

  The undertakers came and went, and leaving Joan and Stanley mooning over the child in the crib, Lacey let herself out of the house in Scar End. She trudged home feeling older and wiser. In the space of an hour she’d witnessed birth and death. It left her with the sense of how precious life was: live every moment, for you never know when the last one will be.

  19

  Lacey recognised the childish handwriting on the flimsy blue paper propped against the milk jug on the table the minute she arrived home from work. Edith, her eyes moistening, nodded towards it then said, ‘Read it out, Lacey. Let’s all share it again.’

  Pte James Barraclough, 2/4th Battalion, Duke of Wellington’s West Riding Regiment

  Lacey read, her heart almost bursting with pride.

  Dear All,

  We’re billeted in Newcastle doing our training and in January we’ll move to Salisbury Plain. I like being a soldier and the sergeant says I’ll make a good one because I look after my kit properly. The food is not as good as Mam’s but marching and rifle practice are better than working in the Mill. Tell Mam I miss her and tell our Matt to look after the farm. Tell Dad I’m sorry for what I did and that one day I’ll make him proud of me. I don’t know when I’m going to France but I’m sure it will be soon.

  Love Jimmy.

  Lacey handed the letter to Edith and she took hold of it as one might a precious object, gazing through blurred eyes at the childish scrawl. Lacey looked over at Joshua. He sat, head bowed, his hand resting on his brow to hide his tears.

  ‘So far away,’ Edith said, setting aside the letter, ‘an’ before we know it he’ll be even further; God, don’t let them send our Jimmy to France.’

  Joshua reached across the table and laid his hand on Edith’s. ‘It might not come to that, lass,’ he sa
id gruffly. ‘They said it ‘ud be over by Christmas, so it can’t last much longer.’ Lacey heard the unspoken desire for it to be just so in Joshua’s tone. She patted his arm.

  Trying to sound hearty, Joshua said, ‘You’d best send the lad a parcel right away while we still know where he is. Pack only t’best stuff an’ don’t forget liquorice allsorts an’ sherbet pennies. He loves them.’ Joshua trudged outside to find solace with his sheep, Matt following, but not before he had slipped a shilling into Lacey’s hand to buy Jimmy treats.

  Lacey ate her tea, the letter bringing home the reality of Jimmy’s situation. She tried to imagine him in uniform, doing his duty, learning how to fire a rifle, learning how to kill. She tried not to think of him serving in France, up to his knees in mud or cowering in a trench, shot and shell raining down. He was her little brother and, fearing for his survival, she hoped that day would never come.

  Strangely enough, although she missed Nathan dreadfully she did not fear for him in the same way. Compared to Jimmy he was so much wiser and far more capable of taking care of himself – and he was an officer. His knowledge of warfare was bound to protect him in battle. Clinging to this, Lacey yearned for Nathan and Jimmy’s homecoming.

  Deprived of Nathan’s company, and Joan busy with baby James, Lacey was often left to her own devices. One Saturday she ventured as far as Leeds, to a Women’s Rally at which Isabella Ormston Ford was the chief speaker. Lacey was thrilled to see and hear this woman for whom she had such great admiration yet was surprised by her ordinariness. The kindly red face of the middle-aged woman wearing a turban hat squashed down on her head was not what Lacey had imagined. Yet if her appearance lacked style her eloquence was pure fire. She spoke with such conviction and knowledge it left Lacey awed and inspired. On the journey back to Garsthwaite, Lacey was bursting with fresh ideas to further the workers’ cause.

  *

  ‘Brearley said no to a canteen,’ Harry Clegg told Lacey, three days after the meeting at which she had raised the request. His expression sour, he leaned against Lacey’s loom awaiting her response.

  Sorely disappointed, Lacey watched the shuttle fly back and forth and marshalled her thoughts. Pick on pick, the cloth she was weaving lengthened by the minute, the thickening cloth beam lapped in khaki serge.

  ‘See that, Harry,’ she said, pointing to the beam, ‘since Brearley’s won that Ministry of Defence contract we’ve woven nowt else. Jonas’ll not meet his deadline if we stop working double shifts. So…’ Lacey clicked her fingers, ‘no canteen, no overtime! We’re holding all the cards, Harry; let’s play ‘em while we’ve got a full hand.’

  *

  ‘Is this canteen one of your ideas, by any chance?’ Jonas asked, on the second day his workforce had refused to work double shifts. He had summoned Lacey to his office, and from behind his desk he now faced her, belligerently.

  Lacey smiled innocently. ‘No, Mr Brearley, sir: I think credit for that must go to Mr Crowther. Bank Bottom Mill has had a canteen for more than five years.’

  Jonas was well acquainted with John Crowther, owner of the largest mill in the valley, and he knew that Lacey’s smart reply was her way of having fun at his expense. ‘By, but you’re a brazen young woman,’ he said.

  ‘Aye, but not brazen enough to want to eat me breakfast an’ me dinner in cold, wet conditions,’ Lacey retorted, before softening her features and adding, ‘all we’re asking for is a bit of comfort like they have at Bank Bottom.’

  Jonas pursed his lips then asked, ‘How far do you intend to push me, Lacey?’

  ‘You’ll have to wait an’ see, sir.’

  ‘I’ll not be taken advantage of.’ growled Jonas, dismissing her with a wave of his hand.

  Lacey understood this last remark was a reference to her friendship with Nathan, but she was undeterred. As far as she was concerned her work with the Union was totally separate from her love life.

  At dinnertime the next day, Harry Clegg called an impromptu meeting of the workers in the weaving shed. ‘As you all know, our request for a canteen has been refused. In answer to that, The Union recommends all members continue to refuse to work double shifts until the matter is resolved.’

