Shining Threads (5 page)

‘It’s all right, Edwards. I like to see a child with a bit of spirit.’ He took out his wrap-reel and began to study the ‘wrapping’ of the yarn as the carriage on
the machine was drawn out. At his back the overlooker fumed silently. It was like this every day when Mr Greenwood inspected the spinning room and but for the splendid wage he earned and, as an
overlooker, the neat little villa he rented so cheaply from his employer, he wouldn’t take it. Interfering in what he considered to be
his
duties. The supervision of the spinners, the
piecers and scavengers,
and
their chastisement if he felt they needed it, was
his
job. Of course, he had heard of the family’s squeamishness before he took up employment with
them but sometimes when he saw the, to his mind,
free
way in which their workers were allowed to approach them if they considered they had a grievance, it was almost more than he could take.
What was the world coming to when a lad could address the owner’s
brother
, for God’s sake, and get no more than a friendly greeting in return? Naturally, when Mr Greenwood or Mrs
Harrison weren’t about he’d fetch a lad, or a lass if it came to that, a clout or two, not hard like, for it would be more than his job was worth, since it had been known for a
‘rough’ overlooker to be dismissed on the spot.

Charlie looked about him and sighed in satisfaction. He was pleased with the general air of cheerfulness which lay over the room, the smiles the women and children gave him as he passed and the
sound of a man whistling nearby. Years ago a man could be fined for whistling at his work though Charlie often wondered what any man had found to whistle about in those days. The greatest boon, in
his opinion, of the 1833 Factory Act had been to open a window to the rest of the world on the industrial conditions which existed in the mills, though it seemed to him that not a lot of good had
come out of it in many of them, despite the reports of the Factory Inspectorate. Tales of abuses had shocked the world and there had been outcries from a great number of people on how conditions
should be changed. But poor building materials had produced unsafe buildings, bad ventilation, suffocatingly high temperatures in which the hands worked. Very few millowners were prepared, as Mrs
Jenny Harrison and Mrs Joss Greenwood were, to spend money on renovating factories which quite satisfactorily produced the required yardage each week. Long hours and the increasing speeds at which
the machines went exhausted the operative, but she turned up for work each day so what was the millowner to do but allow her to do it? Disease thrived in the overworked and undernourished bodies
and adults who burned themselves out were easily replaced by others. More, not fewer children were employed since the new machine did not need the brute force of a man to run it, and besides, was
not a child’s wage a quarter of that paid to a man?

Nine years ago a further Factory Act had reduced children’s working hours to six and a half each day with a half day’s compulsory schooling. However, what was known as a
‘relay’ system was introduced by unscrupulous millowners, the factory day stretching over fifteen hours, from five thirty in the morning until eight thirty at night, making it almost
impossible to detect whether the new law was being observed. The Act, passed to protect the overworked and underpaid labourer, mainly children, not only in the textile trade but in all forms of
employment, was once more obstructed by the unprincipled employer. Children continued to work for fourteen hours a day, and profit, the god, the duty, the right of the master, grew a
hundredfold.

John Fielden, supported by Joss Greenwood, continued to press for the ‘Ten-Hour’ Bill, a ten-and-a-half hour day from six in the morning until six at night with one and a half hours
for meals, and in 1847 the Act had been carried for young women and children. This further incensed the millowner since, if he was to turn off his engine for two-thirds and more of his workers, it
was scarcely profitable to keep it running for the remaining third. But again, with a series of shifts and overtime, which could be checked by no one, the Bill was got round and women and children
laboured, just as they had always done.

‘Mr Greenwood’. A light touch on his arm made Charlie turn but before he could speak the overlooker at his back, his face thunderous, began to bluster, attempting, without appearing
to, to hustle away the girl who stood there. She wore only the briefest of skirts and a scanty, sleeveless bodice. Her feet were bare but she was sturdy enough, with the wiry look of a young
greyhound.

‘Get back to thy machine, my lass,’ the overlooker hissed, ‘an’ don’t thee be mitherin’ Mr Greenwood. Can thi not see ’e’s busy? If there’s
’owt wrong I’ll see to it mesen directly.’

