‘No, no . . . nothing at all for you to worry your lovely head about.’ He made no mention of the rumours which had assailed him from two sides these past days. On the one hand there was talk concerning Emma’s own uncle, Caleb Crowther, who, or so it was said, was deep in debt to the bank and the two Grady mills had been used as collateral against that debt. Then there was talk that both Arkwright’s Mill and two of the smaller ones along the wharf had gone on drastic short-time due to a glut on the market. In addition to all that, the unrest in America had accelerated beyond all their fears. Like many whose livelihood depended entirely on the cotton industry, Gregory Denton sensed an avalanche developing over his head and what struck the fear of God into him was the knowledge that he was powerless to prevent it.
Being unable to draw her husband into any kind of conversation, Emma concentrated on her sewing. She was not ignorant of the way things were going in the industry, for as the child of Thadius Grady she had grown up to understand its fluctuating moods. Nor was she blind to the newspaper articles that followed developments in certain areas of America and which indirectly controlled the well-being of Lancastrian folk. Abraham Lincoln had assumed office some three months ago, in March. A month previous to that, the Southern Confederacy had been constituted, and, only six weeks ago, in the month of April, Fort Sumpter was captured by the Confederates. Emma had read every report with the realization that a civil war between the North and South of America was no longer a threat – it was a reality. But, even now, many believed it would have few repercussions, if any, in Lancashire itself.
Emma had persisted in looking on the bright side, for she knew only too well how Gregory had been building a healthy stockpile of raw cotton despite Caleb Crowther’s belief that such a measure was unnecessary. Emma sensed that matters of work and security greatly troubled Gregory. She also knew that whatever she might say, he would derive no comfort from her words, for he was the sort of man who saw every problem as being one which he alone could solve. Although Emma admired him for this, she would have preferred it if he could at least talk these matters over with her and respect her opinion. But he could not. His paramount intention was to protect Emma at all costs from troublesome responsibilities, the consequence of which was only to make Emma feel that she was the most troublesome of his responsibilities.
Later, after Gregory had said goodnight to his mother before going to their own bedroom, he lost no time in climbing into bed beside her and Emma discovered that, while his appetite for conversation had waned, the same could not be said of his lustful appetite for her body. She had grown used to the precise manner in which he satisfied himself, for it never varied. Nor did it awake any response in her. If anything, it had become a tiresome and uncomfortable experience which left her feeling only relief when it was over. In absolute silence, he would lean himself up on one elbow, with his face nudging hers and his hand feverishly pulling up her nightgown. When it was up about her waist and his hand had found her thighs, he would begin to frantically explore that which he most coveted. Then, making a low, smothered cry, he would hoist his naked body above hers and, roughly prising open her legs and thrusting himself into her, he would make no more than six feverish strokes, all the while smothering her face with his mouth, before collapsing with a groan on top of her. Emma often thought that she got more pleasure from washing up the dishes!
‘Things are going from bad to worse, Marlow lad. What shall we do?’ Sal Tanner had been gazing at the ripples in the water made by the small stones which Marlow occasionally skimmed across its surface. Shifting herself about on the big upturned crate which they both now shared on the wharf, and trying to capture his downcast, thoughtful gaze with her round, violet eyes, she repeated, ‘Marlow, lad . . . I said things are going from bad to worse!’
‘I know, Sal,’ he murmured, keeping his troubled gaze on the water, ‘I know.’ He leaned down to throw into the water the small handful of pebbles which he’d scraped into a pile with the edge of his boot. Then, stretching his back, he ran his hands through his long dark locks which had fallen about his face on stooping. ‘It’s a sorry state of affairs, Sal,’ he said, dropping one hand to affectionately stroke the dog which was sitting to attention by his side. ‘Yet there’s folk much worse off than we are, and that’s a fact.’ Sighing noisily, he got to his feet and began walking along the wharf to where the barge was moored. The dog trotted close to his heels and Sal hurried along by his side trying to keep up with his long, determined strides, and the more she hurried, the more prominent the limp she’d sustained from her accident became.
