by Anne Doughty
She’d got used to standing all day and running up and down that steep staircase in the tall, narrow building looking out over The Cut, when she first started work. Other girls did it. So could she. She spotted a cab, waved her handkerchief and was grateful when the driver tipped his whip in acknowledgement and manoeuvred his way towards her.
The Abercorn Studio comprised two floors above a chemist’s shop and wasn’t nearly as elegant as it claimed to be in its advertisement. But it did have its own entrance, a familiar steep, narrow staircase. Clutching the bag with her albums in one hand and picking up her skirt with the other, she climbed up to a landing where she was greeted by the unmistakable smell of fixer.
A number of doors opened out of the landing. None of them were labelled and it was not immediately clear where someone coming for interview should apply. Knowing she was early, she sat down on a hard wooden chair to consider her next move. Hugh had been quite right. The albums were heavy. She’d never noticed that before, but then, she’d never before carried them around all at once.
As she sat collecting herself, a woman emerged from one of the adjoining rooms. She swept past without taking the slightest notice of her. On her return, Sarah stood up.
‘Excuse me. I’ve come to see Mr Abernethy. I have an appointment at three o’clock.’
‘He doesn’t see sales people in the afternoon,’ she said disagreeably, her eye lighting on the albums as she looked her up and down.
‘I’m not a sales person,’ she replied coldly. ‘My name is Sarah Hamilton. Perhaps you’d be so kind as to tell Mr Abernethy I’m here.’
The superior being moved on with a swish of skirts, the only acknowledgement of her words a slight tilt of the chin. Some minutes later Mr Abernethy himself appeared.
‘Ah, Miss Hamilton,’ he boomed jovially, as he extended his hand. ‘Please come into my office.’
He waved her into a large room filled with heavy furniture, bookcases full of ledgers, large pot plants with very shiny leaves, a collection of plaster pillars, cherubs heads and velvet drapes.
‘Do sit down,’ he said charmingly, as he retreated behind his desk and took up the letter she had written in reply to his advertisement.
‘You are eighteen, Miss Hamilton,’ he said, looking at her sharply with small, dark eyes.
‘Yes,’ she said, looking straight back at him.
Her birthday wasn’t for another two weeks, but she was determined not to miss this opportunity for the sake of a fortnight.
‘You say you have quite a lot of experience, though your last employment was only some eight months,’ he continued, his joviality beginning to grate, his manner wearing rather than pleasant.
‘I’ve been taking pictures for almost four years. I’ve brought some of my work to show you.’
‘Ah excellent. Excellent,’ he said, as she took the albums out of her bag and placed them in front of him.
He flicked through the pages of the first one.
‘Of course, we seldom have much need of landscape pictures,’ he said in the same genial manner. ‘We don’t do picture postcards,’ he added, by way of explanation as he slid the album aside and began on the next.
‘Hmm, most interesting,’ he said, leafing through marginally more slowly. ‘We do sometimes have commissions from manufacturers, but more often for exterior pictures. For advertising, you understand,’ he said, nodding to her.
She watched him closely. For all his avuncular manner, there was something unpleasantly calculating about him. He knew exactly what he wanted and if he didn’t think she could provide it, he’d escort her to the door within the next three minutes, still as charming as ever, and forget her before she’d even set foot on the stairs.
He’d reached the third album now. She knew by the cover it was her first one, the pictures from the summer of ’97 at Ashley Park.
‘And what did you use to take this one?’ he asked, smiling at her over the first double page.
‘That’s the only one I didn’t take,’ she said steadily. ‘I got that from a friend who borrowed a rotating camera. I wanted it as an introduction to the rest of the pictures. I took all of them.’
Mr Abernethy peered at the panoramic picture Teddy had taken and turned the pages more slowly. He came to an abrupt halt at the study of Hannah and Teddy under the rose arch.
‘And these pictures were taken at …?’
‘Ashley Park, in Gloucestershire.’
‘And how, may I ask, did you gain access there?’ he enquired with a confidential bow.
‘My mother and Lady Anne, the countess, that is, are old friends.’
