‘There’s a hundred and fifty on the payroll right now but in the busy time during the war with the Boers we had over three hundred. Trade’s fallen off in the past year though, and we’ve cut the workers by half.’ The supplier of this information was Mr Bateson, a white moustached old fellow who was the mill overseer.
She could tell that he had changed his mind about her and was no longer condescending but was prepared to give her the benefit of the doubt and to acknowledge that she had sufficient intelligence to understand business matters. In time he might even be made into an ally.
‘So turnover’s down?’ she asked and the men nodded together.
‘Trade’s bad, it’s bad all over Dundee. Everyone’s hit – even Cairds,’ said Mr Bateson.
If Cairds was suffering trade was indeed bad because it was one of the biggest businesses in Dundee. She knew the town was in a slump because the business at the Castle Bar was very poor and on her drive to Green Tree she had seen crowds of unemployed men hanging around at every street corner.
‘How many men are on our payroll?’ she asked next.
‘There’s fifteen in the offices, ten in the carting department, five in dispatch, and six foremen – as well as some wee laddies that help with the shifting. Then of course there’s all of us and Mr Argyll…’ This information was supplied by Richards and Lizzie did some rapid calculations as he spoke.
Less than fifty adult men out of a force of one hundred and fifty, she reckoned. The business was powered by women who all occupied the lowliest jobs. Her gaze was turned back to the curious faces at the shed windows.
‘Take me in there,’ she said, pointing with her parasol.
The noise in the weaving shed was deafening. When she stepped inside the door Lizzie had to restrain herself from putting her hands over her ears for she was genuinely afraid her eardrums would burst.
Mr Bateson saw her expression of pain and leaned towards her shouting, ‘You get used to it.’
Noise throbbed and swelled like a roaring sea inside the stone shell of the shed with such force that she felt it vibrating inside her body.
‘How do people talk to each other?’ she shouted back to him, cupping her mouth with her hand and speaking against his ear.
He laughed and shook his head. ‘I’ll tell you later.’
The women, who she knew had been watching her progress across the yard, now seemed oblivious of her existence for they all stood engrossed in their work in front of their weaving machines, eyes fixed on the flashing shuttles.
She walked down the broad passages between the looms, acutely conscious of her clothes and the sideways scrutiny of the working women who wore multicoloured pinafores, and had their heads covered by large bandanas to keep their hair from being entangled in the machinery.
She had never seen such a sight of frenzied activity. Flashing, dangerous bars of metal; rapidly twirling pirns of spun jute; shaven-headed little girls and boys running up and down changing the pirns when they were empty.
It seemed as if everyone in the shed was anxious to impress her with how hard they were working. Mr Bateson put a hand on her arm and steered her towards a large woman who was standing with her arms crossed at the far end of the shed.
‘She’s Mrs Armstrong, the forewoman,’ he roared into her ear.
The only way she could talk to Mrs Armstrong was to take her out into the yard.
‘What were they doing in there?’ was her first question.
‘It’s the weaving shed,’ she was told by Bateson. ‘They’re weaving sacking. Mrs Armstrong sees that nobody wastes their time. She’s been with us for thirty years.’
Lizzie turned to the forewoman and saw at once that here was someone who did not appreciate a woman as a boss. Mrs Armstrong’s eyes were hard and calculating as she weighed up the new owner.
‘How do you stand that noise?’ asked Lizzie, whose head was still ringing from the din.
‘You get used tae it,’ said Mrs Armstrong.
Mr Bateson said to her, ‘Mrs Kinge asked me how people talk to each other inside the shed.’
Mrs Armstrong looked at Lizzie as if she might be slightly simple. ‘There’s nae talkin’ allowed even if they could hear it. I won’t have them wasting their time. If they have to pass on a message they do it with sign language.’
Lizzie was interested. ‘Sign language? What sort of signs do they use?’
