by Jane Rogers
When Mr Cobbett stepped down, a decently dressed young woman came on to the platform and begged our patience a few minutes further. This was the signal for the crowd to start pushing and shouting again: I remained pressed against the wall, and to my huge relief the hordes began to thin. Soon I was able to take a seat in an empty row and breathe deeply. A few remained near the front, and the speaker addressed herself to them, announcing the commencement this week of night-school classes run by the Ashton and Stalybridge District Cooperative Society. She urged us to sign up at the back of the hall, for reading, political economy, or natural history. Still feeling stupidly upset by the rudeness I had encountered in the crowd, I stayed in my seat while the remainder of the hall emptied. As I made my way past the table where she sat with her lists, the woman speaker looked up and smiled at me, offering me a pencil. Her smile was so childlike, so sweet and open, that I paused.
‘No, thank you. I do not wish to join a class.’
‘I should have guessed that you could read,’ she said, with a little laugh; and at my inquiring look, pointed to my costume. ‘You are a – not a Quaker, but –’
‘A Christian Israelite.’
She nodded, recognizing the name, and said triumphantly, ‘And therefore you know how to read the Bible!’
I found myself smiling with her. ‘I am interested to hear of your cooperative group. I was a member of an Owenite group when I lived in London.’
‘Did you live in London? How wonderful! Did you meet Mr Owen himself?’
And so we began to chat; she told me her name is Catherine Woollacott, that she is education secretary of the Ashton Cooperators, and that they have fifty-two members. She speaks with great eagerness and rapidity, and fired a score of questions at me concerning London Cooperators, the Owenite Labour Bazaar, how I came to be with the Israelites, and so on; questions which would have begun to seem impertinent, from any other stranger, but all of which were delivered with such charm that it was easier to laugh at her than feel offended. I must admit that hearing my own explanation for my presence among the Israelites, I wondered at it, and felt a little ashamed that I have not made more strenuous efforts towards independence.
Among other details about herself she told me she is married – 'He is called William, he and his brother have an apothecary shop on George Street, do you know it?’ I asked her age. She is nineteen; but so slight and pretty and unmarked by time that she could easily pass for five years younger. She volunteered a good deal of information about the Ashton Cooperators; they formed as a trading society, a year ago, and began one weekly reading class at Christmas.
‘The Salford Cooperators began with a Sunday school and now have classes every night of the week, and a building of their own. We are following on their plan. The loan of the Methodist hall has allowed today’s increase in classes.’
‘And is there great demand for such classes?’ I asked.
She pushed the sheets of paper across the table to me. Each contained a list of names. ‘For the reading there are twenty-seven, I shall have to make a waiting list. I teach the reading myself – it is the best thing I have ever done!’ She was insistent that I should attend their next cooperators’ meeting; ‘You will be able to introduce all sorts of fresh ideas, from your London experience – you are just the sort of person we need.’
What flattery! And I am quite susceptible to it, for there is no one in Mr Wroe’s household with whom I might discuss Mr Cobbett’s speech or the finer points of Owenism. I noted the address and time, and promised her I would try to attend. She is an engaging girl; as I hurried to meet Leah I reflected that there is a slight resemblance between the two of them, except that Catherine’s energy is sunny and open, while Leah’s seems inturned and dark.
A sense of optimism has stayed with me all the week; despite the fact that when I told Joanna my news she seemed almost indifferent. She has spent every evening this week in prayer, clearly struggling over some question of faith. I am sure it is the preaching business, and it makes me angry that Mr Wroe will not allow her to do it. That it is her natural impulse, I am sure, gives it more moral justification than could any sanctioning by Mr Wroe. I have lain awake waiting for her to finish praying, so that we can talk – hoping to be taken into her confidence; but she has closed herself up and declines to answer questions, only wishing me a sound sleep and God’s blessing.
Mr Wroe being away for four days, my first opportunity to speak with him came last night. He seemed preoccupied, and I think he did not take it all in. When I finished he said, ‘Why do you not call me Brother Wroe?’
‘Brother?’ No one calls him brother.
‘You always address me as Mr Wroe. I do not like it.’
‘How should I address you?’
‘There are a number of alternatives. I am sure you have heard the Elders address me as Yaakov, the Hebrew version of my name John. Or you could call me Prophet Wroe. Or Brother Wroe.’ Mostly the other women refer to him as ‘the Prophet’.
‘Very well, Mr –’
‘Brother.’
‘Wroe. And about the meeting –?’
‘You wish to attend a meeting of the Cooperative society on Thursday evening. Do you think this is compatible with your role in this household?’
‘My work here will not be affected. I will make sure no unfair burden falls upon the other women.’
He shrugged. ‘In any case, it is a waste of time.’
‘Mr Wroe – how can you think it a waste of time, to –’
But he interrupted me. ‘Sister Hannah, I have neither the time nor the inclination for this right now. If you can attend meetings without causing any disruption to the household, and without the other six all coming to me complaining of unfairness, then you have my permission. You must make arrangements for one of their people to bring you home, however; I cannot have you wandering the streets at night, on your own. Now please leave me to my work.’
