Down Weaver's Lane (13 page)

Samuel nodded thoughtfully. ‘Bradley speaks very highly of the lad, too, and now employs him to help out with the young men’s Sunday reading class. We need a literate workforce in this new era, Isaac.’

‘Yes, sir. I am well aware of that.’

‘Jack Staley doesn’t look like a clerk, though. He’s a muscular young fellow, big built like his father. And he certainly doesn’t dress like a clerk.’

‘No, sir. But there are going to be confidential messages to be sent to your new colleagues in Manchester, as you know because we can’t always wait for the mail to come and go. Also messages need to be taken quickly sometimes to Mr Armistead at Moor Grange or payments to our suppliers. I’m sure we could entrust those to Jack and perhaps have him taught to ride a horse or drive a trap. But if we did decide to give him a trial, I fear we’d have to help him acquire some more suitable garments, given the circumstances of the family. I thought we might also offer him a small rise in wages?’

‘Hire your clerk, then, and we’ll give Jack Staley a month’s trial on the same wages as now - if it doesn’t work out, he can keep the new clothes. If it does, he can have his rise as well. But if you have any doubts, any doubts at all ...’

‘I shall send him back to the weaving shed, sir.’

 

Jack was summoned to the mill office the following afternoon and found only Mr Butterfield there, with no sign of the languid young gentleman whose airs and graces had been amusing the operatives for the past few weeks.

‘Ah, Staley.’ Isaac Butterfield stared at him over the top of his pince-nez. ‘Come into my office and close the door behind you.’ He waved Jack to a seat, then explained, ‘Young Mr Alfred has had to leave us and we need two more people for the office. We are considering you for one position.’

‘Me? But I’m not a clerk, sir!’

‘You can read and write a legible hand, I gather. Indeed Mr Bradley and Mr Graslow both speak very highly of your intelligence.’

Jack thought of the big office with its shelves of ledgers, its mahogany pigeon holes full of papers and the high sloping desks, each with its tall wooden stool. The thought of being shut up in it every day did not please him, though at least it would be quieter than the weaving shed. ‘I - don’t know what to say, sir.’

Mr Butterfield gave him an understanding smile. ‘If you’re thinking that you don’t wish to be penned up in here day after day, I should tell you that there will be important messages to be taken to various persons in the town, highly
confidential
messages which we would not entrust to just anyone. And as you grow more used to the work, you will be sent on similar errands into Manchester. You would need to learn to drive a trap to reach some places, but the stage coaches are very reliable nowadays for going into Manchester.’ He saw Jack’s face brighten a little and added, ‘Mr Rishmore is having dealings with some Manchester merchants, you see, though you will not discuss that fact with anyone else.’

Jack stared at him in amazement. ‘How did you know I felt like that about being shut up indoors?’

‘I’ve noticed you sometimes at the end of the day staring up longingly at the sun as you leave the mill. It would be surprising if someone of your age - what are you, eighteen, nineteen? - wanted to spend every day crouched over a desk. You will have other duties in the mill as well. For instance, you can take over the task of checking the operatives in and out every morning, and ordering supplies according to the needs of the various sections. But I will not disguise the fact that there will necessarily be many hours devoted to doing the accounts and copying correspondence, and I shall expect that work to be done meticulously.’

When Jack still didn’t speak, Isaac prompted, ‘Mr Rishmore is prepared to give you a month’s trial. If you prove satisfactory it will also mean a rise in your wages. I know your family will welcome the extra money. Have you heard from your sister lately?’

Was there nothing Mr Butterfield did not know about him? ‘No, sir. I’m worried about her.’ But maybe with the extra money he’d be able to hire a trap and go across to Rochdale to look for her. She had promised to keep in touch. Something must be wrong.

‘Then you will accept the position? Good.’

‘I’ll do my best to give satisfaction. Only -’ Jack looked down at himself and then at his superior ‘- I don’t think I have the right sort of clothes to work in here.’

‘No. We shall sort that out later in the morning. I believe Mr Roper deals in second-hand clothing and I’m sure we’ll find you something suitable in his stock. And, since there is no time like the present, perhaps you would go and tell Mr Graslow that you will be working for me from now on? He knew I was to make this offer to you.’

