by Joan Aiken
"Yes I do mind!" said Anna-Marie indignantly. "Why should this Bludward—who is not a good man, du tout, du tout!—take other people's ideas and say they are his? Rose says he does this often and the people are frightened to complain because he is very matin."
Now Lucas looked troubled. "I know that Bludward," he said. "I should steer clear of him if I were you, Anna-Marie."
"Quoi? To steer clear?"
Mr. Oakapple explained the phrase, and then began a discussion as to whether tools were a bad or a good thing; he was inclined to think they were bad. "And the more complicated they are, the worse. Before people invented tools, they could not hurt each other very badly, but with tools they became able to kill."
"But still, you can make useful things with tools," objected Anna-Marie. "You can weave cloth, like Grand'mère; you can dig. A flute is a tool, so is a violin; you can make music."
"Yes, but I see what Mr. Oakapple means," said Lucas. "We use tools too much, and ourselves not enough. That's why it's good to do things that don't need tools at all."
"Like what?" demanded Anna-Marie. "I cannot think of many."
"Walking—talking—singing—dancing—telling stories—playing our game of scissors-paper-stone."
"I have noticed a thing that is very ridiculous," said Lady Murgatroyd. "People invent themselves tools so as to get their work done faster. Then what do they do with the time they save? They spend it in looking after their tools."
"A tool can give one person too much power over other people," said Mr. Oakapple.
"Is that bad?" Lucas said, to himself more than to the others.
"Of course it is bad," pronounced Anna-Marie.
"Well, perhaps you had better throw away your tool after all, my child," Lady Murgatroyd said. "If it is only going to cause trouble."
"Perhaps I had, enfin." Anna-Marie stuck her bruised thumb into her mouth and sucked it thoughtfully. Redgauntlet left his spot by the fire and lumbered over to lean heavily against her.
"Talking about tools"—Lady Murgatroyd opened the wooden chest and took out a cloth-wrapped bundle which she had brought back from the market with her earlier that day—"I found this at a secondhand stall—Not Mr. Hobday's. It is not a good one, it is very old, but it will do for you to make a start on, Julian. You will have to hurry up and practice—then we shall be able to have some fine concerts."
And she laid an old violin on Mr. Oakapple's lap.
"Off you go," she said smiling.
He sat motionless, looking up at her, paralyzed by doubt and self-distrust.
"Go on, Monsieur Ookapool," Anna-Marie said gently. "Not one of us here can play the violin, so we shall not know what mistakes you make. Just try! I have a good idea, we will sing some songs and make a lot of noise, so you can play a bit and we shan't hear you."
So Mr. Oakapple tuned the violin, laying it on his right shoulder and holding the bow in his gloved left hand. Presently he became impatient with the glove and took it off.
Anna-Marie and her grandmother were singing.
When, when shall I meet you
When shall I see your face
For I am living in time at present
But you are living in space.
Time is only a corner
Age is only a fold
A year is merely a penny
Spent from a century's gold.
So meet me, meet me at midnight
(With sixty seconds' grace)
Midnight is not a moment;
Midnight is a place.
Anna-Marie glanced quickly at her grandmother once, but Lady Murgatroyd smiled a warning and laid her finger on her lips. Mr. Oakapple was very softly joining in, playing a chord here and a chord there.
Lucas announced next morning that he was well enough to work, and that he intended to go down to the Mill; if Anna-Marie could find employment there, so could he.
Lady Murgatroyd looked at him with a considering eye and remarked that he was remarkably headstrong and self-willed but she didn't think it would kill him to go down to the Mill. "Still, I daresay you'll regret it before the day is over."
"No I shan't," said Lucas stoutly. "Anyway, it's a Saturday. A lot of the shifts stop at noon."
"What about Mr. Hobday's thirty pounds that we have hardly touched yet?"
"Keep it for a rainy day."
Mr. Oakapple pointed out that Lucas would find it much harder than Anna-Marie to avoid recognition.
"I've thought about that. But perhaps if they know I've been working as a tosh boy they'll understand that I just want to earn a living."
As it happened, the first person that Lucas and Anna-Marie encountered, when they approached the Mill gates, was Sam Melkinthorpe, who glanced at Lucas, glanced again, and then gave him a broad grin and said, "Well, by gar! I've often wondered what became of thee when owd Tight-Fist died. Niver tell me tha'rt coming to work in t'Mill?"