‘Folks worse off than us!’ she snorted. ‘Well, if that’s so, where are they?’ she demanded. ‘You tell me that!’
As she shook her fist in the air, Marlow wrapped his fingers around it and brought them both to a halt. When he looked down at her with serious eyes which seemed even darker than usual because of his anger, Sal wished she’d learn to keep her mouth shut.
‘I don’t need to tell you, Sal,’ he told her, ‘you know well enough. You’ve seen them . . . in the soup queues. And you’ve seen the boarded-up houses where folks have been thrown out because they can’t pay the rent. We at least have some work, and we have a roof over our heads.’ Releasing her hand, he turned from the direction in which they had been going. ‘I’ll be back before dark,’ he said in a quiet voice, and with a click of his fingers he signalled for the dog to follow him as he departed at an impatient pace.
‘Where yer going?’ shouted Sal, following him a short way, but slowing down as the distance between them grew even wider. ‘T’ain’t my bloody fault if ‘Merica goes to war! T’ain’t my fault if folks is hungry! I have ter count us bloody pennies an’ all, y’know, since the work’s dried up. Marlow! Come back here, yer bugger!’ But he had already gone from her sight. Crashing her two fists against her sides, she hung her head low and headed home, muttering, ‘Yer a windbag, Sal Tanner . . . a bloody windbag!’
An hour later, Marlow had climbed to the highest point in Corporation Park where, seated on the turret of a Crimean War gun – the very spot to which Emma had been drawn when deeply troubled – his eyes scoured everything below. The long winding shape of Montague Street was just visible and it was here that his gaze lingered for a seemingly endless time. Emma lived down that street, he knew. He didn’t know which house it was, but it was no secret among the mill-hands at Grady’s that Gregory Denton resided in the better-class part of Montague Street. ‘Oh, Emma,’ he whispered now, his heart simultaneously heavy and joyous by the memory of her and by the feel of her name on his lips. ‘Emma, Emma,’ he repeated, pulling his brown cord jacket tighter about him and thrusting his hands into his pockets out of reach of the biting October air. Though the wanton wind whistled frantically across the hill top, screeching gleefully as it sliced into everything vulnerable, Marlow hardly felt it as he was warmed by tender thoughts of Emma. Yes, she was wed to another, but he still loved her. Yes, she had told him that he had no part in her life now and never would have, but there wasn’t a single waking moment when he didn’t crave her with every fibre of his being. A man might have many women; he might know tender loving times with each of those women, and he might profess to love them. But in every man’s life, there is just one very special woman who reaches so deep inside him that she becomes a living part of his very existence; just one woman with whom he could spend the rest of his life and never regret a single heartbeat of it. For Marlow, that woman was Emma. That was the simple truth and the knowledge that she belonged to another only made his love that more tragic.
So much had happened in the nine months since Emma’s marriage. It was said that, despite old Mrs Denton’s impossible character, Emma was happy enough. He was glad of that, but he was also devastated that Emma had not found it in her heart to return the love he felt for her. So often of late, with Emma growing ever distant, the thought of a new life in foreign parts had become more prominent. Now, in these hard times – when American ports were blockaded
and cotton shipments stopped, and when the industry was grinding to a halt and hundreds of thousands were struggling to survive because of it – Marlow consoled himself with the knowledge that at least one of the Grady mills was still working; the one managed by Emma’s husband. He thanked God that she was secure, yet, in the same breath, he prayed that relief might come to others who were not so fortunate.
After a while, the wind subsided and the air grew colder. Dusk began gathering and still Marlow made no move, until even the dog at his feet grew weary. When he felt the dog’s warm nose nuzzling into his hand, he looked down to see how miserable his four-legged friend was. Reaching down to laughingly rough-up the flat, smooth coat which felt cold to the touch, he said, ‘Aw, sorry, old thing,’ at once getting to his feet and fishing out the leather lead from his jacket pocket. ‘Let’s away home, eh? See what Sal’s conjured up for tea.’
