The Castlefield Collector Read online

  ‘I’m trying to do my bit. I didn’t mean to give offence.’

  ‘And you do that by strike-breaking, do you? No wonder they’re accusing you of stealing their bread. You must have a death wish to come round these streets in that motor.’

  ‘Oh dear, I never meant…’

  ‘Never mind what you meant, not right now. I’ll get you out safe and well, don’t you fret.’

  The two girls pushed their way through the gathering crowd who shrank back a little, some still grumbling and shaking a fist at Evie, others looking shamefaced as Dolly Tomkins bravely confronted them, hands on hips. ‘Could one of you not think to give the lass a helping hand?’

  Irritated as she was with the girl, that didn’t stop Dolly from taking to task the crowd of grumbling men. ‘You ought to be ashamed of yourselves, you great useless lumps. And you can wipe that smile off your face, Sam Clayton, you’ve done nothing clever.’ Dolly was desperately disappointed to see Sam there. ‘What were you thinking of?’ she challenged him. ‘It’s not like you to start bullying folk. Is it that Davey Lee egging you on, or Matt Thornton?’

  ‘It weren’t my idea, Dolly,’ Davey said, always happy to shift the blame on to someone else.

  Matt looked wounded by the accusation, as well he might. He was not known as a rabble-rouser, more as a shy sort with a stubborn streak. He didn’t seem to be doing anything much, just standing watching events with his quiet, brown eyes. ‘I’ve done nothing, Dolly.’

  ‘Mebbe not, but you’ve done nothing to stop ‘em neither.’

  His neck reddened and knowing that she’d embarrassed him, that the lad always went tongue-tied for some reason whenever she spoke to him, she turned back to Sam.

  Dolly had adored Sam Clayton for as long as she could remember. He was a skinny lad with too many brains for his station in life. In Dolly’s opinion he shouldn’t be working in the mill, by rights he should train to be a teacher or something equally grand, were that possible.

  He had fair hair cut into a fringe above peaked brows and soft brown eyes which seemed to view the world with a sparkling mischief, as if everything about life was good. He showed a great pride in his appearance, which Dolly admired, was always neat and tidy, even to his ears which lay curled and flat against the side of his head. But then he was a good-looking lad was Sam, few better in all of Castlefield. And if he thought well of himself because of it, who could blame him? He set many a girl’s heart pounding, including Dolly’s own. She was most fascinated by his mouth, full and soft and pouting, one that she’d be happy to kiss, given half the chance. Sadly, although they’d been friends for as long as she could remember, as she had with Matt and Davey, Sam had never thought of her in that way. To him she was simply the younger sister of the glorious Aggie who he’d been sweet on ever since they’d been in the same class together at John Street School. Dolly herself was stuck with the quietly adoring, boring Matt. Just her luck!

  ‘It were her own fault for being so daft as to come down these streets in the first place. Daft lummock!’ Sam was saying. ‘She shouldn’t even be here. She’s not one of us, Dolly, she’s one o’ them lot. One of the toffs. Gaffer’s daughter. She’s lucky not to be lynched.’

  ‘She’s a human being what fetched Maggie’s sister home, so the least you can do is to give her a shove to get her out of here.’ Dolly turned to Evie who was busily brushing clods of earth and worse off the silk coat, dabbing at the blood on her cheek with a lace handkerchief. ‘Are you all right, love? Not seriously hurt?’

  Evie managed a little shake of her head, which no longer wore a cloche hat, with or without a feather. ‘I do believe I’ll live,’ she said, although the tremor in her voice expressed doubt on the matter.

  ‘Right, let’s get you on your way then. Come on, you lot, shoulders to the wheel. Let’s help this young lady, who I reckon has learned a lesson or two about life this morning, back home to her good folks. What do you say, lads? We haven’t lost our manners entirely in Castlefield, I hope.’

  For one dreadful moment, Evie thought they might be about to refuse and that the girl’s forthright manner would incite them to further violence. She was possessed with an urgent desire to turn tail and run and might well have done so had she not been transfixed by the way her rescuer, this young girl as small and perky as a sparrow, stood her ground and outfaced the men, not all as pliant as these three so-called friends of hers. Yet even that rabble seemed to be held in thrall by the very effrontery of her courage until finally, shamed into action, the men shuffled behind the motor.

