A Time Like No Other (40 page)

Roly was incensed by her absolute refusal to let him see his brother which he tried to do several times while she was at the mill, threatening to send for the constable, but Carly and Martin, with Wilf and Ben ranged behind them brandishing pitchforks as the mistress had ordered, would not allow him beyond the front door.

On one occasion he had pressed Jenny, who had answered the door, back as far as the staircase, her screams echoing round the hall as he struck her in the face, and into the kitchen where the kitchen-maids cowered and babbled their terror, but there were a dozen men working for Mrs Sinclair now, handymen, grooms, stable lads, gardeners, even a gamekeeper to assist Mr Cameron, the steward. They were all devoted to the little mistress who had so much on her plate and, it was whispered, was with child, and Mr Roly was soon sent packing. It became the job of the boot boy, who was the youngest in the household and the fastest runner of them all, to work by the entrance gates of the Priory and should he see Mr Roly approaching to run like the wind to warn the men.

‘Well, madam,’ Roly snarled, ‘as it seems I am not to be allowed to see my brother on the future of the mills I shall do exactly as I please and you and your . . . your so-called friends can go to the devil.’

‘I believe there is a problem with a “mule”, Roly,’ Lally told him patiently, ‘and as Adam is the only engineer among us you might want to re-phrase that.’

‘Adam can go to hell as far as I’m concerned.’

‘And I believe you have overlooked the fact that the steam power that drives our machines needs coal to fuel the boilers which I see you have forgotten to order. There is a combing machine standing doing nothing.’

And so it went on. It was rumoured in Bradford’s old Wool Exchange – the new building was not erected until 1864 – that merchants went regularly to the other side of the globe to buy wool; others went to Belgium, or even
China
selling yarn and pieces and Lally did her best to persuade Roly, who seemed to hang about carrying on only the pursuits of gentlemen, thanks to his enormously rich wife, to be once again a seller of worsted goods at which he was so successful, but it was now so far beneath him he ignored her. If he could not run the business from a luxurious office, as he wished to do, then she must manage on her own. Or ask her husband!

She and Susan had started up the school and nursery again to accommodate the offspring of their workers. They had been over to Saltaire where Titus Salt, moving out of the unsanitary environs of Bradford, had built his model industrial village. An enormous mill in a cleaner location, a green and pleasant area, employing 3,000 men and women and around it were houses, a park, a school, a library and outdoor facilities. The houses were lined with brick and each had a parlour, a kitchen, a pantry and two, three or four bedrooms, and there were almshouses for the elderly. Lally was fired up with the idea that Harry’s mills might do the same but when she put it to Roly, telling him of a huge piece of land for sale known as Penfold Meadow which was no more than scrub and therefore cheap, he laughed in her face.

She took no notice and went ahead anyway!

Adam had not been present, since he spent most of his time maintaining the spinning frames, the combing machines and the looms on which the weaving of the worsted was done. She and Susan, whom Roly ignored as he would a maidservant who had spoken out of turn, did their best to persuade him to go and at least look at the land.

‘If we built cottages as Titus Salt has done . . .’

‘Ha! Titus Salt! He has more money than sense and anyway the hands are perfectly content to live as they do.’ His voice was contemptuous.

‘Have you seen where they live, Roly? They exist in appalling conditions. One privy to 200 cottages, overcrowded with many families obliged to occupy one room, terrible diseases, particularly among the children, no sewerage or drainage in the courts, alleys and lanes, and the smell is . . . Susan will tell you.’

He turned to look at Susan, pulling at his underlip, gazing at her as though she should go back there and good riddance, but raising his eyebrows, he turned back to Lally, for though he did not agree with her, she was at least of his class.

‘D’you know, Lally, I don’t give a damn.’

‘He cracks on he’s summat special but he’s nowt but a feckless bugger,’ Susan said in her broad northern accent after he had gone.

Lally laughed. ‘I know, lass, but he’ll not get the best of us. We’re off to see the bank manager, the architect and whoever else is needed to build proper houses on Penfold Meadow and if Roly won’t sell the cloth we must be prepared to find an honest man who will.’

