by Anne Doughty
He sat for a long time watching the light fade and listening to the muted throb of the engines. Perhaps there might be something to be retrieved from the dark corridors of memory. At least now, with Emily beside him and his sister returned to him, he had no fear of what might be revealed.
Despite a beautifully-served, if somewhat meagre dinner and the quietest of night crossings, Alex slept badly. He was haunted by bizarre dreams in which German spies asked him questions he couldn’t answer. It was not that he was being brave and withholding information, as happened in most of the war films he and Emily had seen, it was that he didn’t know the answers. There was just a blank.
He was aware as he woke in the night that he’d had the same dream more than once, but what that dream was he couldn’t recall.
‘Cheat ’em. Cheat ’em,’ the voice insisted, getting more and more irritated with him.
He woke, perspiring and confused, to find the steward standing by his bed saying ‘Tea, sir.’
The tea was good and breakfast much more generous than dinner. Revived and steadied, he made his way around the decks of the ship studying the vessels docked alongside or lying at anchor beyond the harbour entrance, pale fingers of light playing on the grey camouflage of corvettes and cruisers, merchant ships unloading, the quays piled high with timber and sacks of grain, barrels and containers of all kinds.
From the stern of his own ship, the gangplanks had already been run out and soldiers were disembarking, heavily laden with equipment. He watched as an Army vehicle arrived with a senior officer, saw the soldiers form fours on the dock and march off in good order. He thought of Chris Hicks, taking delivery of yet one more bunch of young lads straight from camps in Louisiana or Texas, coming to train for what had to happen if the war was to be won.
As he descended the gangplank and reached the quay, he was greeted by a former employee of Bann Valley Mills. Roy Ainsworth, who would be his companion throughout his visit had once worked at Ballievy. Sent by his uncle in Manchester, the director of Bollin Valley Mill, he’d wanted Roy to broaden his experience and to work away from home. His nephew had done well and been recalled to a much more senior position.
The morning was fine, the light clear and he studied the very different countryside beyond Liverpool as Roy drove him to the mill on the outskirts of Manchester. He hadn’t made this journey since early in the war and he noted the tangled barbed wire surrounding the featureless, prefabricated munitions factories, dropped down in the flat, green landscape, so different from the little hills of County Down that had long been his home.
An hour later he was standing in the weaving shed of a mill. The only sound the intermittent flicker of a faulty fluorescent strip light and the occasional helpful comment provided by his companion.
He cast his eye over the silent machines, taking in the fine layer of dust that had settled since they last ran, the small personal tokens one always found attached to uprights or a nearby wall. Vera Lynn. Glenn Miller. Tommy Handley. People who sang or made your feet tap or gave you a laugh.
As he decided that he really must say something to Roy, having been silent for so long, he thought that one of the saddest things he knew was a derelict mill, the motes dancing in the bright light, its life at an end, the sound of voices and laughter faded away.
‘When did you close?’ he asked politely.
Roy seemed relieved and Alex remembered what Emily had said to him so often in the past. ‘Alex, dear, you look so cross when you are thinking, you’d frighten anyone who didn’t know you.’
She was right, of course. Robert Anderson had told him the same thing years later. ‘Yer a different man when you smile, Alex.’
Alex smiled now and listened as the young man gave him an account of the last months of the mill’s functioning and the progressive run down as the orders for rationed goods, like household linens and clothing fabric, diminished week by week.
‘Yes, we’d have had something of the same problem in Bann Valley Mills, but we moved over to war production early on,’ Alex replied. ‘I know its none of my business,’ he went on, with an apologetic smile, ‘but what about your workforce?’
Emily was right. So was Robert. Roy had never known Alex personally during his time at Ballievy. Now, he positively beamed at him and responded vigorously.
‘That is good news, Mr Hamilton. You may have seen all the new factories on your way here. They need enormous numbers of workers. Munitions,’ he added, with a quick nod, ‘I don’t think anyone will be short of a job. Not with what will have to happen next in Europe.’
They exchanged knowing glances and began to walk round the machines together in comfortable silence.
The day went swiftly by and at the end of it, when Roy Ainsworth drove Alex to his hotel in central Manchester, he was well pleased with what he’d found. Much of what he’d seen for both spinning and weaving were machines even older than what at present provided the backbone of Bann Valley Mills, though here and there were one or two obvious replacements that were much younger.
Far more important for his purposes than the actual age of the machines was the degree of wear they showed and that was what he’d spent his day examining. Wear was caused by continuous running and poor maintenance, but this machinery had been well looked after and due to the nature of what was being produced, there’d been periods of both short-time working and even full shut down. The progressive fall in demand over the war years had been fatal for the mill itself, but it had left the machinery in much better condition than the more recent models of the same equipment that Alex and the team of engine-men and mechanics were trying to keep going, especially at Millbrook.
Between the end of the working day and his meeting over dinner with the former directors of Bollin Valley Mill, Alex was preoccupied by the idea of removing the parts he needed on the spot. It would save the cost of transporting bulky equipment. Besides, there were bound to be delays in finding cargo space and he needed the parts urgently. It would be to the sellers advantage to receive payment as soon as possible, so speeding up the process should suit them well enough.