  The girl grinned good-naturedly at Evie, giving a huge wink, which made her whole face light up so that she looked surprisingly pretty, despite the lankness of her bobbed hair and her grubby cheeks. Not that Evie was in any position to criticise her on that score. Her own cheeks were streaked with oil following her efforts with the crank-shaft, in addition to the spilled blood. Evie held a secret fear that her face might well have been scarred for life.

  ‘That’s more like it,’ Dolly cried. ‘One, two, three, push! Nay, shove a bit harder, Sam.’ Turning to the now shaking Evie, she continued, ‘Right then, hop aboard. We’ll have you out of here in two shakes of a rat’s tail though I wouldn’t recommend you returning in quite such a hurry as you came in.’

  ‘Oh, no indeed, I’m sorry I intruded. I was only trying to help.’

  ‘Course you were. Come on you lot, Matt, Sam, Davey, get stuck in.’

  Clambering aboard and grasping tight hold of the steering wheel, only just remembering in time to release the hand brake, Evie breathed a sigh of relief as the motor began to edge forward under the driving force of many hands from behind, willing or otherwise. A few yards further along the street the engine coughed and spluttered, belching out yet more smoke, jumped and jerked a bit before purring smoothly into life.

  ‘Thank God!’ Evie soared off on a cloud of smoke and dust without a backward glance, without even calling out her thanks, nor even a cheery wave for the girl who stood in the middle of the road, watching her go with an expression of stunned disbelief on her face.

  ‘No, don’t mention it. Glad to be of service,’ said Dolly, shaking her head in despair over the young woman’s rudeness. Some folk really didn’t know when they were well off.

  Chapter Four

  After five days with the country at a standstill, the General Strike was declared illegal and Union Leaders were warned that they might be liable for damages caused by the dispute. By the end of eight days it was called off, cited as a failure. Trains and trams were running once more, post was being delivered, everyone was back at work, including the operatives at Barker’s Mill, everyone, that is, save for the miners. Baldwin was being sited as ‘the man who kept his head.’ He certainly kept a tight hold of his cherry wood pipe.

  The Tomkins family, having lost a couple of week’s wages, were in a worse situation than before since rent, insurance and other expenses still had to be paid. If Maisie had been afraid before the strike, she was even more so following it. Nifty Jack, sporting a new pair of two-tone shoes, was back on her doorstep, demanding his pound of flesh like some sort of modern-day Shylock, and she didn’t have a penny left in her purse to give him, nor any food in her larder to feed her starving family. There was no help for it, she’d have to ask him for another loan, just to tide her over.

  Dolly stood at her frame, concentrating on the task of winding yarn from hundreds of spindle bobbins on to the larger cones. She was skilled at her job after two long years but it still required concentration to control the speed and make any necessary adjustments, if breakages were to be kept to a minimum. She was hot and tired and ringing wet, the air full of cotton dust, the atmosphere uncomfortably humid from the steaming water sprayed between the rows of frames to keep the cotton damp and pliable. A constant working temperature of seventy degrees or more was necessary as otherwise the cotton threads would tighten and break, which meant that time, and therefore money, was lost.

  For Dolly it
had been a long and difficult morning, trying to avoid putting too much pressure on her strained ankle and worrying over the situation at home. Even so, she loved her work and enjoyed a bit of a laugh with her mates. Not that many of them were laughing today, the first day back following the disastrous strike. Tempers were short and morale low, and no one was saying much to anyone, with only the singing of the spinning frames to be heard.

  On top of everything, her cotton this morning was of a poor quality, filthy with fleas and, as the yarn twisted and drew out, these were caught up in the slender rope of parallel fibres which was the roving, and wound onto the cones. Later, they would be woven into the fabric and finally dissolved and got rid of in the bleaching process but she hated the feel of them on her fingers. The older women, Dolly had noticed, were adept at feeling the cotton and choosing the best quality for themselves, probably because they were more dependant upon the wages than young girls such as herself.

  Except that in Dolly’s case this wasn’t true at all. The Tomkins family needed every penny it could get, since most of it ended up in the bookie’s pocket. Only when they were free of debt to the talleyman would she be happy.

