The Bobbin Girls

by Freda Lightfoot

  Sandra sat her next to Harry, at Alena’s insistence, and from time to time noticed how the girl would lift expressive eyes from her plate to gaze up at him with what could only be described as spaniel-like devotion.

  Not a soul seated at that table missed the meaning of these glances, except perhaps the recipient himself, which unfortunately resulted in a good deal of covert hilarity. Alena was soon biting down hard on her lower lip. Kit, Jim and Tom exchanged many knowing winks which Lizzie, equally covertly, attempted to control. Jim’s wife, Ruby, seated at the end of the table so she could keep an eye on her sleeping son, was bright-eyed with delight. And Dolly had her hand clapped over her mouth as if she might explode.

  Not that Lizzie really minded, so long as the girl didn’t notice. There was nothing she loved more than to have her family about her on a Sunday. Just like the old days it was, only she had even less control over their waywardness now than when they’d been small.

  The small terraced cottage shone with beeswax and loving care, a bright log fire burning and not a sign of clutter anywhere, despite the fact that five adults still lived in it. Ray had made many of the pieces of furniture that stood against her carefully papered walls. Being the corner house, it was larger than most in the row with three good bedrooms and even a wash basin upstairs, though the lavatory was still out the back. Bought by Ray soon after he came home from the war, she’d always considered herself lucky to be able to bring up her family here. What more could any woman ask for?

  And they all looked so well, every one of them. Jim, so full of himself since he’d become a father. Alena, getting over the moodiness she’d suffered when Rob had gone away to school. Tom, hopefully settling into life as a husband. Even Dolly was mending, and though no one could call her an easy girl to get along with, she was at least learning to keep her caustic tongue a bit more in check these days. It was sad about the bairn she lost, but though there’d been no sign of another since, there was plenty of time to try again. She was a healthy enough young woman, Lizzie thought, watching her daughter-in-law tuck into the beef and Yorkshire on her plate. She certainly had a healthy appetite.

  And if the food was simple, being a piece of brisket that barely stretched to feed the nine of them, never mind an extra mouth, at least there were plenty of vegetables, grown by Kit on their allotment out the back. Lizzie had encouraged him in this interest: would’ve liked him to do it full time in order to get him out of the dusty atmosphere of the mill which was so bad for his chest, if only they could afford it. Not that he ever listened to her advice. But even this beloved son looked well, and wasn’t coughing so much. She still hoped that one day he’d find himself a nice lass and settle down too. As for Harry, well - Lizzie did a quick calculation of his and Sandra’s ages; at twenty-six there must be a good eight years between them. What of it? It wasn’t too great a difference, and he could do worse than little Sandra here.

  Aye, she was fortunate indeed in her family.

  The only sadness was that Ray, the man who had provided so well for them over the years, and been a good husband to her despite his volatile nature at times, was now deep in depression and could barely manage to feed himself. She’d have to go into the parlour shortly and give him his soup, which was all he ever seemed to want these days. But just for a few moments longer, she’d enjoy this lively family of hers.

  Chapter Nine

  Jim said, ‘You must show Sandra your letter to the manager after dinner. The one asking to be considered as foreman.’

  ‘Oh, I should like that,’ she eagerly agreed. ‘I’m sure if anyone deserves the job, Harry, you do. You should mention how many times lately you’ve reached the bonus. He’s sure to be impressed. You make far more bobbins a day than old Alex.’

  Harry looked down upon her with new eyes. ‘You’re right. I never thought of mentioning that. Thanks. Sandra.’ Kit spluttered into his soup, earning himself another reproving glare from Lizzie.

  ‘I shouldn’t make the letter sound too boastful though,’ Harry conceded.

  ‘Why not?’ Sandra quietly asked. ‘It would only be the truth.’

  Dolly chose that moment to have a choking fit, needing to be patted on the back by Kit, her own husband apparently too occupied with wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.

  Sandra looked about the table, glancing from one to the other of them with a puzzled frown creasing her brow. Could they, she wondered, with dawning horror, be making fun of her? Surely not? What had she said that was so funny?