As Isaac watched the young fellow stride across the mill yard, he could not help thinking that if he had had a son he would have wanted one like this: sturdy, loyal and with an innate honesty that shone out of his face. That made him wonder if Jack might not be a good match for Lal - if he did well in this new job, that was. It wasn’t going to be easy to find his elder daughter a husband, but money could be a wonderful inducement and she would have a generous dowry. But first he would see how Jack dealt with this opportunity for advancement.

Thinking of family reminded him of his sister. He’d caught occasional glimpses of her and poor Madge had aged more than he’d have expected. Martin said she rarely left the inn during daylight now. Her daughter was apparently working as a maid and sounded to be a decent young lass, which was one mercy. Ignoring his sister’s presence in town had been the right thing to do, even though his wife still worried that someone might find out about the relationship and shun them because of it. He sighed at the thought of his wife. Lena’s temper was growing increasingly uncertain, making life at home difficult.

He realised he had been sitting staring into space and shook his head in annoyance at himself. He was being paid to manage Mr Rishmore’s office not sit and worry about his own affairs.

 

To his surprise Jack found his new work in the office far more congenial than the noisy weaving shed. There was more variety in his days than he had expected and he enjoyed learning to drive a trap, taught by Mr Rishmore’s coachman. But there was a lot of writing to do and that was not nearly as enjoyable. The ink soon stained his fingertips blue, however much he scrubbed them.

And although he went across to Rochdale twice, hiring a trap from the livery stables to do so after work on Saturdays, he could get no word of his sister which added another anxiety to his life.

His mother said Meg had made her bed and now must lie on it, but Jack could not help feeling that something must be wrong for her not even to send them a message.

 

Emmy had never been so happy. Mrs Tibby was more like a favourite aunt or grandmother than a mistress dealing with her maid, and the girl could not help realising how lonely the poor old lady had been and how much she still missed her beloved husband. They rarely saw Emmy’s mother nowadays, and when they did Emmy noticed that she had grown very thin, with a bitter twist to her mouth that had not been there before.

Mrs Tibby herself remained frail, often taking to her couch by mid-afternoon. As soon as she had learned enough about housekeeping, Emmy did nearly all the physical work. She might be small, but she had felt strong and healthy ever since coming to work for her dear mistress who saw that she ate well and regularly.

However, with the good food and happy life, Emmy began to grow. She did not become much taller, but there was no hiding the fact that she now had a woman’s shape. That worried her a lot because sometimes she saw George Duckworth in the street and, although he never approached her, he would stop and study her thoughtfully. Those encounters made her shiver.

When Mrs Tibby found out how poorly her new maid could read and write, she began teaching her. They would spend time on this together most afternoons and gradually Emmy grew skilled enough to read her mistress’s favourite novels aloud, because the latter’s eyes were not good, even when she used her late husband’s spectacles to magnify the print.

Tibby also tried to teach the girl as much as she could about arithmetic because dear James had been a firm believer in universal literacy. ‘The Three Rs, my girl,’ he used to say, ‘they’re what lift folk out of poverty. Not just reading, but being able to manage the pennies.’ She was not gifted at arithmetic herself and, although she made heroic efforts to keep her household accounts, rarely got her columns of figures to balance and agonised over them in secret.

As the first months of 1829 passed, Emmy could tell that her mistress was worrying about something and in the end insisted on an explanation. It must be to do with money because it was several weeks since she’d been paid any wages and she had even used some of her own small savings during the past week or two when there was not enough money to meet their simple needs.

After weeping softly into her handkerchief Mrs Tibby at last explained what the trouble was. ‘My family, the Armisteads, are quite well off but when I insisted on marrying my dear James, who was an employee of my father’s, they disowned me. Not that I ever regretted marrying him, but it’s hard to lose your family. I’ve never heard from my brother Claude since. Only my younger brother William ever spoke to me again and when he died, he left me a small income.’ She stopped to mop her eyes again. ‘That two guineas a month is all I have now, for my dear James was cheated out of his money by a man we had thought our friend. I - I have managed for a while, but my savings are quite used up now.’