"If they'll take me," said Lucas. "Will you put in a good word for me, Mr. Melkinthorpe?"
"Aye, I will, by damn! I'll say tha'rt the quickest-footed lad atwixt here an' Grydale, with a reet head on thy shoulders. I'll say a word to Mester Gravestone. They needs hands in t'winding room, I knaw."
"I'm not using my own name," said Lucas. "I'm calling myself Luke Minetti—In case of hard feelings."
"'A'reet; 'tis true feelings against Sir Randolph is still mortal bitter, but that's not thy fault."
"Do you think people will recognize me?"
"'Appen not," said Mr. Melkinthorpe, stopping to scrutinize him. "Wi t'different clothes, an' all. An' tha's changed, too, soom way; I cannot say joost what t'differ is, but tha looks older."
"Well, good-bye, Luc," said Anna-Marie, turning off toward the combing shed. "I will look for you at dinner-time."
"Is she a friend of thine, yon little lass?" asked Melkinthorpe, when she had gone.
"She's my cousin; yes; why?"
"Tha'd better keep an eye oot for her; I hear tell she's put herself well an' truly into Bob Bludward's bad books."
"What did she do?" asked Lucas uneasily.
"Gave him the rough side of her toongue; I canna blame her, but 'twas a foolhardy thing to do. Tha knaws what Bludward can be when he's crossed; let alone by sooch a little snip of a thing."
Melkinthorpe was as good as his word and gave Lucas a high recommendation to Gravestone, the new manager, who said, "All right, we'll try you," and sent him off to the winding shop.
Mr. Melkinthorpe nodded good-bye and said, "Don't forget what I told thee now; I'll keep an ear to t'ground mysen."
Meanwhile Anna-Marie had arrived at the combing shed and was about to go to her place when she was stopped by Rose. "Tha'rt not working here any longer."
"Why not?" asked Anna-Marie in surprise.
"Tha's been transferred—that's all," said Rose shortly.
"Where to?"
"T'pressing room. So tha'd best goo on over."
"Why have I been transferred?" demanded Anna-Marie.
"What for should I know? Ask t'manager, don't ask me." And Rose turned her back and started instructing a new claw-cleaner.
Rather discomfited, Anna-Marie took her way over to the pressing room, where a red-faced man like a drill sergeant was haranguing nine or ten somewhat undersized boys and girls.
"Now, remember: t'Mill doosn't want ye to be bashed by t'press ony more than ye do; for that only means a spoiled carpet an' a lot o' wasted time. So I want ye to step lively, keep yer balance, an' foot it quick: in—out—like a fullback taking t'ball away from t'goal. Some o'you lads plays football, I reckon?" Several of the boys nodded.
"What aboot us lasses, Mester Blaydon?" called one of the girls.
"Don't tell me none on yes ever taken part in a football game in t'street? Well if ye haven't, try an' make believe 'tis a game o' Puss-in-t'Corner—see how quick ye can get across. Now," he said, looking round, "t'press is being greased for an hour, so let's have a bit o' practice. I'll toss a wipe on t'floor, an' let's s
ee which of ye is quickest at getting it back. Take it in pairs—quickest from each pair tries agen wi' soombody else."
He divided the children into two groups, one group on each side of the pressing floor, and tossed a swab into the middle of the big space.
"Now—when I blow my whistle—first pair—go!"
A boy and a girl dashed toward each other. The girl triumphantly whipped up the swab from under the boy's nose, ran on past him, and flung herself up the steps on the opposite side.
"Very good, Martha Dunnett. Bide there an' we'll try you agen in a minute. Next pair!"
Two more ran out. This time the boy was the quicker. On the whole, the boys and girls were fairly evenly matched.
Anna-Marie, as last comer on the fluff-pickers' gang, was left till the final pair. Then she was matched against a thin, rather miserable-looking draggle-haired fair child, whom she easily beat.
"Anna—what's thy name?—Minetto? Try again wi' Martha Dunnett."
This time Martha, who had been so quick on her first attempt, seemed unaccountably clumsy, and slipped on the polished floor. Anna-Marie won again.
