Shining Threads Page 18

  On that day she was blind and deaf to all but the movement and sound of her two machines, keeping an eye on Nelly, who was piecing for her, and when the man touched her arm she was disposed to be irritable for she had neither the time nor the inclination to turn and gossip.

  ‘Will yer support t’Preston strikers, lass?’ The man mouthed genially. He was a working man, dressed as one, since he did not want to be thought of as a cut above those from whom he collected though it was plain from his confident, swaggering manner that he considered he was. His teeth glittered in his full, red face – no hunger there – as he showed them in a false smile. ‘Eightpence a mule, that’s all, an’ the men an’ women o’ Preston will bless yer for it.’ He shook his collection box persuasively but when she turned to look at him his eyes were cold, ready to be hostile if she refused.

  ‘I can’t. I’ve four childer ter support,’ she said curtly and turned back to her machine, the matter done with as far as she was concerned.

  But not to him. He touched her bare arm again, only lightly, but she flinched away for though the room was hot his hand was like hard ice against her flesh.

  ‘Now then, lass, yer wouldn’t turn yer back on those in need, would yer? You’re a spinner thissen an’ will know the history o’t cotton trade. Maisters ’ave trodden down t’workers long enough in our opinion an’ must be taught that us’ll not ’ave it.’

  ‘I’ve no time ter stand an’ argue. I’ve nowt ter give yer. I just told thi, I can’t afford it.’

  Her face was expressionless. Indeed, she felt nothing, not pity for the workers, many of whom in her opinion were too bone-idle to get out of their beds in a morning; nor even resentment, for all her emotions were concentrated on her need to get on with her work, her resolution to support her family, not those of another. If everyone was the same there’d be no need for all this hullabaloo, and if she had had time to turn off her machine and tell him she would have done so.

  But his face had become set in a perilous smile and it was clear he was not prepared to be brushed off as if he were of no more importance than a troublesome fly.

  ‘Come now, my girl. Yer mun ’ave a bit put by fer a rainy day an’ them in Preston are sufferin’ it now. Share it wi’ ’em an’ when ’time comes, an’ it might, when yer in’t same plight, they’ll do it fer thee.’

  Annie could feel her irritation growing, thrusting through the layers of attention she must pay her labour since she was on ‘piece’ work and every minute she lost would mean a smaller wage at the end of the week. She could feel her hard-won equanimity slipping away and her pale eyes narrowed.

  ‘I’ve none ter give,’ she threw over her shoulder, ‘an’ if I ’ad I’d think twice about it. They’ve only themselves ter blame, them as is locked out. Most on ’em was offered a rise last year but unions forced ’em ter stay out, goin’ on about a standard rate o’ pay, whatever that might turn out ter be. They’ve ’ad chance ter go back last month an’ they turned it down. I’ve no time fer ’em, nor yer collection, so clear off an’ let me gerron wi’ me work.’

  Her face was cold and tight, and around her women were peeping furtively over their shoulders at her, wishing they had her nerve. Most had paid the ‘tax’, though the eightpence they had been ‘asked’ to hand over could be ill-afforded. They were frightened by the tales of what had happened to those who didn’t, of beatings and harassment, of women being jeered at by alarmingly large gangs of youths, and even physically assaulted, and they did not want their own families to suffer. Surely to God it would soon be over, they whispered to one another, and in the meanwhile best tighten belts and pay up.

  From the end of the room where he stood in the cabin doorway Will watched carefully, ready, should he be needed, to intervene on Annie’s behalf. He’d not have his operatives intimidated by this new breed of union men who were really no more than troublemakers, denouncing tyranny and yet, in their own way, upholding it with their menace.

  ‘You’ve no call ter talk like that, my lass. Yon are thy people an’ they depend on’t benefits they get given by their own kind. If yer can’t find it in yer ’eart ter support ’em, there’s them hereabouts what’ll reckon yer as bad as them “knob-sticks” in Preston. Will yer not, me lasses?’

  He whirled about and smiled at the mass of women who had turned to watch Annie, and in his corner Will took a step forward, then another, waiting for some sign from Annie that she was being harassed, reluctant to interfere since the man had a right to go about the cotton workers as he chose; but he would have no violence.

