The Mill Girls of Albion Lane

by Jenny Holmes

  ‘We’re bearing up quite well, thank you, Miss Valentine.’

  ‘And have the police pinpointed anyone who might have held a grudge against Billy Robertshaw?’ the manageress asked, one slim hand on the handle of her office door. Inside the small room, all was orderly as could be – wage packets arranged in neat rows on the desk, Miss Valentine’s hat and coat on the stand by the window, a framed copy of the mill’s safety rules hanging perfectly level on the wall.

  The clear-sighted question took Lily aback. ‘I don’t know about that, Miss Valentine.’ It was something she hadn’t considered up till now and she pondered the possible answer for the rest of the morning, sharing her ideas with Vera when the latter caught her lost in thought and demanded to know what was on her mind.

  ‘Miss Valentine has made me wonder – Billy didn’t have any enemies, did he?’ Lily asked, using the hook of her burling iron to free the end of a broken thread and pull it to the surface of the smooth, dark grey fabric. ‘I can’t believe that he did.’

  ‘Ah, but everyone has secrets, Billy included,’ Vera replied mysteriously, leaning forward to examine a flaw in the cloth she was working on.

  ‘What kind of secrets?’ Lily wanted to know. She’d been pals with Billy all her life and he’d never seemed to her anything but cheerful and straightforward. In fact, the worst thing you could say about him was that he led the girls on a little more than he should – Margie, for instance, and Sybil, who had walked out with him just once or twice until she’d found out he had another sweetheart on the side.

  Vera shrugged and pursed her lips, catching Jennie’s attention as she carried a ticketed bolt of cloth forward to Ethel’s station. ‘Lily was wondering if Billy Robertshaw had any enemies,’ she whispered.

  ‘It’s about time someone got around to asking about that,’ Jennie commented.

  Lily felt her heart begin to race. ‘And did he?’

  With one eye on the manageress’s office, the older woman paused briefly. ‘Ask me again later,’ she said with a meaningful wink.

  ‘Wait – don’t leave me on tenterhooks!’ Lily pleaded.

  ‘And don’t you go getting me into trouble with Miss Beady Eyes,’ Jennie retorted as she plodded on down the aisle. ‘Get hold of me after the buzzer goes and I’ll tell you everything you need to know.’

  At midday, half an hour before the buzzer was due to signal the end of work for the day, Iris Valentine put down the telephone and came out of her office. She clapped her hands to gain the attention of every worker in the mending department, cleared her throat and made a surprise announcement.

  ‘Mr Wilson says we are to finish work immediately and gather in the canteen for an announcement from Mr Calvert. Please put away your tools and make your way there.’

  ‘What’s Calvert up to?’ was Jennie’s question to no one in particular.

  The anxious mill workers found out soon enough once everyone was assembled and Stanley Calvert came into the crowded canteen, flanked by Derek Wilson. Wilson called for quiet but people were bemused by this break in routine and it took a while for the grumbles and mutterings to subside. Across the room, standing next to Fred Lee with other workers from the weaving shed, Sybil and Annie caught Lily’s eye.

  The mill owner wasn’t a tall man so a chair was placed in front of Betty Rowson’s serving hatch. Calvert then climbed on to the chair in order to be seen. He was dressed as usual in his good tweed suit, thick gold watch chain looped across his chest, face and hair immaculately barbered, though everyone saw from his expression and from the shadows under his eyes that he was a man under strain.

  ‘Let’s have some quiet, please!’ Wilson ordered above the muffled exchange of uneasy comments.

  At last the room fell silent and the mill owner spoke, softly at first but then louder and more confidently. ‘What I have to say will come as no surprise,’ he began, hooking his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets and striking a politician’s pose so that he looked confident even if he didn’t sound or feel it. ‘We’re none of us fools – we all know that the country’s productivity has been hit hard since the Great War and that no one’s buying cloth the way they used to, especially since government orders for army and navy uniforms fell off. That was a bad blow for us here in Yorkshire and it’s true to say that there’s no prospect of things picking up again, not in the near future.’

  ‘Just you wait – he’s going to shut us down!’ Jennie muttered, loud enough to be heard by Iris Valentine who shot her a warning glance.