"Very good, Anna Minotto. We'll try thee agen in a minute against woon o' the boys. Now Saul Ramsbotton an' Geordie Hicks."
Geordie, who looked like an embryo center forward, easily won, but later when matched against Anna-Marie, he was not nearly so fast, and she was able to snatch up the swab before he could reach it.
By the end of the practice Anna-Marie somewhat to her own surprise, for she had thought several of the boys much quicker—had emerged as the winner of the snatching matches.
"Now we'll have a bit o' sweeping practice," announced the red-faced man. "Take oop yer brooshes. I want the floor marked out into squares—here's a bit o' chalk, Geordie, you do it. Fair shares, now, one each. Right? Each stand by your square. Now I'm going to choock oot a handful of cotton waste, an' when I blow t'whistle, I want to see who can get his square clean first. I doon't want to see woon thread left! Ready—go!"
They all rushed out onto the floor and each swept his square with feverish speed. Again Anna-Marie had her square perfectly clean quite thirty seconds before anybody else. She had thought her square was smaller than the others, but everything had been done at such a speed that it was hard to be sure; nobody else appeared to have noticed this, if it was so.
"Anna Minotti wins again. Well doon, Anna. Boys, are ye not ashamed of thiselves, to be beaten by a lass?"
Some of the boys did look rather shamefaced.
"Right, Anna Minetto. Tha seems to be t'quickest, although tha'rt new to t'gang, so tha can be snatcher for today."
None of the other children seemed to envy Anna-Marie this distinction. Some looked glum; others looked scared. Most of them tended to glance away if they chanced to meet her eye.
"Now ye can all have five minutes for a breather while t'floor is prepared and t'first carpet's put doon. Anna Minotto, coom here."
She did so, and he gave her some special instructions about the best place to stand, how to receive signals—"Can't have more than woon snatcher, ye see, or there'd be the risk o' boomping, but watch all the oothers, an' they'll signal if there's a bit o' flooff in their square. Now, there's a temptation to stand wi' knees braced, but ye doon't want to do that—knees joost nicely flexed is best, an' hold t'tongs in thy right hand—so—keep quite relaxed."
Anna-Marie did not feel very relaxed. The men who had prepared the floor had finished and were climbing the steps. Another group was pulling along a dolly with a rolled-up carpet on it.
"Ready, then, lads?" called Mr. Blaydon, looking up.
***
Lucas, in the meantime, had been taken to the winding shop, where the duties were not difficult, though rather monotonous. Here, some of the wool, which had been pulled out and double-twisted by great spinning wheels in the next room, was fed through holes in a screen and wound on to huge steel drums, which constantly whizzed round and round with a steady peaceful hum.
"T'main danger here is ye may go off to sleep an' topple on to woon o' the bobbins," the foreman who was instructing Lucas told him. "Stay awake an' tha'll be all right."
Lucas's duties were to keep an eye on three of the steel bobbins, to see that the wool fed onto them evenly and did not lump or form ridges; to stop them when they were wound full, shift them off the spindle on which they rotated, and replace by an empty drum. They needed changing every twenty minutes or so, and were arranged so that they filled up in sequence, never two at the same time. The full bobbins were then rolled away along a gallery and down a gentle ramp into a huge store where they were kept until required for the weaving process.
The winding shop was quite a pleasant place to work, for it was open on three sides, not too hot, not too noisy, and there was constant variety in the color of the wool coming through from the spinning-shed. Nevertheless, Lucas was profoundly uneasy, and had some difficulty in keeping his mind on his work.
His anxiety was not allayed by hearing a snatch of talk between two men who walked past him.
"Seems as Bobby Bludward is fixing oop woon o' his little booby traps—"
"Nay, is he, then? Who for, does tha knaw?"
"Soom lass as gave him a bit o' sauce—joost to teach t'oothers to toe t'line—"
"Woon o' these days soomone'll booby trap him, an' aboot a hoondred chaps'll toss their caps in t'air for joy—"
They went out of earshot.
I wish Anna-Marie were out of this place, thought Lucas. It's not good, her working here. She's such a hothead; she won't watch her tongue.