  The man smiled smoothly at the nervous women. He spoke in a voice just loud enough for them and Annie to hear above the noise of the machines.

  ‘Thee thissen’d not like ter work beside a “knob-stick”, would thi?’ His meaning was clear and they all looked away from him quickly, though one or two shook their heads in sympathy with Annie. He turned back to her. ‘So will thi change thi mind, lass, an’ give ter them what’s in need?’

  ‘No, I won’t,’ and she turned a contemptuous back on him.

  ‘Right, lass, I ’eard yer,’ and he smiled at the back of her head before moving on to the next machine where the spinner already had her eightpence in her hand.

  ‘IF THE SPINNING HAND AT CHAMPANS DOES NOT PAY UP CALICO JACK WILL SEE TO HER.’

  It was pasted on the wall by the side of the gate the following week, along with a dozen others, for Annie was not the only one to refuse to pay her ‘voluntary’ contribution in aid of the Preston strikers. In the worry of how long it would take her to save up for a new pair of boots for their Jack who was shooting up like a weed, it had little impact on her. She lived from day to day in her practical way, ekeing out her wage to feed hungry mouths, making do and putting a bit by when she could. Nothing much mattered beyond getting from one pay day to the next; beyond the necessity of completing at the end of her ten hours the household tasks which were too much for her young sisters; of seeing to the children; of listening to their Jack telling her of the clever things he learned at school where he went full time, worth every minute of her precious time for he’d make something of himself, would Jack, or she’d know the reason why; and of cobbling together all the bits and pieces of her life which were so fragile.

  They were hanging about on the edge of Chapmanstown when she finished her shift. The last houses were at her back and the empty track which curved over the moor towards Edgeclough lay before her when she saw them. Half a dozen or so young men, brawny and brash, larking about, laughing, jostling one another as young men do, nothing to do with her, and her heart did not even miss a beat as she strode past them.

  It was March, cold and blustery, the clouds torn into long shreds by the wind, and through which a thread of blue tried to creep. The newly budding heather and bracken was caught by the gusts, bending earthwards, and her fine hair was torn from her shawl, whipping about her head like pale fibres of cotton. She pulled her shawl more closely about her, tucking her arms inside it, and stepped into the teeth of the wind which met her as she climbed higher.

  She was glad their Nelly was not with her. She’d caught her finger on a ‘picking stick’ last week and it had festered and swelled, making it impossible for her to piece, so Annie had made her stay at home today. Best place for her on a day like this and Annie wished with all her heart she could stay there for a couple of years more. She was so little, thin and quiet, without the stamina she herself had, especially since she had been abused by that bastard of an overlooker.

  Badger’s Edge came up on her left and soon she would be in the lee of Besom Hill and just half-way home. It had begun to rain, spilling in a cold sheet directly into her face. She wrapped her shawl more closely about her head, bending down into the face of it, hugging herself as she quickened her step. She could still hear the shouted laughter of the men whom she thought must be drunk, the way they were carrying on, and she wondered where they were going. She had never seen them before but she supposed they could live in
Edgeclough. For once she had not waited on Will since there were others on the track with her, turning off to Dingle, Moorside and Linthwaite, small villages in which some of them lived, but suddenly she was alone and she heard the men coming up fast behind her.

  They were still laughing as one fell against her, not hard enough to knock her down but with a force which sent her staggering almost to her knees. She regained her balance and her pale, pointed face became a vivid, indignant flame and her eyes narrowed angrily.

  ‘’Ere, what d’yer think your up to?’ she cried, rounding on him fiercely. ‘Why don’t yer look where yer goin’, yer great oaf? Just come from ’t Ship, ’ave yer . . . ?’ But before she could finish she was shoved from another direction, propelled quite violently towards the man who had first pushed her, his grinning face thrust into hers as he caught her arms.

  ‘Well, if it ain’t little lass as what refused ter support ’er brothers an’ sisters in Preston,’ he smirked. ‘Look ’ere, lads. Look what we ’ave ’ere.’ He turned her about so that she faced the rest of them, holding her for a moment before shoving her towards them. Her shawl remained in his hands but he threw it to the ground and trampled it into the muddy track. When the next one caught her he tried, leering and malevolent, to kiss her before she was pulled from his embrace.