‘They ask each other the time like this…’ Mrs Armstrong twisted a wrist. ‘And they get the answer like this…’ A quick flash of fingers… ‘And they always send a message round if the boss is coming.’
‘How do they do that?’ asked Lizzie.
‘Like this.’ Mrs Armstrong stroked her chin like a man stroking a beard.
‘They’ll have to work out something else now that they’ve a woman boss, won’t they?’ said Lizzie with a laugh, but Mrs Armstrong did not join in.
Next they showed her the spinning shed where the raw jute was spun into thread. It was almost as noisy as the weaving shed but it had another hazard as well, the air was heavy with jute spores that caught in the throat and made people unaccustomed to the atmosphere cough and choke.
Lizzie came out spluttering and Mrs Armstrong, almost pleased, told her, ‘Folk get bad coughs if they’re too long at the spinning. They only go deaf if they’re weavers.’
She knew she was on trial. They wanted to see how much she would take before she gave up her tour of inspection but she was determined to see everything, even going into the huge shed where bales of jute were stored when they first came in from the docks. This was an area closed to women because the men who worked there were naked to the waist as they unwrapped the huge bales and teased them out with their hands.
Sometimes snakes or strange Indian insects were shaken out and there were other dangers, for tetanus spores could get into cuts or grazes and the air was even heavier with jute spores than in the spinning sheds. It was easy to realize why bronchial illness plagued most mill workers who managed to reach middle age.
‘I never realized what went on in a jute mill,’ Lizzie said to her escorts when the tour was over, ‘but there’s one thing more I’d like to know. Why do only women work at the spinning and weaving? Is it because their hands can do it better?’
It was Mrs Armstrong who answered. ‘The owners prefer women because they don’t make trouble. Lots of them are bringing up bairns on their own. They’ve too much to lose to make trouble.’
Before Lizzie left Green Tree Mill, the steam hooter gave its unearthly scream, for it was six o’clock and work was over for the day. At that instant every machine in the mill came to a sudden stop and a strange silence fell over the premises, a silence that fell on Lizzie like a cloak, so noticeable was it after the thudding and roaring that had filled the place.
Then all at once came a noise that sounded like a cavalry charge. She looked around in surprise before she realized that it was the clatter of iron-tipped clogs on cobbles as the women rushed out and headed for home. They were laughing, talking, shouting as they pushed past the office window where she stood in the middle of the group of dark-suited men. Their voices were unnaturally loud, so used were they to the din of machinery, and she could hear every word they said.
They were talking about her.
‘Awfy fancy lookin’, isn’t she? All dressed up like that – She’ll no’ last long – I dinna fancy a woman boss onywey. It’s no’ a job for a wifie – Fancy Mr Adams! I wonder how she got round him – You never can tell even wi’ the old lads, can you?’
Without rancour she watched them, the ragged army of spinners and their smarter superiors the weavers, who wore hats and gloves and walked on the opposite side of the road. These were her troops, the work force she had to muster if she wanted to make her mark on the world. And want that she did, very much indeed.
* * *
That night George came to Lochee Road.
‘I’m sorry we had a row the other day,’ he said. ‘I wouldn�
��t want you to think I was jealous or anything.’
She was glad to make peace with him and to repair the breach that had grown between them during the past year. ‘I’m sorry too if I said anything that hurt you, and I’m sorry about fighting with you over Rosie. If she and you are happy that’s all that matters.’
‘We’re very happy, but that’s not what I’ve come about. I’m glad you’re taking over Green Tree but I won’t be staying there now. I made up my mind when you came to the office today.’
‘But I want you to stay. If you stay I’ll put you in charge of the office,’ she protested.
‘That’s why I can’t stay. I don’t want to be in charge of anything. I don’t want to change. People would know I’d only been promoted because my sister’s the boss. They know I’d sooner spend my time with my feet on the fender reading a novel than doing any work. I’m a lazy fellow, Lizzie, I’m not like you. If you put me in charge of the office it’d be unfair to people who deserve the promotion. Let me leave. I can’t stay in a place where they think I’m the boss’s spy. Rosie’s spoken for me at Brunton’s. They need a book-keeper there.’