One of his bobbins was wound full with bright violet wool. Who could possibly want a carpet of such a color? But perhaps it would be mixed with something else, made into a pattern when it was woven. He pulled the lever which gave a signal to the men in the next room to stop spinning, broke the wool, fastened it off, and hoisted the bobbin off its spindle. This was an operation needing both skill and strength, for the bobbins were six feet in diameter from rim to rim—higher than Lucas as they rolled—and heavy in proportion. His foreman had helped him at first, but there was a knack, as Lucas had soon discovered, of swinging them off the spindle and over on to their rims all in one movement. Now he could do it alone. He checked his other two drums, to make sure they were winding smoothly, and was just starting to roll the violet bobbin along toward the store when he heard Sam Melkinthorpe's voice in his ear—loud, urgent, full of horror: "Lad! Quick! Coom to t'pressing room!"
"What's the matter?" Startled, Lucas had given the bobbin a shove; it rolled on ahead of them as Melkinthorpe grasped his arm and almost dragged him along.
"Yon bloody murderer have fixed it so's the press'll slip—they've owergreased it—woon o' my mates as works on the press telled me, Bludward got them to do it—"
"Why?" panted Lucas, giving his bobbin another shove.
"Why? Acos they've fixed for yon lass to be t'snatcher—that friend o' thine—that's why!"
"Anna-Marie? The snatcher? But I thought she was in the combing shed—"
"Not any more!"
They had arrived at the pressing floor. The spreaders were just finishing their operation of smoothing out a great pale-gray and green carpet. The little snatcher was standing ready on the edge of the steps, holding her tong—Lucas saw that it was Anna-Marie with a resolute, intent expression on her face—
And there in the middle of the gray-green carpet, as the men unrolled the last couple of yards, was not one wool clot but two. Two of the other fluff-pickers, higher up the steps, signaled and pointed, each in a different direction.
Anna-Marie hesitated, then sprang out.
"Anna-Marie!" Lucas shouted. "Stop!"
But there was too much noise, with the tremendous whine of the press overhead, for her to hear his voice. She snatched up one lump of wool in her tongs—turned toward the other....
With a wild burst of energy, which he would never have believed he commanded, Lucas hurled himself after the violet bobbin,
turned it at right angles to its course, and sent it bowling down the shallow steps onto the pressing floor. Not an instant too soon. With a terrific silent downward rush—so fast that the ground seemed rushing up to meet it—the press came down. Anna-Marie looked up and went white; she took one faltering step toward the side. She would never have reached it in time. But the bobbin had rolled into the middle of the floor; the press came down and collided against it—six feet above her head.
Anna-Marie's legs gave way under her and she crouched down on the gray-green carpet like a partridge that sees a hawk fly over.
"Watch oot!" shouted Sam Melkinthorpe. "It's crackin'!"
A sharp, violent sound came from just above them. Lucas bounded slantways down the steps, grabbed Anna-Marie round the waist, and sprang back to safety, just before the two halves of the press, which had been cracked across the middle by its impact with the steel bobbin, tipped slowly down until each end rested on the floor.
"By gum!" said Sam Melkinthorpe, awestruck.
Lucas sat down weakly on the steps by the side of Anna-Marie and put his arm around her.
Men came running from all over the factory—in twos and threes, then in dozens.
"Look at that!" someone said wonderingly. "Snapped like a stick o' toffee!"
People formed a group round Lucas and Anna-Marie.
"Are you all right, lad? Was tha hurt at all, little un?"
"No—no—it is nothing—I thank you," said Anna-Marie scrambling to her feet, among all the helping hands. "It was just—it was so—so sudden."
But when she stood up her knees began to tremble again.
"I'm going to take you home," Lucas said.
"Aye, better," approved Mr. Melkinthorpe. "She's shook oop bad. 'Appen she'd be the better for a nip o' summat."
Lucas began to draw Anna-Marie through the crowd; she went with him docilely. In the middle of the mass of people they met Mr. Gravestone the manager, angrily elbowing his way forward.
"Was it you?" he demanded, laying hold of Lucas's collar. "Were you the boy who broke the press by rolling a wool drum under it? Do you realize what that is going to cost to put right? Thousands upon thousands—you have put half the Mill out of action for at least three weeks. The owners will sue you—you will have to pay for this—"