She stared down at her damp handkerchief then looked at Emmy with brimming eyes. ‘Two guineas is not enough to live on, not with the rent to pay, though I try hard to manage. Lately I’ve had to sell a few things. It’s very embarrassing to visit the pawnbroker and - and I do miss my things, but one has to eat.’

‘You shouldn’t have taken me on!’ Emmy was horrified. ‘It’s my wages that do it.’

‘Dear child, employing you was the best thing I could have done. I think I should be dead by now without your help and company.’ Another tear rolled down Tibby’s wrinkled cheek as she added, ‘Today I feel rather poorly so I’d welcome your arm up the lane. We must have some more money and I can’t collect my allowance from the bank for two more weeks, you see.’

‘Where are we going?’

With a blush Tibby replied, ‘Mr Roper’s pawnshop. And - will you put this in the shopping basket, if you please?’

Emmy did not comment as she put the small bundle wrapped in a piece of linen into the basket. But they made slow progress up Weavers Lane because her mistress kept stopping to sigh and rest for ‘just a minute’. Northby’s shops and one small bank were clustered together where the street widened before it divided to pass on either side of the church. The area was big enough to hold the weekly market but not grand enough to be called a square, so folk just called it Market Place. At this hour on a Tuesday the street was almost deserted, which was what Mrs Tibby had hoped for.

Roper’s pawnshop was located just before Market Place in a little alley which ran off Weavers Lane to the left. As they were about to turn into it they saw a lady coming towards them whom Mrs Tibby knew from church. She clutched Emmy’s arm tightly and hissed, ‘Walk on past! She mustn’t know.’

After she had exchanged greetings with the lady Mrs Tibby said faintly, ‘We’ll go and look in the window of the draper’s, shall we?’ Only when Mrs Renford was out of sight did she give a shuddering sigh. ‘I think we may return now.’

They retraced their footsteps and, after another quick glance round to make sure no one else was approaching, slipped along the alley and into the shop.

In Manchester her mother had sometimes sent her to pawnshops, but Emmy had never been inside this one before. It smelled the same as the others, of sweaty old clothes, dust and mouse droppings, and she wrinkled her nose in disgust.

Mr Roper appeared through the curtain-hung doorway behind the counter and stood waiting for them, arms folded.

He might have offered her mistress a civil greeting, Emmy thought indignantly. It was as if he was showing scorn by this rudeness and the poor lady didn’t deserve that.

After much fumbling in the basket with hands that shook visibly Mrs Tibby produced her pretty silver salt cellar and asked in a wobbly voice, ‘How much can you give me for this, Mr Roper?’

‘Ten shillings,’ he said after a cursory glance. ‘There’s not much call for such things in Northby. And it isn’t very good quality silver, either.’

Mrs Tibby picked it up again, giving it a loving caress with her fingertips as she did so. ‘Oh, dear, I had hoped for more than that. I know it cost my dear husband a great deal.’ When Mr Roper did not move or speak, she sighed and said, ‘Very well, then,’ in a breathless voice before pushing it towards him.

Emmy had seen the prices given on many such objects in pawnshops and felt sure the man was trying to cheat her mistress. Somehow she could not bear that to happen to her gentle, kindly lady and anger gave her the courage to intervene. ‘That’s not a fair price, Mrs Tibby.’ She picked up the salt cellar from the counter.

Her mistress looked at her in dismay. ‘Is it not?’

‘No. This is solid silver and it’s very pretty. I’m sure it’s worth far more than ten shillings so I think we should take it elsewhere.’

Mr Roper gave a sneering, braying laugh. ‘There’s nowhere else in Northby to take it, young woman, and this is between your mistress and me, so keep your nose out.’ He turned to scowl at the older woman. ‘See here, missus, if you go away and then come back wasting my time when I’ve made my offer, it’ll be only nine shillings you’ll get for it.’

Mrs Tibby could not hold back a squeak of dismay but Emmy was made of stronger stuff. ‘Then I shall have to ride into Rochdale on the carrier’s cart to see what I can get there, shan’t I?’ she said, eyes challenging his. ‘Come along, ma’am. You’re looking tired. Let’s go home now.’ She had never been to Rochdale, didn’t even knew whether there was a pawnshop there, but her bluff worked.