  She’d seen Nifty Jack standing at the door deep in conversation with Mam, handing over more money and a new card, indicating that this strike had cost them dear. And poor Ma Liversedge was to be buried on Wednesday, her unexpected death coming so close after Nifty’s last visit it made Dolly shiver.

  Striving to keep her mind on the task in hand, yet a part of it began to turn over the possibility of finding a second job, in the hope of bringing in more wages. Perhaps working in the taproom at the Navigation or some other local pub. Then again, her mam had never let her do that. Happen she could find work on Campfield Market of a Saturday afternoon after she’d finished her morning shift at the mill.

  Dolly’s attention was brought sharply back to the job in hand as a thread broke, by no means the first that morning and, irritated with herself, she quickly pieced it together to get the yarn running smoothly again. She must get it right or she’d be up in front of the gaffer for bad work; the waste she’d produced carefully weighed, to check there wasn’t too much. Mr Barker was a stickler for watching every penny.

  The machine was stopped only once a day, for cleaning, for which no more than five or six minutes was allowed. If she needed a pee she had to get Aggie or one of the other girls to mind it for her while she dashed to the smelly lavatory in the mill yard. Since it was a long way, and with only three between sixty or seventy women, she’d learned quite early on that it was better to exercise control. Nor were the girls permitted to stop production in order to have a brew of tea, or go home for their dinner. They would take it in turns to fetch hot water from the factory steam boiler to wet the tea leaves in their brew can, which they drank from the lid while standing at their frame. They brought their dinner in a pot with a plate on top, identifying it with a label, or cloth wrapped around it. If they were lucky, they’d find room to put it, along with all the rest, in an old oven set on top of the big coal-fired boiler that ran the mill engine, and by dinner time it would be heated up nicely.

  They took it in turns to eat. One girl would mind her mate’s frame while the other ran down to collect and eat her dinner either in the boiler room, called ‘the snap hole,’ or out in the mill yard. Dolly preferred the latter, since she found the air in the engine room almost too hot to breathe with its blazing fire and massive engine capable of generating unlimited amounts of power. Or she would take her dinner back upstairs and eat it with her back propped against an empty skip, right by her frame. This meant that not a penny was lost in wages, or a cone in lost production.

  On this occasion Aggie had gone first, as usual, and Dolly, bursting to go to the lavvy, waited impatiently for her return. She was starving hungry, there having been no breakfast that morning, as was too often the case these days, so she was relieved when Aggie finally appeared, indicating it was her turn to take a break.

  ‘Happen I’ll get to be first for me dinner one day, eh?’ she commented drily as Aggie sauntered back to her frame, swinging her hips from side to side in that showy way she had when she imagined all eyes were upon her. ‘That’s a full forty minutes you’ve taken. Who’ve you been gossiping with, that Davey Lee?’ Aggie was a shocking flirt and always managed to find time to chat up the lads.

  Her sister patted her chestnut curls as if to reassure herself of her own prettiness, while utterly destroying the effect by scowling. ‘As if I’d waste time on that useless lump. I’m looking for someone with a bit of class.’

  ‘Bit of brass more like.’

  ‘Aye, that too! How else will I ever escape the horrors of living in a house within sniffing distance of the canal, the abattoir and the hide and skin market?’

  ‘Well you won’t find him in this hole.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure about that.’ She gave a little smirk as she cast a sideways glance across the room but Dolly couldn’t quite make out who she was smiling at, and was far too desperate to escape, to care.

  ‘I’m off, an’ I’ll have me full thirty minutes today, at least.’

  ‘Don’t run.’ Aggie yelled after her, as Dolly set off at a lick across the greasy wood floor.

  * * *

  Because she was so late the boiler room was empty, with not even old Ned, the engine-tenter, who minded the big steam engine present. Dolly decided he must have slipped out for a quick game of footie with the lads in the mill yard, since everything was running smoothly. Most of her mates were back at their frames, apart from those who’d sneaked off home for a quick bite. Juices running at the prospect of the leftover stew Maisie had put up for her, Dolly was shocked to find the shelves empty, with no sign of her dinner. She stared into the little old oven dumbfounded, looked all about the boiler room, in case someone had taken it out by mistake and forgotten to put it back. But it was quite clear that her dinner had gone. Someone had stolen it.

