Angel Meadow

by Audrey Howard

  The fact that the girls had picked themselves up – and been successful at it – after their mam disappeared, found work and got on with their lives, spending twelve hard hours each day at the mill and keeping themselves out of trouble, counted for nothing with the likes of Kate Murphy, with Teresa O’Connell and Eileen O’Rourke, all who lived in Church Court and liked to sit on their front step and watch the world go by rather than get involved with it. Stuck-up little madams, the Brody girls were considered to be, especially that Nancy with her nose in the air and what appeared to them to be a fanatical determination to avoid any contact with her neighbours, who would have been glad to air their views not only on the whereabouts of Kitty Brody, but on how the girls should further conduct their lives. They would have liked to see them carted off to the workhouse, where destitute orphans usually found themselves, and when it became obvious that this was not going to happen their pretence at concern turned to incredulity.

  “We’ve jobs at Monarch, thanks, Mrs O’Rourke,” Nancy told her neighbour on that first day, squaring her aching shoulders when Mrs O’Rourke, her eyes narrowed suspiciously as though she suspected the three girls to be following the same profession as their mother, her brawny arms akimbo across her chest, challenged her from her doorstep as the three children padded tiredly towards their own front door.

  “Yer what?” Mrs O’Rourke’s jaw dropped. She was clearly amazed. She had never worked since she and her Liam had wed, her Liam being a fairly decent provider when he wasn’t sozzled. All her children still living, five of them, had jobs so she was free to sit about all day, on her doorstep when it was fine, and gossip with her neighbours. Her childbearing days were over. Her Liam, thanks be to the Holy Mother, had lost interest in the fumblings he had once demanded nightly beneath their grubby bed covers and besides, she’d “seen” nothing for five years now.

  She had not approved of Kitty Brody but now she was gone she was perfectly willing to interfere in the lives of Kitty’s daughters, and was affronted that her “help” was apparently neither needed nor asked for.

  “Yes, we were took on this mornin’, me an’ our Rose an’ Mary.”

  “Doin’ what, fer Christ sake?” Eileen shrieked, for as far as she was aware, and nothing much got past Eileen O’Rourke, these girls didn’t know one end of a spinning mule from the other. She did, though, for her mam had taken her to Jenkinsons, a cotton mill in Bromley Street, when she was seven and she’d worked there, first as a piecer, then as a spinner until she wed her Liam.

  “I’m in charge of a pair of me own, Mrs O’Rourke,” Nancy confided, referring casually to the two spinning mules that had so terrified her this morning, “an’ I’m quite at ’ome in the jennygate.” She lifted her head even higher, “An’ Mary’s piecin’ fer me. Our Rose is clearin’ waste or fetchin’ bobbins. We’re all quick learners and already know what creelin’ an’ doffin’ means an ’ow ter do it. We even cleaned our mules before we left, didn’t we, Mary?” glancing down at her sister who was almost asleep on her feet.

  “But you can’t mind a pair o’ spinnin’ mules, Nancy Brody. Yer only – what? – ten? eleven?” The sisters’ ages were not something she had taken a great deal of interest in since it had no bearing on her life but she was pretty certain Nancy Brody wasn’t old enough to be in charge of a pair of spinning mules.

  “I’m thirteen, Mrs O’Rourke.” Nancy’s voice was cool as though daring Mrs O’Rourke to call her a liar, her expression plainly asking what the hell had any of it to do with this fat old cow? As far as she was aware there was no one who could poke their noses into the lives of the Brody girls. They never had before, and as long as they kept out of trouble, paid their rent on time and bothered no one they were free to get on with their lives. Which was what she intended.

  She couldn’t have done it without Annie Wilson, she knew that, and she often wondered at her own naïveté, or was it bravado, in imagining that she could simply walk into a spinning-room and take over the running of a pair of spinning mules.