  For five minutes they pushed and shoved her from one to the other, laughing at her anger at first, becoming more dangerous as her anger turned to fear and they sensed it in her. She broke away once and began to run, in which direction she didn’t know, anywhere to get away from the mauling hands, the loose, open-mouthed laughter, the mud with which they had daubed her, the rain running down her face and through her hair wetting her to her undergarments.

  They watched her go, still shouting with laughter for she was headed back in the direction from which she had originally come, and when she had gone fifty yards they started after her. Her skirt, heavy with water and mud held her back and her scattered, frantic thoughts dwelled for a moment on simply stepping out of it and running like the wind in just her drawers, for she was sure she could outrun them then. She was fit and strong, used to exercise, but what if she should fall and they should catch her without her skirt, in nothing but her sodden drawers and bodice? Would not their thoughts turn to something of a more menacing nature than a ‘bit o’ fun’?

  ‘Calico Jack’s right be’ind yer,’ a grunting voice said. ‘Yer should’ve paid up, lass, when yer ’ad chance. ’Appen tha will when’t collector comes round next week, ay?’ and a foot tripped her. She landed flat on her stomach with her hands stretched out in front of her as she tried to save herself and for several moments she lay on the spiky wet grass, completely winded. They were all about her again, their heavy clogs moving and slipping on the grass, their laughter loud and ugly. She could see those clogs fidgeting as the men moved from foot to foot, waiting for her to get up so that they could knock her down again, so that they might devise some way to humiliate her further, to intimidate and frighten her, a lesson to others who would not comply with the rules which they had written. Her head reeled and the horizon lifted in a sickening motion and on her right the stones of Badger’s Edge seemed to move towards her.

  They had her by the arms then, picking her up to dangle both feet off the ground, between two of them. She was coated from the top of her head to her bare feet in mud. It stuck to her wet body, outlining her small, peaked breasts, her nipples, the thin but shapely length of her legs and she felt the fear paralyse her as the laughter died away and they fell silent as every pair of eyes ran down her body.

  One licked his lips. Dear God, is he Calico Jack? was her last despairing thought, then the world exploded about her and she fell like an empty sack to the wet earth. There were shouts and the movement of enormous shadowy figures, the vague and quite senseless sound of a woman’s laughter, dark shapes so big and filled with vigour, with colour and movement, she could make no sense of it. Something crashed within an inch of her face which was pressed to the pulped grass and a voice told someone to, ‘watch that bloody horse of yours, brother’. Then there was quiet, an absolute stillness and calm, and all she could hear was the soft patter of rain against the rocks which littered the ground where she lay.

  The peace went on and on, how long she did not know. Five seconds, five minutes, five hours perhaps, she did not care in the wondrous release from the terror which had been forced on her. Then the thunder came back, moving the ground on which she lay and she cowered away from it, unable to lift her head to see which one it was who had come back to torment her.

  ‘Dear, sweet Jesus,’ a voice said, soft and filled with compassion.

  ‘The bastards! I’ve a good mind to go after them again.’

  Men’s voices but not like those who had brought her to this. Voices she had heard at the mill. Cultured and yet harsh with the anger of young men who would not damage a woman, any woman, for they had been brought up to protect those weaker than themselves. To be gallant and courteous, to honour a woman’s virtue, to take it, certainly, if given permission, to take it willingly, merrily, but with sweetness, not violence.

  ‘Put my cape about her, Drew.’ A long, flowing garment was placed over her as four strong young hands lifted her to her feet.

  ‘Let me have her,’ a girl’s voice said and she went willingly into the curve of strong, female arms. She was held fast against a tall, slender, woman’s body, safe, familiar and infinitely comforting for she could still feel those hard masculine hands and hear the sound of hard masculine laughter.

  ‘Are you all right, Annie?’ the girl’s voice said quietly in her ear, meaning have they interfered with you as men do? She spoke so softly the young men could not hear her and Annie was grateful for she did not wish to be burdened just yet with such thoughts.