‘Where’s the money coming from for all this, Lally? Surely Mr Harry keeps his in an account in his name.’

Lally tapped her nose then produced from her reticule a very official-looking document on which Harry’s signature was prominent. ‘Ways and means, my lass.’

‘What about Roly?’ He’ll cause more trouble when he finds out.’

‘How often does Roly ride out to Penfold Meadow or indeed go anywhere that does not afford him pleasure? Come on, lass, frame yersenn,’ laughing at Susan’s expression at her own endeavour with a Yorkshire accent.

It all went swimmingly, foundations laid for the new mill, a massive mill that would incorporate all the processes of worsted manufacturing, a mill that would, like that at Saltaire, have light, air, space and warmth. Brand-new houses were begun until Mr Anson called one morning to tell them that Roly Sinclair, since he was half owner of the mill, had put a stop to the whole business by refusing to sign the necessary papers, a procedure Lally had overlooked. The work was brought to an abrupt halt, and what had already been done must be paid for by Mr Harry Sinclair since Mr Roly insisted he had nothing to do with it!

When Lally and Susan were not at their desks doing their best to keep the spinning frames and weaving looms running, interviewing suitable gentlemen to go abroad and sell their cloth, ordering coal and seeing to its distribution and the hundred and one other jobs they were industriously tackling – many of which seemed to roll along on their own momentum, the momentum begun by Harry Sinclair – they visited the houses in St Margaret’s Passage from where Susan herself had come.

There were thirty of them totalling almost 180 rooms in which 400 people lived. It was a constantly shifting population since the inhabitants took in lodgers or threw out wayward older children. Only one in two infants born reached the age of three years. They lived in squalor, most of them, though among them could be found shrewd, decent, down-to-earth Yorkshire folk like Susan herself. In one room lived Mrs Quinn with a sagging double bed where she slept with her husband and five children. Nevertheless she was at the gates of High Clough each morning as was her husband and two of the older children, the rest left to fend for themselves. She was eternally grateful to Mrs Sinclair for reopening the school, though their Alfie who was six years old was to start as a piecener soon in the spinning shed.

A Mrs O’Connell did not get out of bed to greet them, having given birth that morning to a wailing little scrap wrapped in a bit of old sacking. Her ‘husband’ had buggered off and she’d no money to pay the rent and no, she didn’t know where her other children were and didn’t seem to care.

Mrs Maguire had eleven children in her two rooms and three lodgers in her cellar. She kept a pig in her back yard and she was cheerful and uncomplaining. They lived at the moment on potatoes but she hoped to resume her work as soon as this one, looking down at the baby clinging to the nipple on her pendulous breast, could be fitted into the mill nursery.

It was when they returned to their office after one such visit that they learned that all the building work at Penfold Meadow had been suspended. Roly was nowhere to be found but Adam was waiting for them, sitting behind Susan’s desk from which he immediately sprang. Seated in a visitor’s chair, from which he also rose as the two ladies entered the office, was a pleasant-looking young man about Adam’s age, immaculately turned out in a dove-grey morning coat which reached his knees, a cream waistcoat, darker grey trousers, tight and buttoning at the ankle with four buttons, and a pristine white cravat. He smiled and bowed politely as the two ladies looked at him enquiringly.

‘Mrs Sinclair, Mrs Harper, may I introduce Brice Heaton. Brice, this is Mrs Sinclair, the wife of the owner of the mills and her friend and associate, Mrs Harper.’

Mr Heaton bowed again. ‘Mrs Sinclair, Mrs Harper.’ Judging by his well-bred voice Mr Heaton was a gentleman.

When they were all settled Adam spoke.

‘I think I have found the answer to our problems regarding the selling of the worsted which is beginning to pile up in our sheds since Mr Sinclair, Mr Roly Sinclair, that is, has declined to go abroad to sell it and the man he himself chose to take his place is not doing his job. We are managing here in this country because our customers, knowing the quality of the yarn, are still buying. They see the samples, of course, and everything runs smoothly. But someone must go to Europe, to Russia, to America, even China, to continue to sell our cloth to existing buyers and to find new ones. They will go elsewhere if we don’t deliver on time.’