  There was a collective groan from non-members and members alike, followed by a flurry of complaints.

  ‘We’ll lose out on us wages just when we have a chance to earn a bit o’ decent brass.’

  ‘If Brearley misses his deadline he’ll lose the bloody contract an’ we’ll be back on short-time afore you know it.’

  Lacey sprang to redress the situation. ‘Sometimes we have to lose a bit to gain a lot. This war won’t last forever an’ we’ll not always have overtime, but fight now for a canteen an’ you’ll have it for the rest of your working days. Remember, small victories lead to bigger ones.’

  ‘She’s right,’ said Harry Clegg. ‘His looms standing idle an’ the chance of meeting his deadline slipping away, Jonas Brearley’ll have to think again.’

  ‘Aye! For once we’ve got the upper hand,’ shouted a voice from deep within the shed. ‘Let’s make t’most on it.’

  A roar of approval made Lacey’s heart beat all the faster.

  *

  Up at Fenay Hall Jonas paced the library, a glass of whisky in his hand. Felicity let him rant, then losing patience, intervened.

  ‘Oh Papa, for goodness sake, sit down and stop being so melodramatic. Look at it from the workers’ point of view. You sit in a splendid dining room to eat your meals; have a little compassion. I presume you’re making profit on this order for khaki; what would it cost to provide them with a sheltered space in which to eat? Not much, I’ll be bound.’

  Jonas slumped into a leather wing chair at one side of the ornately tiled fireplace. Felicity sat facing him, her animated expression reminding him of Lacey: another damned woman with too many opinions.

  ‘If I don’t meet the deadline, I’ll lose the blasted contract,’ he reiterated. ‘Not only won’t they have a canteen, they’ll have no work.’ He ran his fingers through his sparse, greying hair.

  ‘And if they have no work, you’ll have no income,’ said Felicity, crossing the Chinese rug to perch on his lap. ‘Really Papa, you’re very short sighted when it comes to dealing with people. You know from your own experience that if the hirer is kind to his labourer, he gets good service in return.’

  She slipped her arm round his shoulders. ‘How many times have we heard the stories of how you learned best from those who treated you kindly and that you had little respect for those who delighted in making difficulties because you were the boss’s son.’

  Jonas was not appeased. ‘It’s that blasted woman,’ he said, ‘I never had this bother before she joined the Union.’

  Felicity smiled mischievously at this reference to Lacey. ‘She’s only doing what she thinks is right. Times are changing, Papa. Women are no longer willing to be dominated by men. They know they have just as much to offer in all walks of life, and this war is proving that. Powerful, influential women have always played their part in bringing about change: Lacey’s just one of them.’

  *

  ‘How much longer do you reckon we’ll have to hold out?’

  ‘It makes me feel sick when I think of all t’extra money I’m losin’ by not workin’ overtime.’

  ‘We’re so far behind wi’ this khaki order it’ll not be finished in time for t’deadline; then there’ll be no more orders.’

  ‘Brearley’s not goin’ to give in, no matter what. We might as well do overtime, make decent wages while we can an’ bugger the canteen.’

  ‘Aye, what we never had, we’ll never miss.’

  Lacey looked into the angry faces of the women gathered in the Mill yard. In her heart she sympathised with them, understanding their complaints, but in her head she resolved not to relent.

  It was midday on Saturday, the time the women usually clocked off for the weekend, but inside the weaving shed there was plenty of work waiting to be done: overtime for everyo
ne and the promise of fatter wage packets.

  Lacey gazed at the careworn faces, mouths clamped, eyes alert as they awaited her response. A cold fury swept through her veins. ‘Give me a few minutes, lasses, I’ll not be long.’

  She strode away from them, across the Mill yard to Jonas’ office. She knew he was still on the premises as his car was waiting in the yard. For the past two weeks Harry Clegg and the Union men had had frequent meetings with Jonas to no avail. If they could not persuade him to provide a canteen, perhaps she could. Throwing caution to the wind she rapped on the office door and stepped inside, uninvited.

  Jonas was clearing his desk, placing ledgers on shelves. When he saw who had invaded his sanctuary his face darkened. ‘What the devil do you mean by this?’

  ‘You know why I’m here, Mr Brearley. We’re at loggerheads, neither of us getting what we want. We need to redress the matter before it gets any worse. Harry Clegg’s failed to make an impression on you, so maybe I can.’

  Jonas’ eyes widened. With an impatient wave of his hand he indicated for Lacey to sit in the chair facing the desk. Thumping down into the one behind it Jonas lolled back, his hands resting on his paunch, a sardonic expression on his face. ‘Well…’ he growled.

  Then, to his amazement, he heard Lacey reiterate the same argument Felicity had used earlier in the week. ‘Have you been colluding with my daughter?’

  Lacey shook her head, puzzled. ‘No, sir, I haven’t spoken with Miss Felicity about this.’

  Jonas harrumphed. Could it be that both these sharp young women were right and he was wrong? He fingered his pursed lips. What was it Lacey had said about Crowther’s Mill at Bank Bottom? John Crowther’s philanthropy was admired throughout the Colne Valley, thought Jonas; maybe he should bear that in mind.

  Troubled by the long silence, Lacey perched uneasily on the edge of the chair. Was he about to dismiss her? If so, she would go down fighting.

  ‘It’ll benefit both sides if we came to an immediate agreement, sir,’ she said firmly, ‘we get our canteen and you meet your deadline. The lasses will make up for time lost because they’ll know they’ve achieved something that improves their working days for years to come. That way everybody wins. I’ll leave you to think about it, sir.’