  ‘Yes, they did not . . . hurt me.’ Her voice was muffled against the girl’s shoulder and she clung to her for a moment longer, then stepped back and looked up into her face: Tessa Harrison and at her back would be Drew and Pearce Greenwood.

  ‘Thanks.’ She had recovered somewhat and her voice was brusque.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Tessa smiled and in her vivid face still lingered the excitement of the last few minutes, the enjoyment she had known as she chased the attackers across the moorland, and yet there was understanding, sympathy, for had she not suffered what Annie had, in the grasp of the tinkers? ‘We were up on Badger’s Edge and saw them chase you. We weren’t certain whether it was . . . well, what it was they were after. From up there, covered in mud as you . . . sorry, Annie . . . we thought you were . . .’ She shook her head and became brisk. ‘But really, should we not be getting you home? One of my cousins will take you up, will you not . . . ?’

  She turned to the young men who stood awkwardly at Annie’s back. They were not quite certain how to treat this child they had just rescued, this poor, bedraggled, mud-spattered little rabbit, and were only waiting for orders from Tessa who seemed to have taken command.

  ‘Pearce.’

  ‘Of course.’ Pearce leaped forward and in a moment Annie was in his arms, the mud which rubbed on to his fine woollen jacket of no consequence as she was lifted to sit before him on the back of his tall bay. She did not know which was worse, the ordeal through which she had just gone or the dizzying heights in which she now found herself and the restless movements of the horse beneath her. Then he sprang lightly up behind her, placing his arms on either side of her to take the reins. She shrank from his touch and he was most careful with her as they walked gently in the direction of Edgeclough as Tessa directed them.

  The small cottage seemed about to burst apart from the press of people who crowded within it. Nelly, Polly and Grace fluttered about like three pale moths, appalled by the sight of their sister, whom they had never seen other than calm, unruffled and immaculate, in such a sorry and mindless state, whilst Jack, not yet a man but no longer a boy, seemed undecided whether to weep or go and fight the devils who had done this to their Annie
.

  Pearce and Drew shifted from foot to foot, ready to do anything which might be asked of them, for Annie was not herself at all, as anyone could see, since she clung to Tessa in a most unusual way.

  The men were got rid of, the tin bath lifted down from the scullery wall and filled with hot water by the three frozen-faced, tearful little girls. It was warm and quiet. Female hands washed her hair and soaped her back whilst Tessa’s soft voice chatted of this and that and nothing at all, as though she knew that, at this moment, this was what Annie needed most. Female things, female voices, soft, gentle, the faint perfume of her own skin, the fine silk of her shirt, the commiseration of her sisters, the friendly, almost casual attention which asked nothing of her and brought the familiar order which was the stuff of life, back to her. Tessa watched the strain leave Annie’s face and when she began to give instructions to her three young sisters, it left theirs also since they recognised that she was herself again and the tension in the room eased.

  ‘Are you feeling better?’ Drew enquired politely, as young English gentlemen are trained to do with a lady. They were all drinking tea, cramped together in the tiny room for Annie would not hear of them leaving without ‘sumat inside ’em’.

  ‘Aye. I weren’t ’hurt. They was just lads . . . bullies . . .’

  ‘Tell me who they were and we will deal with them.’ Pearce moved to lounge against the table, standing close to her, towering protectively over her slight figure.

  ‘Nay, I don’t know their names.’ Annie was alarmed by his nearness and masculine aggression, of which she had had more than enough today, and edged away to a safer place behind her teapot. ‘They belong t’t union, sent ter frighten me an’ t’other lasses inter payin’ towards Preston strike fund. I were tellin’ Tessa about ’em only last week . . .’

  Pearce turned to stare, bewildered, at Tessa, for how did this factory girl come to know his cousin and, more to the point, have the privilege of calling her by her Christian name? But Tessa frowned and shook her head, indicating that she would explain later, wondering as she did so why she had not spoken of their acquaintance to her cousins, or even her mother who would surely have understood. The reason probably had something to do with Will: they were sometimes together in Annie’s cottage and the secret part of her life, with Will, seemed inexplicably linked to Annie and the friendship the three of them shared.