There was no point arguing with him so she kissed him on the cheek. ‘At least let’s be friends,’ she said. He was her little brother and she loved him.
* * *
‘You’ve taken over the mill at a bad time,’ said Mr Bateson when he and Lizzie were having a meeting in her office.
She nodded. In May 1902 the British and the Boers had signed the Peace of Vereeniging, bringing to an end both the war in South Africa and the huge demand for military equipment, sacks and tents made from jute.
‘Look down there.’ Mr Bateson pointed towards the docks away at the foot of the hill. She looked and was surprised to see how empty they were.
‘Last year all the berths were full and ships lined up outside the harbour waiting to get in with their hemp from Bengal. But now jute’s in a decline. It’ll be hard work to survive. You should copy some of the other mill owners and sell up.’
She shook her head. ‘I’m not selling. I’m determined to make a success of this mill.’
He looked sorry for her. ‘Are you sure you’re not trying to prove something? It would be far easier for you and your wee laddie, if you just enjoyed the money you’ve been left.’
She was not offended because she could see that he meant well, but he was verging on a subject she did not want to think about. She was not sure why she was so determined to keep Green Tree Mill but in a way it was a substitute for everything she had enjoyed in her marriage to Sam. She could sink herself in it, and if she succeeded that would be a victory – against what? She did not know. Perhaps it would be a victory against fate.
‘I’ve seen trade come and go but this time I think the bubble’s really burst,’ said Mr Bateson, breaking into her thoughts. ‘This time it’s affected everybody. The rope works are quiet, engineering workshops are closing their doors. The city’s sick.’
She remembered his words as she drove home that night in her hired cab. A terrible lethargy hung over her native city. In the main streets everything seemed half finished. During the boom years there had been a reconstruction craze and, when money ran out, uncompleted schemes covered the city. The few buildings that were finished, like the big new Tay Hotel, had imposing façades and grandiose decorations, often in the French style which was much admired, but behind them she could see the bleak and crumbling tenements of Old Dundee.
Something of the despair reflected the bleakness of her own soul and she knew that if either of them were to survive, they would have to fight, and fight hard.
Her father told her that the news about Mr Adams leaving Green Tree Mill to a woman had spread through the mill owners’ network quickly. When they heard their rival was the daughter of David Mudie they were amused, for most of them knew him and a few were his friends; though they appreciated him as a congenial companion, none of them were under any illusions about his dedication to hard work.
‘They’re all on at me. They say Green Tree hasn’t been much of a business for twenty years and they want to know how much you’ll sell it for,’ said David.
‘What did you tell them?’
‘I said, “The mill’s not mine. It’s my daughter’s. If you want to know anything about it, you’ll have to ask her.”’
‘And quite right too,’ she said with a smile.
‘I’d a hard job convincing them that a woman’s taking over the mill and that she won’t allow any interference – even from her father.’
‘Did they think that unsuitable?’
‘Well, I don’t suppose unsuitable’s the right word but they certainly think it’s unusual.’
‘Because where money is concerned men do all the managing, I suppose,’ said Lizzie. ‘What did you tell them, Father?’
‘I said they wouldn’t think it unusual if they knew my daughter,’ he said proudly.
What neither he nor Lizzie knew was that the jute-barons discussed the Mudie family well over their brandy and cigars in their club, a large building in Reform Street. They even conspired about who would have the privilege of picking up a neat little bargain when Lizzie was driven to the wall – for fail she must. They were sure of it. What they did not reckon with was the demon that drove her on.
* * *
‘You’re killing yourself. Have you had a look in your mirror recently?’ Maggy’s face was mutinous as she stood gazing at Lizzie, who sat white faced at the supper table after coming home from the mill.
‘I’m tired, that’s all. It’s difficult learning all about Green Tree,’ was the excuse.