  Annie spent half an hour with her while her own machine stood idle and when the under-gaffer came over to see what the hold-up was she told him to bugger off, which he did, for Annie was the best and most hardworking spinner they had and if she wanted to stop and give a hand to the new girl then that was her business. She’d make it up, she told him, and she did.

  It took no longer than the half-hour for the new girl to get the hang of it and though she was slow at first, watching intently every movement Annie made and faithfully copying it, when the gaffer came to measure with his wrap reel and balance the count of yarn spun at each mule he seemed satisfied with what she had done. Her sisters kept their traps shut and obeyed every order Annie or Nancy shouted at them, quick and lively as squirrels, darting from mule to mule, doffing the full bobbins from the spindles and replacing them with empty ones. The littlest one crept beneath the swiftly moving carriage and backstop, piecing together any broken threads – and there were five or six every minute – while the older girl swept the floor and helped her sister with the weft-carrying. And you could see that Nancy, as she had told Annie she was called, was not going to be satisfied until she could keep up with the best. By the end of the week, in Annie’s opinion, Nancy would be, if not as swift and proficient as herself, then better than many who had been spinners for years and would not tolerate the least falling-off in performance of her machines. Annie, and one or two of the other minders, were convinced that even the most carefully set up self-actor fell short of perfection, despite the gaffer’s ministrations, and few could resist, when the gaffer was not looking, the temptation to make small overriding adjustments to the strapping and nosing motions of their machines. This girl would be one of these, Annie could tell and it was not often Annie was wrong. She’d seen many a lass come and go but Nancy Brody was a stayer, Annie was certain of that.

  They got through their first week at the mill, the Brody girls, earning eleven shillings, though it would not be long before Mary, catching the gaffer’s eye as having the makings of a good spinner when she was big enough, would be clearing another half-crown. They began their working day at six o’clock. The operatives were up and stirring half an hour before and in a very short time the streets in the neighbourhood were thronged with men, women and children flocking to the factories, warehouses and mills in the area. The factory and mill bells began to ring at five to six, then, to the very minute, the engines were started and the day’s work began. Those who were not on time, be it only for a moment, were fined twopence and though a short period of grace was given, it was not long before the gates were locked and those shut out were not only fined but lost a morning’s work. The Brody girls were never among this number.

  At eight thirty it was breakfast time. The engine stopped and the streets again became crowded with those hands who lived close to the mills. The Brody girls, conscious now, through Nancy, of course, of a good diet, since you needed stoking up in their line of work, and the need to watch every penny, brought their breakfast with them, eating the thick slices of bread and dripping, or perhaps a slice of bacon, washed down with hot, sweet tea they made from the water supplied by the mill owner. Five to nine and the bell sounded again and at nine the engine resumed its clamorous roar. There was very little talking during the break or at the machines where it was calculated that the minders walked approximately seven miles a day tending their machines. The machinery did all the work but the spinner superintended that work every moment of the day with vigilant attention, and with a greater or lesser degree of dexterity which was reflected in the wages paid. Annie, and soon catching up with her, Nancy, were the two highest paid minders in the mill, which employed almost two thousand workers. The mill itself was enormous, several groups of buildings separated from each other by streets but connected by subterranean tunnels in which iron tramways were laid for the speedy and easy conveyance of raw cotton, of spun yarn and of made-up cloth from ware-room to ware-room. Rose and Mary, who from the f
irst were sent running on many an errand, for they were bright and intelligent and could be trusted with a message, were at first terrified by the tunnels, by the trams, by the thin, spare men who laughed and called out good-naturedly to them, by the unfamiliarity of this new life of theirs, when they had roamed free for the first seven or eight years of it, but very soon they became used to it and even smiled back at the men, Rosie, who was pert as well as pretty, answering them back with a bit of cheek of her own.