‘No, let her speak, Edwards. What is it, lass?’ The overlooker was forced to stand back, his face red, his eyes snapping with vexation, his expression conveying to the unfortunate
girl that she’d be sorry for this, really she would. Charlie frowned, a feeling of unease evaporating his former sense of satisfaction.

‘What is it?’

‘Oh sir . . .’ Though she seemed somewhat overcome at her own daring now that she had his attention since he was
manager
of this mill in which she was nought but a humble
spinner, her chin lifted stubbornly and there was a resolute gleam in her almost colourless eyes. She had never spoken to Mr Greenwood before, indeed it was not her place to address anyone higher
than the tackler who was over her, but this was an extreme circumstance and extreme circumstances made for extreme measures.

‘Yes?’ he said kindly and she took heart, despite the tackler’s steely expression, looking directly, bravely into Mr Greenwood’s eyes. They were a greeny-brown, she
noticed, surprised that she should observe such a thing, the state she was in, but they were smiling encouragingly at her and he bent his head a little the better to hear her in the clangour around
them. He was not a tall man. In his early childhood there had been poverty in the textile towns of Lancashire.

His diet had not encouraged the building of sturdy limbs and firm flesh, but later, when his family’s circumstances had improved, so had his physique. He was not handsome really, but with
a nice face even though the scars on it, one across his mouth and the other above his left eye, gave him quite a rakish air. She had heard, though perhaps it was just a rumour, that he had been a
‘piecer’ himself once and had been beaten within an inch of his life by a bullying overlooket for defending a little girl who was the butt of the overlooker’s ill-temper. It was
hard to believe when you looked at the smooth, beautifully tailored cut of his coat and trousers, the immaculately ruffled white of his shirt front, the gold tie-pin and cuff-links and the
impression of superb good health which glowed about him. And even harder to believe was that the lady who was his wife, Mrs Laurel Greenwood, was that very same small girl he had rescued. It
sounded very romantic, if you believed in such things, which
she
didn’t, and anyroad she was not here to speculate on the past of this man who was in charge of the whole of the
spinning side of Chapman Manufacturing. Really, how she had got up the courage to speak to him at all, she didn’t know, but speak she must, choose how.

She drew in a deep breath.

‘It’s new under-tackler what’s bin took on, sit. ’Im as come from Abbotts.’

‘What about him?’

She bared her teeth for a moment as though she would like nothing better than to sink them into the new tackler’s neck Mr Greenwood was waiting patiently and though she was well aware that
the overlooker at his back was warning her with narrowed eyes that she had best know exactly what she was doing since she was going over
his
head, she continued courageously.

‘’E’s got our Nelly in’t tackler’s room, Mr Greenwood.’ Her voice held a note of apology as though she was sorry to be bothering him over such a trifling
matter and him so important, but there was defiance in her since it was her
right
, her eyes said, to speak up when an injustice was being done. And there was fear too, for though such things
were rare in the Chapman mills one did hear of such terrible happenings, especially to young girls, in other mills in the valley. ‘She’s bin in theer ower ’alf an ’our
an’ . . . well, tis a long time, sir. ’E said as ’ow she were cheeky an’ needed a talkin’ to but that be a long while talkin’ to a little lass, an’ anyroad
. . . well . . .’ She squared her thin shoulders obstinately and her pugnacious little chin lifted, ‘I reckon someone ought ter fetch ’er out.’

Charlie Greenwood straightened up and looked beyond her in the direction of the tiny office at the end of the room, the door of which was closed, and the overlooker behind him stirred uneasily.
He too had heard, aye, even witnessed some of the . . . well, to give it a
kind
word . . . the mistreatment of little lasses in the industrial areas of the country. Though he himself was not
slow to give a child,
for its own good
, a lick or two with his overlooker’s cane, since many a time it could save that child’s life by preventing it from falling asleep and into
the moving parts of a machine, he didn’t hold with interfering with young girls.

‘Lead on, lass,’ Mr Greenwood said ominously and the overlooker added ‘aye’ just for good measure.