Ungracious; rude; but why should I care? I have what I desire from it.
The meeting I attended on Thursday night was impressive, both for the enthusiasm of its members, and for the efficiency with which its business was handled. Catherine met me at the door and introduced me to her husband, and to several other members. I felt almost at home, for the composition of the group is very similar to that I used to attend with Edward: most of the members are about my own age, trades people and craftsmen, though the proportion of women here is higher, and the discussion all of a practical nature. They considered where cheaper wholesale supplies of sugar might be obtained, for retail through the society, and whether the rent desired by the Methodists for use of their hall for the night classes should be recouped by making a charge for the classes, or paid out of the trading society profits. I was astonished to hear the news of other local societies, given by the secretary; profits of trading societies in Huddersfield, Oldham, Denshaw; the success of workshops in Preston and Macclesfield. I had no idea so many branches flourished in this area. Speaking to Catherine at the end, I expressed my relief at finding them so practical and active. ‘In London we seemed to spend hours on matters of theory; on the finer details of communitarian living, and such thorny questions as how wealth might be equitably divided.’
‘Did your group have its own community?’
‘No. But a number of our members left to found a new settlement at the Owenite community in America, New Harmony.’
She nodded. ‘William visited Orbiston, the Scottish community, a couple of years back. They were suffering many difficulties and divisions – and we have heard the community has broken up since then. I am not at all sure that the purpose of our society in Ashton will ever tend towards such a community.’
I asked if she still has her long waiting list for the reading class. ‘What type of people are they, who come to your night classes?’
‘All sorts, and all ages. Many of them work in the mills; there are more men than women, because the women cannot get away from their families at night.�
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‘And do they pay for their instruction? The cotton operatives receive good wages, I have heard.’
She grimaced. ‘They did. But now wages are being forced down. So many labourers have flooded in from the countryside – besides all the handloom weavers and woollen workers, whose trade has fallen away almost to nothing – that the masters can pick and choose, turn away men, to employ women and children. There is a groundswell of anger even among the cotton spinners, who have for a while been thought the best paid and most privileged group. There is a rumour now that at the next lowering of wages they will strike; many have joined the union. It is the reason for so many wishing to learn to read, so that they might understand and share the grievances of operatives in other mills, pass news back and forth –’
‘This reading class –’
‘Are you going to offer to help me teach it?’ she interrupted. ‘You must! I know you would enjoy it. William, persuade her.’
Although it had been in my mind to offer, I had certainly not intended to do so that night; but once she had hold of the idea she would not let go, and worried and teased me until I did agree. ‘But I do not know the first thing about teaching –’
‘I will help you. Nothing could be simpler. I will meet you an hour before class, next Tuesday, to show you – and if you are in any difficulty, I shall only be in the next room with my group.’ Once she was certain I would do it, she laughed a little shamefacedly and admitted that she had an ulterior motive.
‘Can you guess?’ The three of us were standing by the doorway of the Crown, their meeting having been held in an upstairs room at that inn. Suddenly we heard oaths and shouting, and a man came running heavily down the street towards us, pursued by several others. They were calling and baiting him – all more or less drunk – and as he passed us, one caught up with him and grabbed him. There was so much noise and confusion I cannot tell exactly how it happened, but within a minute the two of them were facing each other in the midst of an excited circle; members of the original gang shouting and urging them on, and a rabble of children who seemed to have come out of the very walls. William took Catherine and me by the elbow and we walked away quickly. But the sound of their fight followed us an unendurable distance. They were grunting and panting for breath and swearing, all this punctuated by sudden clanging thumps which were received with moans or gasps of pain. There must have been twenty or more spectating, all screaming at the tops of their voices, and yet that vicious metallic thud was audible over and over again.
‘What do they fight with?’ I asked.
‘Clogs,’ William answered grimly. ‘Their clogs are tipped with iron. They kick each other. Sometimes for a bet they will strip naked except for the clogs, and battle it out until one bloody character drops unconscious or dead.’
A burst of cheers and screams from behind indicated that the battle was finished, and we could hear voices shouting directions, over the unmistakable and wretched sounds of vomiting.
‘Put him under the pump!’
‘His nose is smashed!’
‘The constables – quick!’
A number of them ran down the way we had come, and I was pushed violently from behind, so that I stumbled, despite William’s supporting arm, and only avoided overbalancing by stepping into a great mess of steaming horse dung. William helped me to a seat on a mounting block, and after a moment all three of us were able to muster a shaky laugh. The damage was not serious, because I was wearing my old black kid boots, not the pale Israelite footwear; I sluiced them under a nearby pump and they were soon passable, though my feet were drenched.