  At one o’clock it was dinner time for everyone, master or man, for every workshop and office, every cotton mill, silk mill, print works, warehouse and dye works in Manchester ate at the same time. The hungry crowd swarmed out into the smoky brown streets, the smoky brown sky lowering above them and streets and lanes which before had been echoing and empty rang with the tramp of clogged feet. Long piles of warehouses lined each thoroughfare, many of them pillared and with stately fronts, alongside great grimy mills with their chimneys belching smoke into the already smoke-laden air, but the men and women of Manchester were used to it and philosophically ate their “butties” in its putrid atmosphere. Potato pie for the Brody girls, made by Nancy, who was good with pastry, sometimes with a bit of meat in it – this, of course when they had got on their feet financially – eaten by the side of the jennygate, and then it was back to work until the whistle blew at the end of the day. The thread spun at Monarch Mill was coarse yarn, used in the manufacture of cotton for shirts and trousers, hard-wearing and serviceable, much of it sent abroad.

  They became accustomed to the thick, sunless air, the heat, the throb and boom of the steam engines and the clattering whirl of hundreds and thousands of revolving pirns and bobbins, the white flakes of cotton wool which specked their hair and clothing. The Factory Acts of 1833 and 1847 limited the working hours of children under the age of thirteen to forty-eight a week and forbade the employment of children under the age of nine in the mills, but what did it matter, the mill owners argued, for the majority of them crowding at the gates for work had no idea how old they were and neither had their mothers who sent them there in the first place. If they said they were ten or eleven or twelve, who were the factory owners to dispute it?

  Mind you, Nancy Brody knew exactly how old she was, having questioned Mam when she herself was scarcely more than a toddler and her mam still able to function at a certain level. Sharp as two tin tacks was Nancy Brody, even at the age of four, five, six; her mam often said so. She knew the ages of their Rose and Mary as well, since they had been born so close to her. The rest of her family were no more than a faint recollection to her, little scraps of humanity who had been fed on a mixture of gin and “Godfreys” or “Mother’s Quietness” as it was called, a cordial made up by the carelessly indifferent druggist and whose main ingredient was laudanum, which was given to them to keep them quiet while their mothers laboured in the mills and factories.

  At the end of the first week at Monarch, a week that Nancy was often to wonder how they got through, since they had little to eat but scraps, they gloated all the way home over the eleven shillings she held in her hand, afraid to let go of it even to put in her pocket. They stopped on the way and bought a loaf of bread and a pot of dripping, a small packet of tea, a jug of milk and a hunk of coarse cheese from Mrs O’Leary and for the first time since Mam vanished they went to their verminous bed replete.

  Nancy wouldn’t, as yet, let them spend any money on anything except food, despite their Rosie’s complaints that though they were clean underneath, since Nancy insisted they kept up the daily washes, their clothing was stiff with dirt. It was weeks before Nancy allowed herself to believe that this incredible wealth was not going to be snatched away from them, hoarding their few shillings behind the loose brick upstairs, still not revealed to her sisters. Just after Christmas, which meant very little to them, of course, since they had no cash to spare for frivolities, they made their way to the market at Smithfield, heading for the old clothes stalls.

  The streets that led to the market were a solid mass of waggons and drays, enormous horses pulling them, goods being unloaded, and among the cheerful racket were men and women, some come straight from their looms or mules, and in great danger of being run down if not by the waggons then by the porters who were everywhere, dodging and laughing and chattering, for despite their poverty they were a durable lot. A hurrying multitude all going in the same direction towards the market where the bargains lay. But not just bargains, for there were stalls on which gingerbread men were sold, and lemonade, baked potatoes, onion pies, muffins and all sorts of delicacies way beyond the pocket of the ordinary working man. They pushed and jostled, stopping to stare at corn plasters and painted buckets, at bootlaces and delicate china figurines and the three girls were enchanted, for though they had been here before they had never had a few bob rattling in their pocket. Or rather their Nancy’s pocket!

  It was at the market that many of the Irish found employment. One-quarter of the stall holders were Catholic and so were a large number of porters and labourers, and the hordes of street sellers and hawkers trading on the market’s margins. It was to one of these that the Brody girls went.