The girl turned thankfully, light as thistledown in her relief, running on bare and filthy feet between the neat rows of machines all set in pairs and at each pair a woman and child. It was very
hot, not a dry heat, but humid like some tropical jungle, and every man, woman and child in the room was dewed with perspiration. The heat brought out a variety of smells from the cotton itself,
from the oil-soaked pinewood floor and from the mahogany carriages and creels. Above it all was the whirr of spinning spindles, the shriek of tortured leather straps and the thump of carriages
‘letting-in’. At the door to what was known as the ‘little cabin’ the girl stopped, with Mr Greenwood and the overlooker directly behind her. It was a small room opening off
the main spinning room, used as an office, and in it the overlooker kept his equipment, usually no more than a simple balance and wrap-reel, a quadrant-type yarn tester and a ready reckoner. With
these he checked the yarn from each mule at regular intervals and ordered gear changes to be made whenever his ‘wrappings’ indicated a departure from the required count.

It was somewhat quieter here away from the vicinity of the clattering machinery and Charlie could hear the echo of his own and the overlooker’s boots on the floor of the main passage along
which they had just hurried. This part of the flooring had been overlaid with maple to withstand the relatively heavy traffic of shod feet. Only the overlookers, of the work force, wore boots.
Everyone else was barefoot and it was common practice among the operatives to pick up waste with their toes which became, in a sense, a third ‘hand’.

From the office came no sound at all.

‘Oh, Mr Greenwood, tell ’im to give ower. Tell ’im ter let our Nelly out.’ The girl, whose protective instincts were savagely alert put her hand to her mouth, her eyes
huge and desperate in her chalk-white face. She was afraid now, not of the sound of anger, or even the dreaded overlooker’s strap, but by the absence of any sound at all.

‘Out of me way then, lass,’ Mr Greenwood said menacingly, putting his hand on the door-knob, turning it, ready to thrust himself into the room, surprised when he met resistance since
there was no lock to the door. It was unnecessary as there was nothing of value worth stealing. His face darkened as his frown drove down his fierce eyebrows and the girl edged up to his back, as
eager as he to get inside, willing, it seemed, to lend a hand in the breaking down of the door if it should be needed.

‘What the hell’s going on?’ Mr Greenwood roared and the sound of his voice lifted every head in the lofty room, turning each one avidly towards him. They had all been aware, of
course, that Annie Beale had accosted their employer; most had been keeping half an eye on the small drama but they could afford no more than that since each operative spinner was paid a sum
directly and precisely related to the amount of yarn she had spun in the preceding week. Besides, if a thread should break in the fraction of time it took to glance away and the yarn end be lost in
the machinery, it would take valuable time they could ill afford to find and repair it.

‘Open this bloody door.’ Charlie Greenwood’s voice was dangerous now and even Annie was alarmed since she’d never seen such a killing rage in anyone’s face. His
eyes were slitted and gleaming, the whites suffused with blood, and his big hands had formed into fists which threatened to smash through the door-panels, indeed through
anything
which stood
in his way. But the door remained shut though on the other side could now be heard small scuffling sounds and a child whimpered.

‘Nelly . . .’ Annie Beale whispered and before the name had sighed from her anguished throat Charlie Greenwood’s sturdy frame had smashed against the door taking it from its
hinges as though it was made of cardboard, sweeping it into the cabin. The chair which had been placed beneath the door-knob went with it.

The man was still fumbling with his trouser buttons when Charlie fell on him. He was a thin, sallow-hued, round-shouldered little man with a hank of dusty hair who, if something was not done to
stop it, would be snapped in two like a bit of dry stick in Charlie Greenwood’s maddened grasp.

‘You rotten bastard . . . you filth . . . you stinking piece of filth . . . I’ll kill you, kill you for this, d’you hear?’ Charlie was yelling, out of his mind, it
appeared, his face white and sweating, his eyes staring at something which surely, thought the overlooker who had followed him in, had really nothing to do with what had been done to the frightened
child. He seemed to be looking at and acting upon images of such horror and obscenity, awakened by the scene in this room, that Edwards knew that if he himself did not act quickly, Charlie
Greenwood would commit murder.