by Jenny Holmes
About the Author
In Yorkshire, 1931, times are hard for the Briggs family. Eldest daughter, Lily, works her fingers to the bone at Calvert Mill to look after her parents and siblings. Her father is haunted by the war, her mother is worn out, and her sisters rely on her to be the strong one.
Recently Lily’s childhood friend, Harry, seems intent on securing her affections, with dances at the Assembly Rooms, trips to the pictures and gentlemanly romance. But as Harry and Lily become closer, a run of misfortune brings trouble knocking for them and for Lily’s family.
Lily knows she can rely on her friends and the community at the mill to rally together and support her – but will Lily always have to put others’ happiness before her own?
A heartwarming story set in pre-war Yorkshire, which fans of Katie Flynn, Margaret Dickinson and Anne Baker will adore.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
THE MILL GIRLS OF
ALBION LANE
Jenny Holmes
For my mother, Barbara Holmes, and her stalwart
sisters-in-arms, Sybil, Connie, Joan and Myra.
All young Yorkshirewomen in the 1930s.
And with heartfelt thanks to my dear friend,
Polly Collins, fount of information,
encouragement and wisdom.
CHAPTER ONE
Lily Briggs was dog-tired from working all morning in the noisy, stuffy atmosphere of the weaving shed at Calvert’s woollen mill. Her job was to check the bobbins that fed the looms. The blue and white reels ran out first and replacing them kept her constantly on the move, up and down the central aisle between the giant machines with their well-oiled cogs and flying shuttles. She was thankful that the yellow, green and red bobbins lasted longer, giving her occasional relief from feeding the relentless apparatus that clanked and rattled from here to eternity, or at least until the midday buzzer sounded to signal the end of work.
At ten minutes to twelve, during one of those short, unexpected respites, Lily took the chance to ease her aching back and glance out through a grimy window on to the yard overlooking the canal.
She’d spent all her working life at Calvert’s Mill so she knew the cobbled approach to the sooty, three-storey building like the back of her hand. Every morning at half past seven, come rain or shine, she would trudge with 150 other mill workers through the stone arch of the main entrance. Combers, finishers and twisters would turn left for the spinning shed while Lily and her co-workers turned right into the cavernous weaving shed. Above them, on the first and second floors, were smaller rooms devoted to processes like dyeing, mending and flipping, all aimed at getting the high-quality finished cloth out of the factory on to new-fangled, motorized lorries, which then transported it to tailors across the country.
Gazing out of the window, Lily pictured dozens of scavengers and lap joiners in the nearby spinning shed working like ants to fetch and carry, comb and twist and wind. Here in her own roaring, rattling workplace, were more ants – bobbin liggers like her and piecers who reached over the looms to tie up broken threads, together with loom cleaners, weavers and weft men. Upstairs were the more skilled workers – menders and burlers – alongside office staff (considered snooty by the shop-floor girls) and canteen workers (generally jolly and easy going) who slaved all morning at big gas ovens designed to warm up the soup, bacon and eggs and pies ordered each morning by Calvert’s employees.
Lily was brought back into the moment – a Saturday morning in late November 1931 – by her friend Annie.
‘I wish the buzzer would hurry up and go,’ Annie mouthed at Lily from her position at the nearest loom.
Lily lip-read her words then nodded. ‘At least it’s Saturday,’ she mouthed back, which meant the twelve o’clock finish then home for the rest of the day.
Until then, the whole shed roared on – much too loud for normal conversation – and the smell of hot engine oil filled the room.
‘Yes, Saturday – thank goodness!’ For Annie the midday buzzer couldn’t come soon enough.
‘What do you fancy doing tonight?’ Sybil asked from her station across the aisle.
‘Cinema?’ Lily suggested. There was a new picture with Jean Harlow at the Victory that she fancied seeing.
‘Or dancing?’ This was dance-mad Annie’s idea of heaven after the hard graft of the factory week: finish work, nip off home to get dolled up then out again to the Assembly Rooms.
‘I don’t mind either way,’ Lily chipped in, dipping into her pinafore pocket for a spare hairgrip and using it to tame her mass of unruly curls. With five minutes to go before the buzzer sounded, she ran quickly through the afternoon jobs she would have to do at home before she could get out to join her friends for their evening’s entertainment: take the mutton stew out of the oven and feed the family a hot dinner, sew her sister Evie’s work pinafore ready for Monday, bake scones for tea if there was time then half an hour to get good and ready for the girls’ night out.
‘Thank you, ladies, that’ll do for today,’ Fred Lee, the weaving shed overlooker announced on the dot of twelve, though the sound of the buzzer had been swallowed up by the racket of the looms. Instantly the giant cogs ceased turning, levers were pulled and shuttles stopped darting from side to side across the wide looms. Dust from the morning’s work began to settle.
‘Oh, my poor back,’ Sybil complained as she and thirty other women eased backwards from their machines.
‘Here, let me give it a rub for you,’ Fred offered with a wink.