  She really liked Alena’s family, and had adored the big, blond eldest son for years. She always made a point of saying hello to him at work, and had on two occasions managed to be invited by Alena for a cup of tea and a bit of crack after their shift. But she still rarely got more than a passing nod out of Harry for all her efforts. She’d patiently waited for the long-promised invitation to family dinner which seemed to have been forgotten, and would ever be grateful to Mickey Roscoe for making Alena remember. Now Harry had actually welcomed her advice, more than she could ever have hoped for, so Sandra had no wish to mess up her best opportunity to date by making silly remarks. She bit her lip and vowed not to say another word, in case it was the wrong one.

  ‘Pay no attention to this lot,’ Alena hurried in with excuses. ‘Irreverent rogues, the lot of them.’

  ‘She’s right there,’ agreed Lizzie. ‘Can’t bear to think one of their own might have some go about them.’

  ‘No Townsen will ever be promoted if James Hollinthwaite has anything to say about the matter, which of course he does, being the owner,’ Alena remarked.

  Lizzie frowned. ‘I think you’re being a bit hard on him.’

  ‘Huh, am I indeed?’

  ‘Surely he can see that Harry would be ideal?’ Sandra said, anxious to help and be accepted into the teasing warmth of this family, and was surprised by another spurt of suppressed laughter erupting around the table from everyone except, to be fair, Harry, Alena and her mother.

  The moment of awkwardness was saved by a shout from the parlour, and Lizzie for once got thankfully to her feet. ‘His Lordship wants his soup.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ Alena offered, ready as always to save her mother from a heart-breaking and never-ending routine.

  ‘No, you won’t, lass. While I give him his soup, you lot get on with your dinner before it goes cold.’ She wagged a finger at the gathered company. ‘And Sandra is talking a lot of sense. Listen

  to the lass.’ Having placed her own dinner over a pan of boiling water, and covered it with a plate, she half filled a bowl with soup and carried it away in the direction of the still bawling voice.

  Later, Harry showed Sandra his carefully worded letter, and she made a few hesitant suggestions which he gratefully accepted. Then she sat by him while he wrote out a fair copy, put it in an envelope and set it on the mantelpiece ready to be delivered personally to the manager’s office first thing Monday morning.

  Harry optimistically hoped for promotion, and Sandra that he would remember who helped him get it.

  Alena felt oddly nervous as they stood on the Lake Side pier at two o’clock that afternoon. Both girls were warm and smart in woollen skirts and jolly sweaters, long scarves wound about their necks, and Alena was still tomboy enough to have one of Kit’s old slouch hats pulled down over her curls, since it was a cool if bright autumn day.

  Lake Windermere lay before them, a ten-and-a-half-mile sheet of water, the largest lake in England, and at its edge the steamer, patiently waiting for its next trip. Since it was a Sunday there were a few families with children on the pier, laughter and chatter all around. Alena was glad of that. She wasn’t ready to spend time alone with this man, not yet. But most of the summer visitors had gone; only the stalwart few and the genuine lovers of the Lake District knew this was the best time to visit, when the colours in the surrounding hills and woodland glowed with molten gold, crimson and a rich bronze.

  The girls, however, had stopped admiring the view and were
thoroughly chilled by the time Mickey arrived, twenty minutes late. He brought no one with him for which Sandra, at least, was secretly relieved. But he was still agreeable to taking both girls out on the lake, if with less than the expected enthusiasm.

  Blue skies and bright sunshine might beguile the unwary into peeling off extra layers, but the autumn breeze was brisk, the kind known as a lazy wind since it went through, rather than round you. Even the swans and coots scurried hither and thither, feathers ruffling as they were slapped by razor-sharp waves. Yet the brilliance of the surrounding mountains made it hard not to take pleasure in the outing. It felt good to be out in the clean fresh air after the confines of the dusty mill and overcrowded cottage.

  The three of them sat close to the boiler for warmth, and whenever Alena pointed something out, such as a flock of geese heading south, a pair of mute swans, or even a particularly attractive shape of cloud, he listened with great interest to what she had to say. It was really most flattering.

  She told him how Harry was putting himself forward for the job of foreman and Mickey listened keenly, saying it was the right thing to do.