‘Ahh,’ he said, nodding vigorously, as if that fact explained the quality of the pictures. ‘We do a lot of portraiture for the gentry. In fact, we rather specialise in engagements and wedding photography. Such interesting work, don’t you think?’
‘I’m very interested in portraiture, that’s why I applied to you. There are some wedding portraits in the fourth album, but they’re only first attempts with a Kodak. I didn’t have my plate camera then,’ she added slyly, as she saw the way his mind was working.
‘Charming. Quite charming,’ he said. ‘May I ask who this beautiful young woman is?’
Sarah could see exactly what he was thinking. With her face as straight as she could manage and a cool, slightly off hand tone, she replied to his question.
‘Oh, that’s my sister Hannah, Lady Cleeve.’
‘Delightful picture,’ he enthused. ‘But, as you say, a first attempt with a Kodak. I’m sure you’ll find our resources will give you much more scope. Now about your hours and remuneration …’
‘So you said “yes”,’ Rose asked uneasily, as Sarah finished her story some hours later.
‘I did,’ she replied, drinking her mug of tea gratefully. ‘The hours are just as long, 8 a.m. to 6 p.m.,’ she went on. ‘But the wages are much better. Stockings and tram fares,’ she said laughing. ‘They are well equipped, though. They’ve got stuff I’ve never even heard of.’
‘I don’t much like the sound of the boss.’
‘I probably won’t see much of him,’ she responded cheerfully. ‘I think he does the money. It’s Mrs Cheesman is the real horror. “How do you do, Miss Hamilton,” she went on, mimicking the over polite tones of the woman who had previously swept past her on the landing. ‘She’s the kind of woman who gives you her hand and it feels like a dead fish.’
Her mother laughed and shook her head.
‘Honestly love, I cannot see much to recommend this job, I really can’t. Are you sure you’re doing the right thing?’ she said, trying not to sound anxious.
‘No, I’m not sure,’ she said honestly. ‘But there are things I want to find out. I know nothing about living in a city, or being a working girl in lodgings, or being away from home and family. Jamie did it. Hannah did it. Then Sam did it. I feel I have to do it too. If it’s awful I won’t pretend it’s not, but I think I can learn a lot at the studio. Abernethy is a real snob,’ she continued, her tone contemptuous. ‘I could see his mind working. If he gave me the job he could put big enlargements of Hannah and Teddy in the studio and just casually refer to them when he’s showing customers in. I agreed, of course. It won’t do them any harm and I’ll get a close look at what he calls “gentry”. All part of my education, Ma,’ she ended with a sigh.
‘Yes, I can see that side of it,’ Rose replied, looking at her carefully. ‘I admire your courage, to be honest. I’m just thinking how much Da and I will miss you. And so will Hugh, I’m sure.’
‘But I’ll be home every week,’ Sarah protested.
‘Well, perhaps,’ replied Rose, thinking of Sam.
‘Of course, I will. Saturday afternoon, by the first train. You just wait and see,’ said Sarah firmly.
The first weeks of the new job went well. Despite the long hours and the fact that Mrs Cheesman treated her like a servant, she was so intrigued by the work she simply didn’t allow her behaviour to upset her. The othe
r assistants, all young men in their twenties, were friendly enough, given to silly practical jokes, but good-natured and otherwise harmless.
Her lodgings, run by a vigorous, middle-aged Quaker lady, were clean, old-fashioned and mercifully quiet. In a tree-lined street near Queen’s College, the tall brick house was inhabited mostly by single ladies who worked in offices. In the evenings, if she stayed in, reading in the sombre sitting room, or writing letters in her small bedroom, she did feel lonely, but, encouraged by the long, warm evenings she began to go for walks, sometimes going so far across the city she had to take a tram to bring her part of the way back.
With the light lingering till after ten, she would take pictures of people strolling in the parks or looking in shop windows. Having something to do kept her from thinking longingly of the countryside round Ballydown and the evenings she’d spent with Hugh visiting local beauty spots. But she couldn’t always keep herself busy. Sometimes after a long, difficult day with tiresome customers or when things went wrong in the darkroom, she was too tired to go out. She lay on her narrow bed looking up at the small patch of sky in the single window and thought of what her mother had said about Hugh missing her.