‘You’ll do no such thing.’ Sybil pulled her pinafore over her head and rolled it neatly. ‘You’ll keep your hands to yourself, Fred Lee.’ They all knew their boss had an eye for the girls and generally picked out the best-looking ones to flirt with at the end of a shift. And there was no doubt about it: Sybil’s upswept auburn hair and curvaceous figure put her firmly into Fred’s favoured category.
‘Or we’ll tell your missis on you when we see her,’ Annie threatened, safe in the knowledge that her short, bobbed hair and lithe, boyish figure kept her out of the running as far as Fred was concerned.
Lily and Sybil laughed to see the cocky little man’s reaction. His shiny round face puckered into a frown and he gave a nervous cough. ‘Now, now – no need for that,’ he insisted.
‘She’s only kidding,’ Lily told him as the women weavers and liggers queued up to clock off at th
e antiquated machine by the exit.
Fred Lee coughed again then recovered. ‘By the way, Lily, I need a little word.’
Annie, who disliked the overlooker for his puffed-up, oily manner, wanted him to squirm on the end of her hook a while longer. ‘Uh-oh, Lily!’ she cried. ‘“A little word”. Why don’t I like the sound of that?’
A number of the girls smirked at Annie’s jibe and Fred’s frown reappeared. ‘In the main office,’ he told Lily sharply, casting a dark look in Annie’s direction as she slid her card into the slot in order to clock out.
‘This doesn’t have to do with Evie, does it?’ Lily asked as he led the way down the corridor towards the office. ‘I mean, my sister, Evie Briggs. She left school yesterday and she’s due to start here first thing Monday.’
‘Why should it have anything to do with her?’ Fred snapped, still smarting from Annie’s cheeky comment.
‘Mr Calvert – he hasn’t changed his mind about taking her on in the weaving shed?’
‘Why – do you think he should?’
‘No, Evie’s a good little worker, none better. She came away from school with an excellent report. It’s just that, with things being the way they are …’
‘I know – orders are low and getting lower,’ Fred agreed. ‘They’re laying off workers down the road at Kingsley’s or else putting them on short time.’ He came to the office, turned the brass knob and opened the glass-paned door.
‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’ Expecting the worst, Lily felt her mouth go dry as she entered the room. Did this mean Mr Calvert was about to give Evie her marching orders before she’d even started?
‘And you’re right – your sister does come into it,’ Fred confirmed, stepping in after Lily and closing the door behind him. ‘But not in the way you expect.’
Inside the office there was a large mahogany desk with a neat pile of black ledgers labelled ‘Order Books’ stacked to one side, next to a black Remington typewriter. A wooden Windsor chair stood behind the desk and beyond that a tall set of shallow drawers beside the long window that overlooked the cobbled yard. A small figure stood silhouetted against the light and Lily drew comfort from the fact that Stanley Calvert was nowhere to be seen.
‘There’s no need to look so worried,’ the figure said in a high, quick voice as she stepped towards Lily and the overlooker.
Lily recognized it as the voice of Miss Valentine, who oversaw half a dozen girls working in the burling and mending department on the first floor of the mill. She was an exceptionally tiny woman – dainty and thin as a sparrow. A lifelong spinster, she was always nicely dressed in a brown outfit flecked with cream. The dress came almost to her ankles and was neatly pinched in at the waist by a belt with an elaborate silver buckle. She wore her greying hair in a bun high on her head and her unfashionable look was completed by round, horn-rimmed glasses. She would be about forty-five to fifty years old, the girls in the weaving shed reckoned.
Self-consciously, Lily smoothed her navy blue serge skirt and patted her wavy hair. ‘What’s this about Evie?’ she ventured.
‘Nothing for you to worry about,’ the manageress assured her, measuring the exchange of uneasy glances between the pretty, dark-haired bobbin ligger and the overlooker. ‘Fred, you haven’t been giving Lily the wrong impression, I hope.’
He sauntered towards the window, hands in his trouser pockets, and stared down at the steady stream of departing workers. ‘Me? I haven’t given her any impression that I’m aware of.’
‘Well, in any case, Lily will be anxious to get home to her family for the afternoon so let’s come to the point.’ Miss Valentine circumnavigated the big, leather-topped desk and came up close so that Lily could see the fine lines across her high forehead. Her glasses magnified her short-sighted, dark brown eyes and added to the birdlike impression she gave off. ‘You know that Evie will start as a learner here in the weaving shed at seven shillings per week and that means Maureen Godwin will move up from learner to loom cleaner and Florence White will in turn move on from cleaner to bobbin ligger.’
Lily listened carefully to Miss Valentine’s methodical speech, reassuring herself that Evie’s position was safe and wondering where all this was leading.
‘Florence will take your job,’ Miss Valentine explained.
Lily’s heartbeat faltered then raced. ‘And where does that leave me?’
‘Upstairs with me, if you would like,’ came the rapid reply while the birdlike stare fixed itself on Lily’s puzzled face. ‘You understand what I’m saying?’