  ‘The rotten thieves! Why would anyone steal my dinner?’

  Everyone knew which was hers, as she always wrapped it in the same blue checked cloth. Again Dolly searched the boiler room, more frantically this time as the thought of the rest of the day stretched ahead of her with no food in her belly to ease the cramps of hunger, and the tiredness. She found the blue cloth, tossed in a corner among the oily dust and filth, but not a sign of the two plates containing her dinner. ‘Mam’ll kill me for losing them plates.’ More urgently, Dolly had not a penny in her pocket even to buy herself a pie from the cook shop. A great lump came to her throat and her eyes filled with tears. She couldn’t help herself. It had been one of those mornings what with the fleas, and the yarn breaking every five minutes, Aggie taking too long over her dinner, and now no dinner. She sank on to old Ned’s stool and began quietly to weep.

  ‘What’s this? Little Polly Flinders?’

  She turned on the stool and lifted her wet face to see who it was that addressed her thus, a sharp rejoinder already forming on her tongue. But the boiler room door was flung open and framed within it stood Nathan Barker, the gaffer himself, staring at her with a startled expression on his face.

  She leapt to her feet. ‘I’m so sorry, I was just going.’

  ‘Don’t go on my account. You’ve come for your dinner, I expect.’ Nathan looked down at her and felt something stir within. It caught him so unawares that it quite took his breath away. Whoever the girl was, she was a right bonny lass. He never paid too much attention to the young girls who worked for him as they were generally a rough, brassy bunch. But this girl was different. The smooth, delicate skin, the swing of glossy raven hair framing the perfect oval of her pale face, the soft rosy lips and her lovely blue eyes moist with tears, reminding him for a brief second of his own darling mama; a recollection so strong he could almost smell his mother’s lily-of-the valley perfume. No, perhaps it wasn’t his mother she reminded him of but someone else entirely. He’d always had an eye for a pretty woman, same as the ne
xt man, had strayed more than once over the years, though always taken great care not to cause any scandal. He’d become quite skilled at covering his tracks. He struggled to put a name to the face, but gave up and Dolly became once again an ill-dressed mill girl, a scruffy child. He must be growing senile, seeing fanciful visions. ‘Have you been crying?’

  Dolly dithered before him, uncertain what to do, whether to push past him and make a dash for it, or ask his permission to leave. But this show of sympathy was too much and the tears started again, running unchecked down her flushed cheeks. ‘Somebody’s pinched me dinner.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Bloody mean, I call it.’

  He gave a quiet smile. ‘Quite so! Bloody mean.’

  ‘I’m glad you find it funny. I can’t say I’m laughing much.’

  ‘No, of course you aren’t. I beg your pardon.’ He handed her a clean white linen handkerchief, wanting her to leave and yet seeming to encourage her to stay. ‘It could simply be a careless mistake on someone’s part. It always amazes me that so many dinners do manage to find their rightful owners.’

  Dolly began to use the handkerchief to mop up her tears, embarrassed suddenly for making such an exhibition of herself in front of the boss. ‘I doubt it. They took the plates and everything, ‘cept the cloth.’ She indicated the blue check napkin still lying on the floor, then blew her nose loudly on the linen handkerchief.

  ‘I see.’ He was frowning again. ‘You’ll have to nip out and get yourself something else then. Go on, you’ll have time, if you’re quick.’

  Dolly shook her head, started to hand him back the handkerchief, and then realising she’d used it, changed her mind. ‘Sorry, me mam’ll wash it for you. I’ll fetch it back in a day or two.’ She tucked it into her pinny pocket amongst her tools and cast him a nervous, sideways glance.

  What was she doing standing in the boiler room talking to the owner of the mill, to Mr Nathan Barker himself? She could hardly believe it. She’d only ever seen him from a distance before, walking through the place at a great lick, nodding to right and left as he went by, pausing only to have a few words with Harold Entwistle, the overlooker on their floor. It made her feel awkward. ‘I’d best be getting back to me frame,’ she managed at last, hoping he’d take the hint and shift himself.