She knew she missed him. She thought of him often, storing up things to tell him, wondering what he would say when she described a particular person, or explained the problems she’d had with a particular picture. But then, she remembered, Hugh had been part of her life since the very first day they’d arrived in Ballydown. She’d always talked to him, asked him questions and told him what she thought. Even when she was only a little girl he’d listened to her and considered her words as seriously as if she were a grown up. For years now, he’d asked her what she thought about the changes he wanted to make at the mills.
June passed and the heavy, thundery weather of July made the city even less appealing than usual. She longed for Saturday and counted the hours till she stepped into the Banbridge train. As she felt the miles diminish between her and Ballydown, she stared out at the familiar, green countryside as if she were afraid it had somehow disappeared while she’d been closed up indoors all week.
Although Saturday afternoon was supposed to be her half holiday, there were occasions in the summer months when she was obliged to work, because all the young men were out photographing cycling clubs or field clubs, church outings or wedding receptions. She hated it when that happened, but, while she had no choice in the matter of working, she could at least choose to have time off in lieu of the extra hours. That meant she was sometimes able to be free on Friday afternoons and then the weekend beckoned invitingly, for it seemed almost twice as long.
It was on one of these Friday afternoons in early August she found herself walking along the platform in Banbridge with Peter Jackson.
‘Hallo, Sarah. I thought you didn’t get home till Saturday?’ he said, greeting her with a cheerful smile.
‘Don’t usually. Had to work all last Saturday. I’ve got time off for good behaviour,’ she said laughing. ‘What about you?’
‘Been for an interview,’ he said, as they handed in their tickets and came through the barrier into the gloomy entrance hall. ‘Don’t think I can stand cows all my life. Shipping Office and Travel Agents. Pay is poor, but it goes up when I’m twenty and I’ve an aunt I can lodge with. How’s photography?’ he asked, nodding at the camera slung over her shoulder.
‘Very mixed,’ she said honestly. ‘I’ve actually got to missing cows,’ she went on, grinning, as they paused by the bicycle park.
She watched him as he unlocked his chain, wheeled it back to where she stood.
‘Haven’t you got yours?’ he asked.
‘No. Da leaves me down in the trap on Sunday nights. Anyway, I’m looking forward to the walk. Don’t let me keep you back, Peter. I’ll probably see you tomorrow if Ma wants eggs or milk. We get through twice as much when Sam comes home,’ she said laughing.
‘I’ll walk as far as the Memorial with you,’ he said easily. ‘How is Sam? I hear he has a girl.’
‘How did you hear that?’ she asked, curious, as they stepped out of the station yard into the sunlight of the warm August afternoon.
‘Busy as ever,’ Peter commented, looking up and down the main street, crowded with randomly parked carts and drays.
As Sarah followed his gaze, her eye was suddenly caught by a figure on a bicycle weaving expertly at speed between the pedestrians and parked vehicles.
‘Billy,’ she called, as she recognised his trim uniform.
He spotted her and skidded to a halt beside them.
‘There’s a fire at Millbrook,’ he gasped. ‘I’m away up for your Da and Mr Sinton. The Manager telegraphed us. Must go,’ he added, whizzing off without a backward glance.
‘Peter, could I ask you a great favour?’ Sarah said carefully.
‘What?’ he asked, looking at her in surprise.
‘Would you lend me your bicycle?’ she said promptly. ‘I wasn’t planning to take pictures of a fire, but they could be useful, especially if I can get there quickly.’
‘Yes, of course. Can you manage the bar?’ he asked, handed it over. ‘Can I take your bag? It’ll be safer with me.’
She handing him her overnight bag, moved her camera from her shoulder to lie diagonally across her chest and caught up her skirts with a practised hand.
‘Thanks, Peter. You’re a real friend,’ she said warmly. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll take great care of your bike. See you later.’