  ‘Orders for high-quality worsted are dropping in favour of cheaper material brought in from abroad,’ Calvert continued from his makeshift podium. ‘As a result, our order books have hit an all-time low and so far we haven’t been able to cut back on our costs as much as we’d like in order to stay afloat.’

  ‘That’s it, girls,’ a fatalistic Jennie insisted. She was beyond being cowed by the manageress’s disapproval. ‘We’re finished. Come Monday, we’ll all be queuing up outside the Unemployment Office!’

  Other voices besides Jennie’s could now be heard.

  ‘If he’s handing us our cards, I wish he’d get on with it.’

  ‘How will Mother and Father manage without my wage coming in?’

  ‘We’ve done our very best not to go under,’ Calvert insisted against a rising swell of unease. A mottled flush had spread from beneath his starched collar, up his neck and across his smooth cheeks. ‘My grandfather, Sydney Calvert, started this mill more than fifty years ago and my father built it up to what it is today. For the last twenty years I’ve worked my fingers to the bone to carry on what they started but there’s a tide of cheap imports and mass-produced goods working against me, and that is why it’s had to come to this.’

  ‘That’s it – we’re on the scrap heap,’ someone muttered.

  ‘And now we get to the nub – what precisely have we come to?’ Calvert unhooked his thumbs and spread the palms of his hands upwards. ‘I know you all want an answer.’

  ‘Get on with it,’ someone mumbled, followed by a rumbling of ‘ayes’ from all around the room.

  ‘Rest assured, I’m not shutting down,’ Calvert declared. ‘I’m not even laying people off, not right away. No, what we have to do to make ends meet is to pull together.’

  ‘How do you reckon we should do that, Mr Calvert?’ someone else shouted, throwing caution to the wind.

  ‘Good question.’ Calvert turned his hands palms down to quell the rising panic. ‘The long and the short of it is … we all have to agree to go on to short time, Monday to Friday, nine o’clock until four o’clock with an hour off for dinner. That’s a six-hour working day, five days a week, until the beginning of April. According to Mr Wilson’s calculations, that should see Calvert’s through the present difficulty and out the other side to better times ahead.’

  ‘Says you!’ came a cynical cry from the crowd.

  ‘Aye, it’s all right for him, but how are the rest of us meant to manage?’

  ‘No, let’s count our blessings. At least we still have jobs.’

  As Calvert stepped down from his temporary podium and hurried from the canteen, it was Derek Wilson’s voice that rose above the hubbub. ‘That’ll do!’ he cried in a tone that no one could argue with. ‘Get off home, all of you. And I’ll see you back here on Monday, ready and willing to work twice as hard, nine o’clock sharp!’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  ‘Well, blow me down!’ Annie was the first to express her astonishment after Calvert’s workers had left the mill and spilled out on to the pavement on Ghyll Road. Everyone else seemed to have been stunned into silence by the sudden change to their hours and wages.

  Then Sybil, too, found her voice. ‘You can say that again. This cuts our hours by almost a half, down from fifty to thirty. How are people meant to manage?’

  ‘It doesn’t look as if I’ll get my pay rise after all.’ Lily sighed before pulling her shoulders back and addressing Sybil and Annie with renewed determinatio
n. ‘But you know what, girls – this means we’ll have more time to take on extra dressmaking work. You never know, it could be just the thing we need to get us off the ground.’

  ‘If we can find any customers who can still afford to pay,’ Sybil pointed out as the crowd began to disperse.

  ‘No, Lily’s right,’ Annie insisted. ‘More spare time is what we need to make a go of this. I think we should pass the word around, stick an advert in Newby’s window, maybe even pay to put one in next week’s Gazette. I could do the wording for that this afternoon if you like.’

  Lily and Annie’s energy soon brought Sybil into line. ‘And I’ll knock on doors with price lists written out in my own fair hand,’ she suggested. ‘We’re bound to get some work from doing that.’

  On the spur of the moment, the plan was agreed and Lily set off for home to get washed and changed for her visit to Armley. As she drew near, she was startled to see Margie and Arthur approaching the house from the top of Albion Lane.