‘You want me to come and work in the mending room?’ At first Lily couldn’t believe it. Only the best, quickest workers at Calvert’s Mill got the offer of a job in the burling and mending department – it was extremely skilled work and was a sitting-down job to boot.
The steady gaze continued. ‘You’ll start at twenty shillings per week, going up to thirty when you’ve learned the trade. What do you say?’
‘That’s … I mean, that’s … Well, it’s champion!’ Lily was lost for words at the prospect of earning so much money. Just wait until she got home and told her mother.
‘It’s a step up from the weaving shed.’ Fred pointed out the obvious. ‘And it’s me you have to thank. I’m the one who put your name forward.’
‘Yes, thank you – thank you!’ She was blushing and trembling like a leaf.
‘I expect promptness and a smart appearance at all times,’ the manageress went on in a severe tone. ‘You will buy your own burling irons and scissors and you will need size-five needles and a thimble, plus a tin box to keep them in.’
Lily nodded. She caught a reflection of herself in the window – eyes wide open in disbelief.
‘I take it you want the job?’
‘Yes. Oh yes. Thank you, Miss Valentine. Oh, yes please.’ Lily could think of nothing better than this move up in the world and she wondered just why she’d been selected. Yes, she’d been punctual and hard working during her six years at Calvert’s, but then so had Annie, Sybil and a dozen other girls in the weaving shed. And yes, she kept herself as smart and fresh-looking as she could, taking care to brush the dust from her dark hair each night and to arrive at work the next day in a neat blouse and skirt beneath her grey winter shawl. But it must have been more than this that had led Miss Valentine to single her out.
‘As a matter of fact, it wasn’t necessary for Fred to recommend you. I keep my wits about me whenever I have reason to walk through the weaving shed and I’ve paid particular attention to you and the way you work,’ the manageress said, as if reading Lily’s thoughts. ‘I like what I see.’
‘Thank you, Miss Valentine,’ Lily breathed. Her face felt flushed and she gave a shy smile.
‘Good. Then I’ll see you on Monday at seven thirty sharp,’ the diminutive manageress concluded, allowing Fred to open the door for her and stepping out into the corridor. Then her dainty leather shoes pitter-pattered along the polished wooden floor and she was gone.
‘I hope you won’t forget your time with me in the weaving shed,’ Fred said to Lily as she gathered her wits and left the office. He came so close that she could smell the Brylcreem in his sandy-coloured, thinning hair and there was no mistaking the leer on his broad, fleshy face.
‘I won’t,’ she vowed, hurrying on. But she knew without having to think about it that Fred Lee was one person she wouldn’t mind spending less time with in future.
‘More haste, less speed, Lily Briggs!’ he crowed after her.
She took no notice. Her feet hardly touched the ground as she grabbed her shawl from its hook by the main door, flew out under the high stone archway and across the greasy November cobbles, out into the foggy afternoon.
Number 5 Albion Lane was the third in a row of sooty, terraced houses built for workers at the half-dozen mills that overlooked the canal. Albion Lane ran uphill to join the main Overcliffe Road where the trams rattled their way out of town. It backed on to Raglan Road, which overlooked a patch of scru
bby grassland called the Common – a poor, unfenced grazing area for six shire horses from the local brewery. The neighbourhood was by this time badly run down, with blocked gutters and grass growing between the cobbles. Though women still made an effort to donkey-stone their steps and keep their windows washed, most of the shabby front doors were in need of several licks of paint. These days there just wasn’t the money and sometimes not the will to keep up appearances as they once did.
This Saturday, the day of Lily’s meteoric promotion, was too damp and cold for outside play so her little brother Arthur sat at the steamed-up window of number 5, waiting eagerly for her to come home.
‘Why isn’t she here yet?’ he asked Evie who was busy lugging a heavy coal bucket up the cellar steps ready to feed the kitchen-range fire.
Evie reached the cellar head, clanked the bucket down on the floor and groaned at the weight of it. ‘Give her a chance. She’ll be here soon enough.’
‘How long, though?’ Arthur cleared a patch in the window pane and watched the moisture trickle down on to the sill where he perched.
Evie shook her head. ‘Hold your horses,’ she told him. ‘And instead of sitting there twiddling your thumbs, why not help me fetch this coal?’
‘Can’t – too heavy for me,’ he replied, pressing his face against the wet, cold glass.
‘Excuses,’ Evie grumbled, but she let him off as she always did.
Arthur was just turned six and far and away the baby of the family. Lily, Margie, Evie, Arthur – four kids and that was four too many for a broken-winded, out-of-work war veteran to bring up on a wing and a prayer, according to their father. So Rhoda and Walter Briggs had stopped at four children and had scraped along for years on what Rhoda could earn as an unofficial midwife in the neighbourhood and on Public Assistance until first Lily and then Margie grew old enough to earn a wage. Now it was Evie’s turn to start contributing to the meagre family pot.
‘Where’s Mam?’ Arthur wanted to know, feeling cramp in his legs but refusing to alter position until Lily came into view carrying his precious bag of Saturday sweets.