  It was Saturday afternoon and it seemed the whole of Angel Meadow, Strangeways and New Town were intent on making the most of the bargains to be had as the day drew on. The “Begorra”s and “to be sure”s were thick on the air and one might have been forgiven for thinking that the market stood in the middle of Dublin or Belfast. The crowds, the women in shawls, aprons and clogs, the men in velveteen jackets, homespun waistcoats and fustian trousers, were on the whole good-natured, turning over the goods for sale with a keen hand and eye, for every penny had to be made to count. The second-hand clothing stall was busy and the girls, Nancy towing the other two behind her, elbowed their way to the front. She would not, naturally, buy the first garment on offer. She meant to have a good look round first, for this was not the only second-hand clothing stall, glorying in the wonder of having money in her pocket to buy what she thought was good value. She had never done it before. Her mam had brought stuff home, carelessly telling them to “get yerself inter this or that”, the remarks mostly directed at Nancy, for Mary wore what Nancy cast off and Rose wore what Mary cast off!

  The stall holder was beginning to get irritable, for the tall bonny girl had fingered every garment on her stall, holding them up and then casting them down with a contemptuous air as though she were used to better than this.

  “Holy Mother o’ God, why didn’t yer say it was high fashion yer were wantin’, mavourneen?” she shouted in high dudgeon. “’Cos if it is yer’d best get yerself down ter Deansgate. I’ve nowt in from Paris just now,” winking at the rest of her customers and getting a round of laughter.

  “I’m lookin’ fer quality an’ value,” Nancy said in that high-falutin’ tone she was beginning to adopt, or so their Rosie said. Ever since Mam went Nancy had taken to her role as protector of the family with great seriousness and in some ways it had gone to her head. She was proud of what they had achieved in such a short time and her imperiously held head and disdainful glances at those who couldn’t get off their bums and do the same were getting her talked about.

  At last she settled on three serviceable grey skirts, hardly worn, the stall holder told her, three bodices and three warm shawls. Their clogs would have to do this winter, though she did go mad and buy three pairs of warm woollen stockings which, she warned them, must be taken off the minute they got to their mules or the oil would ruin them.

  They bought tripe and onions, a whole rabbit, unskinned, carrots and potatoes, all going cheap as the day drew to a close, and a ham bone with a fair amount of ham still on it which, when boiled with the vegetables, would make a nourishing pan of soup.

  They idled their way through the crowds, stopping at every stall to pick over the goods on sale and it was then that Nancy’s sensible practicality deserted her for several minutes and she reverted to the child she really was. There was a stall that sold ribbon
s and hairbrushes, combs and fans and stockings, pretty if soiled parasols, cheap soap and cheaper perfumes and, as though they were fastened together by an invisible thread, which in a way they were, the three little girls stopped.

  “Come along, step up an’ ’ave a look. Three pretty girls like youse’ll be wantin’ a ribbon in yer ’air, ter be sure,” the old woman behind the stall cackled. “An’ would yer look at me soap. Rose or jasmine, whatever yer fancy an’ fresh made by me own ’ands this very day. Now tell me that don’t smell lovely,” and they could not argue with her. It did indeed smell lovely and the thought of warming the water by the fire and lathering themselves from head to toe with this magical aroma was too much for Nancy who couldn’t get enough of being clean. Of smelling as she had now begun to notice her workmates did not, of knowing that comforting and comfortable feeling of freshness when she had washed herself. Mary and Rose, left to themselves, would have slipped back into their old ways if she’d let them but she, now that she had a few pennies to spare, so to speak, meant never to be dirty or stinking again.

  She bought a bar of what the old woman called incongruously “Rosebud soap” and a hairbrush. She was tempted by the ribbons. Such lovely colours of scarlet and emerald and bright blue and though Rose and Mary both begged for one, Rose turning sullen when she was refused, she would not give in. And to regain her sense of purpose and practicality, she purchased a big bar of washing soap for their clothes which she meant to put in to soak, as Annie had advised her, this very night and hang to dry in the upstairs room.