  As soon as Arthur spotted Lily, he broke hands with Margie and sprinted towards her, words tumbling from his mouth. ‘Granddad took me to see Aladdin!’ he proclaimed. ‘We went last night. There was the genie of the lamp and puffs of green smoke and everything!’

  ‘You lucky boy!’ Lily ruffled his hair, struck by how much he would miss their mother once he grew used to the idea she was never coming back. What did death mean to a boy of his age? she wondered, before giving him an extra big hug and listening as he prattled on. She noticed that Margie quickened her pace to arrive at number 5 at the same time.

  ‘Is Father in?’ she asked nervously.

  ‘Would you like him to be?’ Lily wondered.

  Margie nodded. ‘It’s high time we kissed and made up.’

  ‘So let’s find out, shall we?’ Lily and Margie followed Arthur up the steps and into the kitchen.

  Sure enough, Walter sat at the table with a cigarette resting on an ashtray and an untouched cup of tea in front of him. Evie was busy peeling vegetables at the sink. ‘Margie’s here,’ Lily announced hurriedly then she took off her coat and sat on the stairs with Arthur while Margie braved the lion’s den.

  ‘How are you, Father?’ Margie asked, sitting opposite him and getting ready to bolt out of the door if necessary.

  It took Walter a long time to focus his distracted gaze on Margie and when he did he knotted his brows into a deep frown. ‘Who let you in?’ he demanded.

  ‘I let myself in,’ she said stoutly, though she quaked in her shoes. ‘I came to see how you were getting along.’

  ‘Without your mother, you mean?’

  Margie nodded. Walter looked old and grey. She saw too that his chin was unshaven and the rims of his eyes were red, his eyelids swollen. ‘I heard you haven’t been yourself.’

  ‘Yes, well, give us a chance,’ he answered defensively. ‘We’ve only just had the funeral.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Margie acknowledged, relieved that her father hadn’t risen up against her as soon as she set foot in the house. ‘It’ll take time. Meanwhile, Arthur’s happy with Granddad and me at Ada Street. He’s doing well at school – his teacher’s pleased with him.’

  Out of sight on the bottom step of the stairs, Lily heard this and gave Arthur’s hand a proud squeeze.

  ‘Miss Bilton has promised to keep a special eye on him for the next few weeks,’ Margie told her father.

  ‘But he’ll be coming back home soon, tell him,’ Walter said with dogged determination. ‘Your mother wouldn’t have wanted Arthur to stay up there for weeks on end. Albion Lane is where he belongs.’ Raising his cigarette to his lips he took a long drag then exhaled a cloud of blue smoke. ‘I don’t know about you, though, Margie. Where do you call home these days?’

  Taken aback by the open-ended question, Margie leaned away from the table and stole a glance at Evie. Was this a hidden invitation from her father to return to the roost? Or was it a warning to stay away? ‘I’m in two minds about that,’ she answered cautiously. ‘But I reckon I’m settled enough at Ada Street, for the time being at least.’

  ‘I see.’ Walter stubbed out his cigarette with an air of finality and stood up to reach for his cap and scarf hanging on the door peg close to where Lily and Arthur sat. ‘Why not drop in here every so often to let your sisters check up on you?’

  ‘I will,’ she replied, surprised but comforted by his words.

  ‘And we’ll see how we go,’ he said, making his way out on to the top step then pausing. ‘Find the lad a tanner,’ he called out to Lily, then, ‘Come on, Arthur, I’ll drop you off at Newby’s on my way to the Cross.’

  ‘Old habits die hard,’ Lily told Harry once they were settled at a table in the same grubby, impersonal prison visitors’ room as before. ‘Father’s always on at me for small change. If it’s not for beer money, it’s pocket money for Arthur.’

  ‘And you’re soft enough to give it, come rain or shine.’ Harry hoped that he hadn’t revealed the usual struggle to find a cheerful response. He was still determined that Lily shouldn’t know what hell he was going through, day in, day out, sharing a cell with two other men who were also due to stand trial for murder – one for killing his wife with a claw hammer after he’d arrived home drunk one night, the other for agreeing to snuff out the life of a rival gang member for the princely sum of five pounds ten shillings. Until now Harry had considered himself streetwise and handy with his fists, but these two cell mates were in an altogether different league, brooding on their bunk beds like ticking bombs waiting to go off.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind but every penny counts now that everyone at Calvert’s has been put on short time.’ The words were out of her mouth before Lily had time to calculate their depressing effect.