  ‘I’m sure he’ll get it,’ Sandra put in, loyalty shining in her pale eyes. ‘Bill Lindale, the manager, likes him a lot.’

  ‘That’s always supposing that James Hollinthwaite doesn’t squash the idea,’ said Alena, and explained how he didn’t much care for the Townsens.

  Mickey expressed his sympathy. ‘Why is that, I wonder? Seems a bit unfair.’

  ‘Of course it’s unfair. Something to do with the war, and not keeping Dad’s job open for him. They’ve been in a state of feud ever since. It’s ridiculous.’ She was shaking her head in disgust, as if to imply despair of adults and their mysterious ways.

  Lost for any other small talk, they sat in silence, enjoying the scenery and the very welcome mug of scalding hot tea made for them by the boatman from hot water boiled in the Windermere kettle that sat on top of the steam boiler for exactly that purpose. It was all so pleasant that when Mickey slipped an arm about her shoulders, Alena pretended not to notice. In a way she quite liked it. At least she imagined she must, else why would she allow it?

  She slanted a sideways glance at him from under her lashes, and in that moment wished with all her heart that it were Rob sitting here, so close beside her. She could almost see him as she willed the face to be his, could trace the straight line of his nose, the curve of his jaw, the way he would turn and smile at her, making her heart do a little somersault of pleasure.

  But the texture of the skin was rougher, the eyes darker than Rob’s, the weight of the arm against her shoulder felt different from Rob’s arm, even the smell of this man was wrong.

  She closed her eyes for a moment, gently easing herself away from him. What was the point of torturing herself. This was not Rob. The last she’d heard of him he was still at a school in Northumberland. At least the Hollinthwaites pandered to his love of hill and woodland, even if they refused to heed his desire to return home. She still saw Olivia from time to time, who told her he was settled now, and that James meant him to go on to university if his examination results were good enough. So perhaps he no longer wished to return. It was months since she’d had so much as a postcard from him. Every morning she hoped for a letter, but more often than not she was left with only an empty place in her heart. It seemed he’d finally forgotten her.

  ‘Are you warm enough?’

  She jumped guiltily as Mickey’s soft voice brought her back from her reverie. His warm breath against her ear caused a shiver to trickle down her spine, though not in any unpleasant way, she noticed, or was that because she’d been thinking of Rob? The two faces fused in her mind and she grew confused. Whose company had she been enjoying? The reality or the dream?

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ She was surprised her voice sounded so cool and in control, and met his gaze unwaveringly. He was really quite attractive, and most attentive. In that moment she very nearly, but not quite, wished that she hadn’t brought Sandra along, that she could put Rob out of her mind forever and end her pining. But to what purpose? Becoming Mickey Roscoe’s girl? Heavens, no, surely not?

  Feeling the familiar heat rise in her cheeks at this traitorous thought, she deliberately turned her gaze to the distant mountains and began to chatter about having walked up this one or that one, yet afterwards couldn’t remember a word she’d said.

  Sandra didn’t help. She simply sat beside them, quieter than ever, apparently lost in thoughts of her own.

  At the end of the sail, Mickey bought them tea and cakes at the Lake Side Hotel, which must have cost him a pretty penny. Despite herself, Alena was impressed by the white damask tablecloths and the musical accompaniment as they tucked into tiny scones, and Sandra poured tea from a silver pot in her dainty, ladylike way.

  Afterwards Mickey insisted on walking them both home. It was pleasant, idling along the lanes through the undulating countryside, the mountains already wearing their pale winter cloaks, though the first fall of snow had still to come. They took a short cut through the forest when they reached the two-hundred-year-old avenue of beeches. It was as they neared Ellersgarth and turned the corner by Hollin Bridge that Alena spotted a figure beneath the limestone arch that had once been a route for pack-ponies. Or rather two figures. The pair seemed locked together on a patch of grass left bare by summer-starved waters not yet augmented by winter floods.

  ‘Don’t look,’ said Mickey, chuckling as he put a hand over her eyes, doing the same for Sandra. ‘Not fit for a decent girl to see.’