It was only as they sat over coffee, that evening, the negotiations amicable but somewhat slow, that a further inducement occurred to him.
‘If it were possible to do the extraction work over here, you would be left with quite a valuable collection of scrap metal. Enough for a couple of tanks at least,’ he said, smiling.
‘Well now, I hadn’t thought of that,’ said the Chairman. ‘And you’d not be asking for a reduction in the agreed price?’
‘Most certainly not,’ he replied firmly. ‘We will have the benefit of reduced shipping costs, you’d benefit by the sale of the scrap.’
‘And what about the extraction process? Is it a difficult job?’
‘Quite a long one, but not difficult. I could mark up everything we need in a morning. I could then send a couple of our men over to do the work, or employ some of yours. I noticed your repair equipment was still intact. That’s all that would be needed, though some heavier duty cutting equipment would make the job quicker.’
Alex noted that the second pot of coffee summoned to aid the negotiations was even weaker than the first and not a patch on what they had at home, but the atmosphere grew steadily more agreeable as they consumed it and by the end of the evening there was goodwill all round.
The Chairman of the group to which Bollin Valley Mill belonged, had offered to arrange transport via a subsidiary company of his that had formerly delivered for the mill, but had since diversified and was still operating. He also suggested using labour from two mills now producing army uniforms on whose Board he also sat.
All that remained was for Alex to return to Bollin Valley the next morning and mark up what he wanted removed from the machines.
The sunshine was becoming hazy as Alex said goodbye to Roy outside the hotel. They had got on well together and today over lunch, they’d talked about the young man’s new job in a sister company, about life in M
anchester and the changes already planned for after the war.
It seemed the City fathers had given much thought to the redevelopment of the older parts of the city and particularly to the areas which had suffered during the bombing raids. As Alex listened to the enthusiasm of the younger man, he couldn’t help but consider the contrast with the plans for Belfast. Or more precisely, the complete lack of them.
‘You’re sure you wouldn’t like a tour of the city?’ Roy asked, as they parted on the steps of the hotel. ‘Or a short drive out into the countryside?’
Alex did wonder how the Chairman of Bollin Valley had managed to supply petrol for the car Roy had used. One of the perks of running your own transport company, perhaps. He thought then what a pity it was Cathy and Brian were no longer living just south of Alderley Edge. It would have been such a pleasant end to a successful trip to spend a few hours with his daughter before he was driven to the boat.
‘No, thank you,’ he said warmly. ‘That’s very kind, but I have some work to do and I may do just a little shopping for my wife. I don’t often have such a good opportunity.’
‘Well, then, if you are quite sure, I’ll come back at six and drive you to Liverpool. Enjoy your afternoon.’
Alex turned back into the hotel and went up to reception.
‘I wonder if you could help me,’ he began, remembering to smile.
‘Well, I’ll certainly try,’ said the smartly-dressed older woman behind the desk, her smile in return totally devoid of warmth.
‘I’ve been wondering if there is somewhere nearby called Cheatam … or something like that,’ he said tentatively.
‘Well, yes, of course. There’s Cheetham Hill and Chetham’s School. Do you know the city at all?’
‘I don’t think so,’ he said, wondering what fragment of memory might float back next.
‘I have a map here,’ she offered, producing one from below the desk. ‘I’m afraid it’s rather out of date and not the one we used to provide for guests, but it does show you how to get there,’ she continued, turning it round towards him and pencilling a path from the door of the hotel to a large building at the end of a street called Long Millgate.
‘Well, thank you very much,’ he said promptly, making up his mind that perhaps shopping could wait. ‘That’s just what I want.’
The streets were crowded with men and women from all three services, their smart uniforms in marked contrast with the shabbiness of the other pedestrians. When the sun came out again, he took off his jacket, carried it over his shoulder and felt less uncomfortable and less conspicuous than before.
The bright light showed up the peeling paintwork and soot-stained facades of the buildings, but here at least there was no bomb damage and he studied the tall, red-brick buildings carefully, remembering the comments he’d heard about the similarities between Manchester and Belfast. He noted the Corn Exchange and smiled as he turned into Long Millgate itself. One didn’t have to guess what activity had gone on beyond the high walls.
To his great delight, he found the cathedral on his left appeared to be completely undamaged. In the small area of green in front of it a number of old men and old women were sitting on seats enjoying the sunshine. They looked as if they had always been there and that neither bombs, nor inclement weather would prevent them from sitting outdoors at all seasons.
He decided to walk all the way round the cathedral and thus found himself standing on Hanging Bridge.
‘Why’s it called Hanging Bridge?’
‘Because that’s where bad people were hanged.’
This time he was not startled. He just knew that once, long ago, he’d asked the same question and received the same answer, but he didn’t know who had answered him.