  ‘Everyone?’ Harry echoed. Even after this short time in prison, it was hard to take in the idea that life on the outside, with all its ups and downs, went on regardless. He felt stranded and hopelessly out of touch, unable to do much more than simply gaze at Lily and notice every detail about her face, her hair, her clothes and that fresh-soap smell she carried with her.

  ‘Yes but Annie, Sybil and me, we’re taking in more dressmaking work to make up for it. They’re out scouting for business while I’m here visiting you. Anyway, that’s enough about me. We have to talk about you, Harry.’

  ‘What is there to say?’ he replied. ‘All I’ve heard is the police found some scraps of metal at the house that don’t belong to Billy’s bike or the Calverts’ car, but that doesn’t get us very far. Otherwise, nothing changes in here.’ Except that the day for his trial grew closer and the man appointed to represent him had visited Armley to warn him that without firm evidence on which to build his case, the prospects were not good. Harry had decided not to tell Lily this, though.

  ‘But you haven’t given up hope?’ Lily asked. ‘You look so down in the mouth, I’m afraid you have.’

  ‘No,’ he lied.

  ‘Is it very bad in here?’

  ‘I’ve kept better company.’

  ‘But they do let you out of your cell to work in the library like they promised?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes and I’m reading a book about Henry Ford and how he built the first mass-production line in America. They say that’s the future.’

  For a while Lily let the conversation drift – if talking about cars was what Harry wanted, then let him. But time was precious and as usual they were in danger of skirting around some important topics, so with five minutes to go before the end of visiting time, she dragged him back to Billy’s death. ‘I want to ask you a question,’ she began.

  ‘Don’t make it too hard,’ he warned. ‘I didn’t pass many exams, remember.’

  ‘Harry, I’m serious. Tell me, what was the reason Billy cycled up to Moor House that day?’

  ‘Search me.’ Harry shrugged. ‘Why did Billy do anything? It was whatever came into his head, or else he was doing as he was told in order to keep hold of his job.’

  ‘All right, well, here’s anoth
er question that’s been bothering me ever since Vera and Jennie first raised it.’

  ‘What’s that?’ he asked more sharply.

  ‘I’d have followed it up earlier, only Mr Calvert announced he was cutting our hours and everyone’s mind was stuck on that.’

  ‘Come on then, spit it out.’

  ‘It’s this: was there any reason why someone should hold a grudge against Billy – something I don’t know about?’

  ‘Lily …’ he protested.

  ‘Think hard,’ she insisted. ‘Had he done anything wrong? Was he involved in a fight that festered and could have got out of hand – that kind of thing?’

  ‘Lily!’ Harry said more strongly. ‘We could go on guessing as much as you like but what’s the use?’

  ‘We don’t have much time and at least this is better than sitting on our hands, Harry. Or would you rather I did that?’

  ‘No,’ he muttered, bringing a hand up to cover his face.

  ‘Because I could. I could do nothing and wait for it to happen – you coming up before the judge without anyone standing up for you and letting them say you did it, you killed Billy, and you having to answer for that …’ The shadow of the noose appeared in her mind’s eye and words failed her.

  As warders began to clear the room, Harry met Lily’s gaze once more and she gathered herself, making ready to leave.

  ‘Thank you for trying your best,’ he murmured. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you, honest I don’t.’

  Lily smiled bravely back. She would be strong for his sake, she reminded herself. And so she stood up and embraced him in front of unsmiling men in uniforms, kissing him on the lips to show him she loved him and would never let him down.

  Both as good as their word, Sybil and Annie went around the neighbourhood that afternoon and brought in more sewing work so that by the next morning they arrived at Lily’s house armed with a request for a baby’s christening gown and two orders for girls’ dresses to be made up from rosebud-patterned cotton poplin in good time for the Whitsuntide gala on Overcliffe Common.