I could less easily cast off a nervous dread which the whole incident impressed upon me; the sudden and extreme flare of violence made me fearful of walking to and from a night class. Catherine and William offered together to escort me home, which I accepted, and Catherine said she would ask a member of her class to walk me home on Tuesdays. The drama of her earlier announcement had been spoiled, but when I recalled her to where our conversation had broken off, she simply said, ‘Oh yes. I am going to have a child. In the new year, quite early.’ I could not believe it at first because of her slimness, but they both assured me it is true; and of course, a replacement teacher will be needed.
‘If the numbers stay up, we shall get a temporary replacement besides – but you will have time to get to know how it all works. Teachers are paid, did you know? Four shillings per session, it is a point of principle with the Salford Cooperators and we are following their model.’
I was relieved to gain the peaceful doors of Southgate, and spent a good while that night reflecting on whether I either wish or am ready to plunge into the frightening, busy world of Ashton. But there will be no way out of here unless I make it myself. Four shillings. It will be the first money of my own I have ever earned; it must be a start towards independence.
Leah
Thomas is far more lively and wakeful now, than he was in his first days in this house. I am not sure so much attention can be good for him. At my sister’s he slept undisturbed for two to three hours in the morning; now, between Saint Joanna cooing over him and Rebekah tickling him, and the bangs and crashes of Martha’s slightest movement (she has broken more dishes in a month, than most people do in a lifetime), he has become accustomed to constant entertainment.
It is Saint Joanna who irritates me most. I cannot tell what it is about her; she has no restraint, no distance. She is all sincerity. In its way it is as bad as Hannah’s coldness (I do not think that one has ever even smiled at Thomas. She takes no notice). Saint Joanna will take him up and gaze into his eyes for minutes on end. ‘What innocence,’ she says, to any who can stand to listen, ‘Is he not beautiful? How perfect is God’s handiwork, look at his little eyelashes. Do you see the perfect tiny moons upon his fingernails?’
It is all perfection and sweetness, and if he gives the slightest cry or complaint, she will take him from whoever he is with; she does not snatch him, but she takes him calmly as if he were hers. She holds out her arms instantly, as if to say, ‘You know the child is only happy with me.’
She sings hymns to him, for lullabies, and I am now forced to try the same at night, if he is wakeful. He has become so accustomed to it he will seldom sleep without it.
Will he know it is me, as he grows older? Not her, with her liquid doting, or kindly sensible Rebekah? The way she takes him – the way she walks into a room and holds out her arms … My love must all be in quiet things, in the thorough warming of his garments inside the old oven when the fire is low; in the careful mixing of his gruel, to the exact temperature he likes; in the smoothing of his sheets, in the night-time listening to his even breaths. She has twice offered to make a different arrangement at night, so that I should not always have him with me. When I refuse, and insist on staying with him, she thinks it strange, and wonders that I will not share that part of his care. She tells me she has heard him crying at night, when I – who am in the same room as he – know he has not stirred.
The other day she said, ‘I think he has taken a chill; do you hear that little cough again?’
He has no cough, not the slightest hint of one. ‘He is perfectly well, Sister Joanna.’
‘I am sure I have heard him cough three times this morning. We must take greater care to keep him from draughts. You may not have heard him, Sister Leah, you may have been thinking of something else.’
If he coughs, I hear him.
She instructed me to keep him fasting, the day before Feast of the New Moon, ‘that God may be pleased by the sweetness of the entire household’. How can it please God, to starve a six-months child? If she sees so much innocence and holiness in Thomas, why must he be starved to atone for sins? When she went off to pray, I fed him. And then endured an evening of her exclamations: ‘You see how cheerfully the child sustains hunger? Is it not a lesson for us all, if a little child, who can have no real understanding of the meaning of this day, is yet given the strength, of God, to withstand t
he pangs of hunger for His sweet name’s sake.’
Thank heavens he did not posset, for she would undoubtedly have taken it as a miracle, the sign of food from an empty stomach.
Rebekah is easier; she too will take him up at the first cry, but she will easily put him down again. She does not try to own him. And she can hold her tongue. When I have been out at night, she takes him into her bed without comment, and I know none will hear of it in the morning.
Does the Prophet ask Saint Joanna for reports of my child? Or has he forgot his presence in the house? He says nothing to me; when I read he speaks neither before nor after, and though last night I waited as usual at the end, he took no notice, but affected to have forgot I was still there – until at last I had no choice but to leave the room in silence.
How quick the bright flare of happiness dies down! On my way back from John last night I walked right into Sister Hannah, skulking about on the path spying on me, when she should have been asleep. I doubt she will bother to report me, but I cannot afford to be so careless. Nor is John worth such risks. Once we come to the point of it, up against the wall at the back of the inn, or wrapped in his saddle blanket in a dry ditch; what will he give me for it? It may be a pleasure – but in my present predicament I must look for more durable benefits. He will not be stationed here above another month, and then it will be goodbye and thank you ma’am. He is no different to Jack. If there is any whisper against my name now, I stand to lose everything.