  Alena laughingly allowed him to shield her vision, though it was already too late. It had taken only a glimpse for her to see that one of the figures had been Danny Fielding, a good looking ne’er-do-well her brothers kept well clear of. And the other was Dolly.

  Low Birk mill had never suffered a major calamity, not even a serious fire. It was a regular task for the men to damp down the sawdust and shavings every morning and night. But there were no safety guards on any of the machines so it was important not to lose concentration for a second. Small accidents, in particular lost fingers and damaged thumbs, were common in a bobbin mill. They always said you could recognise an old bobbin worker merely by looking at his hands. The task of foreman necessitated keeping production high and workers at their machines despite the hazards.

  He needed to have a strong character, be able to manage people in a fair way and yet be disciplined. A good foreman, for instance, couldn’t risk wasting valuable production time by allowing a machine to be stopped for adjustment or cleaning. This task, and the sharpening of tools, was normally done on a Saturday morning after the required number of bobbins had been produced for the week, and not a moment sooner. Since it took all of four hours to do it properly, it was virtually impossible to produce the required number of bobbins on the same day a machine was cleaned and stripped, so the canny wood turner made sure that he produced a few extra each day during the week and secreted these away for Saturday’s batch. Otherwise he would have to come in on a Sunday to do the cleaning and tool sharpening.

  It was likewise the task of a canny foreman to notice that if so many extra bobbins could be produced each day, then the turner was reaching his bonus too easily and the figures to achieve it needed adjusting. But since it was such common practice, and a man needed his Sunday off, a more sympathetic foreman would have the sense to turn a blind eye.

  Harry had always been good at reaching a bonus. Lizzie had become so used to the extra he brought in as a result of his hard work, that she came to think of it as part of his normal wage.

  Mickey Roscoe, more concerned with needing to impress Alena than understanding the Townsen family situation, and uncaring of Harry’s ambitions, made it his business ‘accidentally’ to bump into James Hollinthwaite one evening.

  ‘Do I know you, boy?’ Hollinthwaite barked, irritated at having his way blocked by a mere mill worker yet seeing something vaguely familiar in the stocky figure. Mickey politely intro
duced himself, reminding James how his own father, Frank Roscoe, had once done him the favour of finding his missing son, and how he was in a position to do him a similar service. Seeing the sharpening of interest in the man’s narrowed eyes, Mickey calmly informed him how it was that some of the men were taking advantage of his generosity.

  ‘Reaching the bonus is too easy for them, they can still make enough each day to store a few extra and save themselves a half day’s work come Saturday,’ Mickey explained to the glowering mill owner.

  James Hollinthwaite knew little about bobbin production. He’d never shown more than a cursory interest in the day-to-day running of the mill. He didn’t even wish to live in the mill-house that went with it, leaving that to his manager, Bill Lindale. All he wanted out of the mill were profits, and was infuriated by the very notion of being robbed of some of them by his own workers.

  ‘Who are these men?’

  Mickey slyly adopted an expression of fear. ‘Nay, I can’t name names, not my own work colleagues. Too risky. Who knows what they might do to me?’ He half glanced over his shoulder, as if fearful he was at this moment being followed. ‘I mean, it’s not as if I had any right to watch them, particularly with me being a newcomer.’ He let that thought sink in before blithely commenting, ‘What if I were wrong? Though I’m certain I’m not.’

  ‘That’s for me to find out. You did right to warn me, young man. I appreciate it.’

  Mickey smirked with satisfaction. Oh, yes, this little encounter would do him a power of good in the future, he was sure of it. ‘It was just that one of them has put forward his name to be the new foreman, claiming he deserves the job because he reaches his bonus so often.’ He put on an expression of outraged innocence. ‘Well, that seemed like cheating to me, which I didn’t think was quite right. I thought you’d want to know the truth.’

  Hollinthwaite remembered the letter from Harry which Bill Lindale had showed him, and his brow cleared. ‘Ah, so that’s the way of it. I should have known. Thank you, I shan’t forget this.’ As Mickey turned to go, he added, ‘If you’ve ever anything more .’ And their eyes met in perfect understanding.