‘Just take care of yourself,’ he called after her as she pushed off and wove her way into the middle of the road.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Millbrook, was located near the river Bann, a tall, solid, four storey brick building. Unlike the other three mills, it was sited a few hundred yards back from the river itself, but close to a small tributary which provided water for the steam that powered the spinning frames. For some reason which no one could explain, it had a worse record for fires than any of the other mills, a problem which had absorbed much time, energy and money over the last years without a satisfactory solution being found.
Sarah pedalled hard, her skirt well bundled up on the bar of Peter’s bicycle in case the breeze should catch it and ruin both skirt and wheel by flapping it between the spokes, or, worse still, wrapping it around the chain and landing her in the ditch.
In a very short time, she was freewheeling down the last hill to the waterside site. She could see the smoke pouring out from the ground floor at one end of the long building. She slowed down and ran right up to the main entrance, where she’d spotted the Manager directing operations.
‘What’s happening, Tom? No Fire Brigade yet?’
‘No, miss. We’ve got two pumps of our own going and the men are using buckets,’ he said promptly. ‘With a bit of luck, we’ll get it out ourselves, if this damn breeze, beg your pardon, Miss, would die down.’
Sarah smiled, as much from relief as from the Manager’s sensitivity to her delicate ears.
‘And everyone out?’ she added, looking across at a long line of women and children. A supervisor and an assistant sat at a small, wooden table in the cool shadow of the far end of the long building handing over money and taking signatures or witnessing marks on their record sheets.
‘Oh yes,’ he said, nodding confidently. ‘It was just like one of the fire drills we’d had. There was hardly any smoke till a few minutes ago,’ he explained, with an uneasy look towards the increasing volume now rising into the summer sky.
‘I’m going to take some pictures, Tom,’ she said briskly. ‘They might be useful. I saw the telegraph boy in Banbridge. He’ll be up at Mr Sinton’s by now. He and my father should be here soon.’
She wheeled Peter’s bicycle back up the slope towards the road, parked it carefully against the stone wall of the night watchman’s hut, then hurried down towards the stream where a line of men were passing buckets from hand to hand. A single jet of water was being directed into the ground floor room where the fire ha
d started. There were ladders against the adjoining walls and buckets of water were being passed up to men who were soaking the floors of the rooms above and beside the source of the smoke.
She took four pictures, then looked round, considering what best to take next. Two men were dismantling a hand-pump.
‘What’s the trouble?’ she asked.
‘Dirt,’ replied the older man. ‘The stream’s low wi’ the good weather an’ this hose doesn’t reach as far as the river. If there’d been more water, we’d a had it out by now.’
She shaded her eyes from the glare and gazed up the slope towards the main road. Surely the Fire Brigade would be here soon. Their hoses should reach the river and their pump ought to be more powerful. As she watched, the fine jet being played through a broken window into the billowing smoke, faltered and failed. A few moments, later she saw the first flames. Licking outwards, they rapidly consumed the window frames of the ground floor room where the fire had started.
There was still no sign of the Fire Brigade or Hugh’s motor. Already it was becoming dangerous for the men on ladders to go on trying to damp down the wooden floors adjacent to the room. She was not surprised when the work’s foreman gave orders for the bucket chain to stop. Hugh had given the strictest instructions that no employee was ever to be put at risk.
The men who had been forced to pull back from the end of the building were now walking down to the river to wash dirty arms and splash water on hot, sweaty faces. Four men were now dismantling filters and reassembling metal parts, trying desperately to get the two pumps going again, but nothing could be done directly to check the flames.
Thinking anxiously about the insurance claim, Sarah walked down to the end of the building, the smell of linseed oil strong on the breeze, and made her way across to the engine house which backed on to the stream, its doors some twenty yards or so from the main building itself.
The engines had been turned off and the ventilators closed to keep out smoke. With the strengthening breeze behind her, she climbed up a grassy mound behind the low building and clambered onto its shallow-pitched slate roof. Steadying herself, she took two more pictures of the mill from this new angle. Between one exposure and the next, to her dismay, the flames reached the second storey and she heard the crack and tinkle of glass as the heat shattered the lower panes of the large windows.