Both Lally and Susan turned to look at Mr Heaton.

‘Yes, Mr Heaton. Brice. He is an engineer as I am and earned his degree at the same university which is where I met him. We have been friends since. He has learned all aspects of the wool trade, travelling to London, Liverpool, Norfolk and Lincolnshire to glean knowledge of different types of wool and how to buy and sell among wool traders. He has been more thorough than I have myself. No, it’s true, Brice,’ as Mr Heaton held up a deprecating hand. ‘I propose,’ Adam went on, ‘that you employ him. I can vouch for him, ladies. Your brother-in-law may kick up a fuss, Mrs Sinclair, but I think the four of us can keep the mills going until your husband has recovered. I realise that you barely know me, let alone Brice, but I think I have proved myself and . . . well, what d’you say?’

Mr Heaton appeared to be completely unfazed by the silence that followed. He was a member of the class that was well used to dealing with any situation, having been brought up, probably by a nanny, to keep his feelings hidden.

‘Well.’ Lally cleared her throat and turned to look at Susan whose own expression was non-committal. They were both aware that
someone
had to travel to other parts of the world to sell their cloth and Mr Heaton was certainly presentable. A gentleman from the same class as Lally but one who had turned his back on the conventions of the gentry, learned his trade, earned his degree at university as Adam had and, taking off his fine coat, had dirtied his hands on the factory floor, or so Adam appeared to be telling them. Besides, Adam, whom they had come to trust, was prepared to testify to his integrity.

Lally and Susan exchanged glances and so well did they know each other by now, each was aware of what the other was thinking. They were impressed and delighted at what Adam proposed.

They were suddenly startled by a strange sound which none of them could identify, the sound accompanied by a trembling of the air about them. The cup and saucer Lally had just placed on the desk shivered slightly. None of them moved for a moment until, with a violence that had the two men off their chairs and at the window, shouts, cries, even screams altered the clatter of cheerful voices usually heard to one of awesome terror.

‘What is it? What’s happened?’ Lally quavered. She took a faltering step or two, wanting to run to the window where the men blocked out the light and elbow them aside. Susan followed and for one of those moments when time seems to stand still, leaving figures frozen and paralysed with shock, the scene beyond the window was printed on four pairs of eyes. No one spoke, for as they stared, horrified, a great snarling blast struck the window and every pane of glass shattered, falling in tiny pieces at their feet as they stood rooted to the carpet by the window. Minute shards pierced the flesh of their faces and flecks of blood bloomed but none of them moved. The men in the yard were all gaping at the six-storeyed mill, many of
them
with blood on them. Horses whinnied in terror, rearing up between the shafts of the wagons, almost tipping them backwards and still men stood.

‘Sweet Jesus!’ Adam whispered, for even as they watched, the roof of the boiler house which was situated in the centre of the building rose into the air, lifting in what appeared to be slow motion, taking with it slates, stone, massive wooden beams, pieces of metal, parts of machinery and the remnants of wool. Worse than even that were objects that looked suspiciously like human torsos.

There were three boilers, two of them of twenty horsepower each and one of thirty horsepower, and for dreadful seconds, which seemed like hours, none of them stirred, rendered insensible, numbed by the horror of what they saw. Great clouds of dust and debris began to fall, pieces of masonry raining down on the men in the yard, causing the horses to panic even further so that those not injured by the falling debris were in danger of being trampled by the terrified animals.

It was then that the two men in the office leaped into life and with a bound they were at the door.

‘Stay there,’ Adam ordered the women curtly, but naturally they took no notice, racing past Hawkins who cowered behind his desk. Down the littered steps they blundered and into the equally littered yard, hardly able to see for the dust that hung about, drifting in a greyish-brown cloud and coating everything within a hundred yards of the weaving shed. Adam and Brice had disappeared as soon as they leaped off the last step, both racing, Lally supposed, towards the building.

‘Hold my hand,’ Susan shrieked into Lally’s ear, for once they began to move across the yard where the men and horses panicked they would lose sight of one another. There were women screaming out a child’s name, the men cursing, for they wanted to help, to get to the weaving shed, to rescue whoever was injured because surely there would be many of those.