‘I don’t want tea!’ Gregory Denton pushed away his plate, got to his feet and stormed from the table to stand facing the fire, his two hands resting on the mantelpiece and the fiercest look on his face Emma had ever seen there. ‘Don’t question everything I say!’ he told her in a harsh voice. ‘When I say I want no bloody tea, I mean exactly that!’
Thinking her best course of action was to clear the table and depart to the scullery, Emma lost no time in doing just that. For the rest of the evening she busied herself doing this and that, while Gregory silently brooded. He brooded late into the night; he brooded as they climbed the stairs to bed; and when they lay side by side in the darkened room, he remained lost in a deep dark mood, until, with a mumbled ‘Goodnight, Emma’, he turned away from her. But, even then he would not sleep and for a long time afterwards he turned and fidgeted, more restless and disturbed than Emma had ever known him. From her very first meeting with him, when she was a child by her papa’s side, Emma had known how devoted he was to his work. It was only now, however, seeing him in such despair at possibly losing it, that she realized how passionately obsessed he was with the means of his livelihood. All of his tireless efforts, all his enthusiasm and that particular fierce pride which only a man could feel towards his work, Gregory Denton had channelled into his responsibility and duties at the Grady Mill. He had carved himself a coveted place in the running of things. He was highly respected and answerable to only one earthly authority above him; and, having achieved such esteem, he was now fearful of having it all snatched away. Every day he saw it happening up and down Lancashire as the stranglehold which America had on an entire industry many miles from its battlefields, was squeezed tighter and tighter until the cries of hunger and deprivation were beginning to be heard from every corner.
Emma was also conscious of the dreadful consequences the cotton starvation could reap on the people of Lancashire and in Blackburn particularly because of its concentrated investment in this industry. She wondered where it would all end. Yet, although the signs were alarming, Emma convinced herself that reason would prevail and things were never as bad as they might seem. She did her best to persuade Gregory of this, but for her pains she was dismissed with the comment, ‘You’re only just seventeen, Emma. What can you possibly know of such manly matters!’ At which point he would grow even more agitated, and she wisely withdrew.
Some four weeks later, in the month of November 1861, Emma’s peace of mind was further disrupted. It was on a Thursday evening, after Gregory had brought down his mother’s dinner tray. ‘God!’ he shouted, crashing the tray down on to the table and bringing Emma hurrying from the scullery. ‘Will that bloody woman never let up?’
‘Your mother?’ Emma couldn’t hide her astonishment at hearing Gregory refer to old Mrs Denton in that way. As a rule, he went out of his way to defend her.
‘It’s this article in the Standard, ’ he said, collecting the folded newspaper from the tray. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have let her see it, but she can be fiercely demanding when she has a mind!’ He opened out the newspaper at a certain page and peered at it, a deep frown etching itself into his brow as he did so.
Emma knew at once which article her husband was referring to, for she had also been disturbed by it. It reported on how the newly elected Mayor of Blackburn, Mr R.H. Hutchinson, had anticipated that great distress and trouble would manifest itself in the coming winter. To this end, it had been agreed that the sum of two hundred pounds would be set aside for distribution to the growing number of needy by the clergy and ministers of the town. But, meanwhile, a meeting of the textile manufacturers had resulted in the drastic step of closing down even more establishments, the consequence of which was to throw an even greater number of operatives into the ever-increasing ranks of the unemployed. Not a man was safe in his work and though Emma’s heart bled for those families already living in fear, she also felt desperately concerned for her husband. Gregory Denton was a changed man. Whereas he had once gone to work of a morning with a spring in his step and a warm kiss for Emma, he now left without a word of farewell and with his face gravely serious. His stooped figure went down the street as though he was approaching the hangman rather than his place of work.