He continued his walk and came back round to the point in Fennel Street from which he’d set out. There, across the road was Chetham’s School of Music. If this was by any chance the school Jane had remembered, then somewhere nearby there would be a row of houses, probably ordinary little mill houses. Had they lived in anything grander, the two of them might have fared better than being sent to the Workhouse. Always assuming that it was the Workhouse they’d been sent to.
He consulted his map and decided to walk towards Cheetham Hill Road. Chetham and Cheetham. Was it the same word differently spelt, or two different words? He smiled to himself and thought that he should have Emily here. While he felt frustrated that he appeared to be doing a crossword puzzle without clues, she would actually enjoy the challenge. Besides, she had far more imagination than he had.
He found several small rows of houses, but all of them had suffered in the bombing. Here and there, a house was boarded up because the roof had fallen in and the whole structure was dangerous. In some places, a house was missing, like a tooth extracted from an otherwise perfectly functional set. In one place, two rows of houses set at an angle to each other had lost their join. Where one street should have changed its name to another, there was nothing but a heap of rubble, already crossed by well-tramped paths and colonised by grass and weeds.
He stood staring at the place, wondering how such prolific growth could possibly spring from such apparent barrenness, so engrossed that he did not notice the slow and painful approach of an elderly woman with a stick.
‘Did you have family here?’ she asked, without any preamble as she turned aside to stare at the rubble in front of him.
‘I might have done, but it was a long time ago. Maybe fifty years or more,’ he replied.
She laughed shortly.
‘I was thinkin’ maybe you knew the Cunninghams or the O’Sheas or the Grimleys,’ she said sharply.
She waved her stick to one side of the heap of rubble where a small bush poked out between the edge of the rubble and the wall of the surviving house beside it.
‘That was my mine there. Next that buddleia.’
Her tone softened a little, as she walked over to a piece of remaining wall and slowly lowered herself down, her legs splayed awkwardly, her stick clutched in both hands before she continued. ‘I was visitin’ m’ daughter five doors up, or I’d not be talkin’ to you now. Where’re ye from?’
Alex laughed.
‘Depends what you mean,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I could say, Banbridge, County Down. Or I could say Canada. But I might even be from here. Somewhere around here,’ he ended, waving a hand around.
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Well, something lovely happened a few weeks back,’ he began, deciding she must be tired and needed an excuse to go on sitting down. ‘We discovered that I have a sister in Canada. We were sent out as orphans and separated. I didn’t remember her, but she remembered me and by pure chance her son came to our part of the world with an American regiment of engineers and we found out who he was. Lovely young man. They called him Hank the Tank.’
To his amazement, her wrinkled face creased with laughter.
‘I was in America once,’ she admitted, still grinning. ‘Not for long, for I didn’t like it an’ came home. And I knew a man was called Hank the Tank, but he was a drinker. You couldn’t fill him. An’ he never got drunk. Was your fella like that?’ she asked, with a sideways look at him.
‘No, he was just a good engineer, great with tanks.’
‘Aye, I thought that was more like it,’ she nodded. ‘Could you drink a cup o’ tea?’
For a moment, Alex was so taken back by the abrupt tone, more of a challenge than an invitation, that he didn’t reply.
‘It’ll only be tea, most likely, but my Jeannie is only five doors up an’ she’s expecting me. Sure there’s always another cup in the pot.’
‘Thank you, that’s most kind of you. Can I give you a hand up?’
Without waiting for an answer, he bent down and lifted her gently to her feet.
The house was small, even smaller than some of the old mill cottages he’d known round Ballievey, Tullyconnaught and Ballydown and seen demolished back in the late twenties. Jeannie, an untidy-looking wom
an with straggly hair, made him welcome without the slightest introduction having been made. She simply took another mug from the cupboard, said she was sorry there was no sugar, and offered him milk.
‘So, Missus Campbell, where did you find this young man?’ she said, laughing, as her mother sat herself down and hooked her stick over the back of her chair.
‘He was standin’ lookin’ at the rubble as if he’d lost all belongin’ to him. But he hasn’t. He’s found a sister in Canada an’ he thinks he might even have been reared roun’ here. Isn’t that right?’
‘Right indeed,’ he agreed as he sipped his tea and glanced surreptitiously round the dim, stuffy room.
He noted the small coal-burning stove, alight even today which must mean it was the only source of heat for cooking. The armchairs had worn woollen rugs thrown over the original upholstery, there was broken linoleum on the floor and flaking brown paint on the wooden staircase to the upper floor.
‘I seem to have no memory worth talking about, but my sister mentioned Manchester and living near a school. And then I had a funny dream about ‘cheating ’em.’ It kept going on in my head all day when I was working, so I finally thought, I’d ask someone.’
‘An’ did ye not know about Chethams or Cheetham Hill?’ demanded Jeannie.
‘No, any time I’ve been in Manchester it’s been to visit mills. That’s my job,’ he added easily. ‘I’ve never been in this part of the city before.’
‘So what’s your name then?’ asked Mrs Campbell, leaning towards him.
‘Hamilton,’ he said. ‘Alex Hamilton.’