‘No wonder you’re tired. You’re up at five in the morning and out with the mill bummer at six like our Rosie – and you don’t come back till late at night – long after the mill lassies. That’s no way to live.’
Lizzie raised red-rimmed eyes. ‘It’s how I want it.’
‘But what about Charlie – and what about your father and that household of bairns he’s keeping down in Castle Street? What about that poor wee bairn of Chrissy’s?’
Lizzie was almost angry. ‘My father’s bairns aren’t my concern and Charlie’s happy enough. You look after him, don’t you? I see him as much as I can. And don’t go on about Chrissy’s bairn. I’m not taking it in, if that’s what you’re hinting. I’ve got more to do than that.’
She had longed for another child when Sam was alive; she had been jealous when she saw Chrissy’s baby; she did not want to be reminded of either of those emotions.
Maggy guessed that there was more to her objections than she said, and tried another tack.
‘You’re working so hard you haven’t even taken the time to move into Tay Lodge. Mr Adams left it to you and it’s sitting there empty while you’re still paying rent for this place.’
Lizzie put down her fork with a look of surprise. Of course, she’d completely forgotten about Tay Lodge! She’d been far too busy to consider moving, but now it was summer and she suddenly remembered how beautiful the gardens were out there in the Perth Road. Charlie would love Tay Lodge.
‘You’re right, Maggy. I’ll give up this house and we’ll move. You’d better start packing.’
For the next week, while Lizzie spent her days at the mill Maggy packed up Lochee Road with the assistance – and hindrance – of Charlie. She handled Lizzie’s pretty things with sorrow because every single one of them brought back memories of happier days. When she packed the clothes she carefully put Sam’s in a separate trunk and when all was finished, she asked Lizzie, ‘What’ll I do with his things?’
There was no need to ask who was being referred to – they both knew only too well.
‘Keep them for Charlie. No, don’t. Give them away. Give them to George – No, don’t. I’d see him wearing them. Give them to anybody. There’s only one thing I want, Maggy, I want his white silk scarf.’
‘I knew you’d want that. I put it in your box.’
The move went off with littl
e fuss. Tay Lodge was fully furnished and running smoothly because Lizzie had continued paying the staff wages ever since she inherited the house so they settled in quickly.
Maggy was stranded in an alien element in that beautiful, silent house. She had no training in running such a place and felt overawed and displaced by the other servants. Her gloom deepened daily and when Lizzie realized how unhappy she was, she acted quickly.
‘I don’t want you to work as a maid. You’re my right hand. I trust you most of all and besides, you’re looking after Charlie for me. I wouldn’t allow anybody else to do that,’ she told Maggy who glowed with importance at the words. Her position at the top of the servant hierarchy was secure.
* * *
Lizzie had little time to enjoy her new surroundings for she continued to rise at five in the morning and was in the mill before the whistle blew. She stayed there, keeping an eye on everything that went on, till six at night when her carriage and horses, inherited with the house, came to drive her home.
Both at home and in the mill she was acutely conscious of the eyes that were on her. Even in the street, she felt that eyes were following her carriage. Not only were the other mill owners watching but so were her employees.
The women in the work sheds paused and stared with silent hostility whenever she walked among them – she was the boss and she was a woman. They did not like that because, although they were vigorously independent women, and many of them raised their families without the help of any man, they preferred their bosses to be male.
The men in the office pandered to her but she knew that they were all waiting for her to make a mistake. It was difficult to ask questions because most of them acted as if she ought to know the answers. Only Mr Bateson was patient and explained the jute-making processes and secrets of the trade without condescension.
By the time she had been at the helm of Green Tree Mill for six months, all the senior foremen and the secretary, Argyll, had tendered their resignations. She knew it was because they had no confidence in her making a success of her enterprise and were getting out before the ship sank, but this only hardened her determination not to give in and sell up as everyone obviously expected.
Mistress of Green Tree Mill Page 17