In all of this, Emma had to admit a sneaking admiration for the way in which Caleb Crowther had managed to keep the Wharf Mill functioning when so many others were going under. Time and time again, Mrs Manfred had assured Emma of her uncle’s grim determination to keep open that particular avenue of income. ‘I can tell you this, Emma,’ she said, ‘he’s so determined not to lose that revenue, that at times . . . well, he seems like a desperate man.’ She had shaken her head, adding, ‘Almost as though he’s driven by the same fear as drives the lesser mortals like us. Still and all, whatever his reasons for fighting like a madman against closing down the Wharf Mill, if he’s looking after his own interests then it must follow that he’s looking after yours, eh?’ Emma had replied how she realized that one day her papa’s concerns would be passed on to her and she was aware in these hard times what an uphill struggle it must be to keep the looms turning, but, her greatest concern at the moment was for Gregory’s sanity, in the light of his ever-changing moods.
On the last Monday in November, when she had seen Gregory out as usual and Tilly Watson had returned home after attending to old Mrs Denton, Emma had an early-morning visitor.
‘Manny!’ she cried on opening the door, ‘what a lovely surprise!’
‘Hello, child,‘ said Mrs Manfred, placing a swift kiss on Emma’s face. ‘Mrs Crowther asked that I fetch a few urgent articles from the shops, on account of her having invited a number of ladies to a social gathering this afternoon . . . where they might discuss matters which mean absolutely nothing to anyone at all!’ Emma smiled, for it was clear that Mrs Manfred’s opinion of the Crowthers was still as low as it had ever been. ‘I took the opportunity to leave the tram early, so I could call in on you.’ With that said, she expertly gathered her skirt into her hands just enough to lift the hem above the step of the door, and then swept past Emma and down the passage. By the time Emma reached the parlour, the homely little woman was already seated and warming herself by the cheery fire. As Emma came into the room, she was asked in a quiet tone to, ‘Come and sit near me, child.’
‘Are you all right, Manny?’ asked Emma, being somewhat perturbed by the serious expression which greeted her. ‘Is everything all right at the Crowthers?’ Of a sudden, and in spite of the way she had been treated by Martha Crowther, in the past, Emma was fearful that something terrible might have happened regarding Martha’s pregnancy. When she was assured that both Martha and her mama enjoyed an excellent state of health, Emma asked, ‘Then what’s troubling you, Manny?’ As she spoke, she seated herself in the armchair directly facing the older woman and not for a moment did her worried eyes leave Mrs Manfred’s face.
‘I’m afraid it’s bad news.’ She reached out a hand as though to touch Emma in comfort, but the distance between them was too great and instead her hand lay fidgeting in her lap, screwing and unscrewing the taffeta folds in great agitation. ‘Yesterday eve
ning, Mr Crowther met with a number of other manufacturers at Breckleton House. Twice I was instructed to personally take in refreshments. On the first occasion the intense discussions fell to a hush on my entry.’ She screwed her mouth into a tight pucker, as though making an effort to stifle those words which might tumble from it.
‘Manny . . . please!’ Emma had already sensed that Caleb Crowther’s meeting might indirectly affect her, otherwise, why was Mrs Manfred so concerned to inform her of it?
‘When I went in the second time, the discussion had reached the pitch of a heated argument, and I was hardly noticed at all. Oh, look child, I overheard a statement made by Mr Crowther.’
‘What was it, Manny?’
‘The Wharf Mill. He’s closing it down, and he intends to inform Gregory of his intentions this very day.’ There, it was said! But she felt no better for being the bearer of such unwelcome news.
For a while, Emma was struck silent, her thoughts churning over and over in a flurry. He’s closing it down, she told herself, yet hadn’t she seen it coming? It had to come because, the way things were, there was no alternative. Gregory had seen it coming also and now, this very day, his worst nightmare would be realized.
‘He’ll take it badly, won’t he, child? Although, by all accounts and thanks to your papa’s foresight regarding yourself, you’ll fare better than most. He must think on that.’
Emma was aware that Caleb Crowther had made sure it was common knowledge how he had handed over ‘a sizeable dowry’ on the marriage of his ward. Old Mrs Denton’s disposal of it was known only in this house and Emma preferred it to stay that way.
‘He’ll be devastated by the closure, Manny,’ she replied, ‘and I’m at a loss to know how I can help him over it.’
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