The Girl from the Mill

by Chrissie Walsh

  Before they parted, Nathan said, ‘By the way, Lacey, I’d rather you didn’t mention Mrs Pankhurst during your visit. Mother doesn’t agree with suffrage. She considers it unladylike.’

  Lacey sniggered. ‘Oh, I can see me an’ your mother will get along just fine.’

  Nathan didn’t look convinced.

  *

  On Christmas Eve morning the atmosphere in the weaving shed was more convivial than usual. Some of the women had decorated their looms with sprigs of holly and sparkling tinsel. At breakfast time Jonas Brearley supplied hot mince pies for everyone, this being the last working day before the Mill closed for the holiday.

  Huddled in a corner of the shed, for it was bitingly cold and the ground outside still covered in snow, Lacey and Joan bit into their pies before settling down to gossip.

  ‘Nathan’s invited me to that party they give for the managers, though I’m not sure I’ll go,’ said Lacey, her tone deliberately casual.

  Joan’s blue eyes opened wide and her mouth turned down at the corners. ‘Does Jonas know you’ve been asked?’

  Lacey shrugged. ‘Nathan thinks it will be a gentle way of introducing me to his mother.’

  ‘Gentle be beggared. It’ll more likely shock her into having a heart attack. You could lose your job over it, Lacey. Don’t go.’

  Lacey frowned. ‘I know what you mean, Joanie, but if I don’t go I’ll never find out what way the wind’s blowing. If they go berserk and force Nathan to give me up then that’ll be the end of it. He says he’ll stand up to them, but I don’t think he’s thought how much he might lose if he does.’

  Her glum expression tore at Joan’s kind heart so to ease Lacey’s pain she decided to commiserate by relating her own problems.

  ‘I wanted Stanley to come to us for his Christmas dinner but his mother wouldn’t hear of it. Caused a right stink, she did. She didn’t invite me to their place so we’ll not see one another until afterwards.’ Joan’s face brightened. ‘We’re both coming up to yours though, for a bit of a do later on.’

  ‘Good,’ said Lacey. ‘I’ve asked Nathan to come but I don’t know that he will. It’s not the done thing for the boss’s son to keep company with mill hands and farmers.’ She grimaced. ‘An’ anyway, we’ll more than likely shock the socks off him with our rowdy carry on.’

  Joan grinned. ‘If he’s going to stay friends with you he’ll have to get used to it.’

  ‘Aye, maybe it’ll loosen him up a bit – show him how the other half lives.’

  They both laughed at Lacey’s remark, but deep down Lacey was thinking that rather than make Nathan more carefree she ought to be encouraging him to show a bit more backbone.

  Late that afternoon, as pick after pick increased her piece of woven worsted, Lacey thought of the larger than usual pay packet she would receive at the end of the day. The weavers were paid according to the number of pieces they had completed that week, each roll of cloth marked in black wax crayon with a weaver’s individual number. This enabled the wages clerk to calculate what was owed. This week Lacey’s pieces had been good, and added to that she would receive her Christmas bonus.

  Suddenly her elation turned to exasperation. The shuttle on one of her looms had come unthreaded. Swiftly gripping the stout handle that stopped and started the loom, she shifted the drive belt from a ‘fast’ pulley to a ‘loose’ pulley. The loom ground to a halt. Annoyed by wasting time, Lacey looked around anxiously for a tuner.

  A loom tuner was the man who fixed breakdowns, and whilst Lacey knew she could rethread the shuttle herself she objected to the practice. ‘Kissing the shuttle’ as it was called, meant placing the thread in the shuttle’s eye then sucking it through with a quick intake of breath. To do so she would be sucking fluff and dust into her lungs.

  Better to let someone else do it.

  The loom at a standstill, Lacey was startled when a pair of grimy hands encircled her waist and hot, fetid breath wafted over her shoulder. Half turning, she saw Syd’s leering face, and through her overall and heavy woollen skirt she felt his manhood rising as he pressed against her buttocks. Elbowing him aside she said, ‘I need me shuttle rethreading. Will you do it for us, Mr Sugden?’

  A sprig of mistletoe dangled from the peak of Syd’s cloth cap. He had been drinking all morning, it being the custom at Christmas for the bosses to break open a bottle in the privacy of the office.

  ‘Aye, I will, but I know what I’d rather be kissin’. He leaned forward, lips puckered. Lacey stepped back, wishing she hadn’t asked for his help.

  With one quick suck Syd rethreaded the shuttle and returned it to the loom. ‘Thanks,’ said Lacey, stepping forward to set the loom in motion. Syd blocked her way. She gave an appeasing smile and adopting a conciliatory tone said, ‘Let me get on, Mr Sugden, or I’ll be all behind at clocking off time.’

  Syd bared his stained teeth in a grimace. ‘I think I deserve a bit more than thanks,’ he cajoled. ‘Go out to t’lavvy an’ I’ll be right behind; you can give us a Christmas present.’

  Ignoring his request, Lacey turned her back on him and, as though he were not there, she waved to Joan then started up a silent conversation. Joan, who had been keeping an eye on the situation, mouthed back.

  Syd, realising they were making a fool of him, yanked at Lacey’s arm. ‘Give us a kiss, yer miserable bugger.’ He pushed his face into Lacey’s. She raised her knee, ramming it into Syd’s groin and he tottered away, his face livid.

  Lacey groaned. It had been unwise to anger Syd. Now, too late to prevent it, Lacey contemplated the misery of finding her wages minus the small bonus Jonas Brearley gave each of his employees at Christmas. For the rest of the day Lacey felt miserable.

  Shortly before clocking off time the head tuner, Arthur Gibson, plodded through the ‘weaver’s alleys’ doling out the wages from a wooden tray divided into numbered strips, each strip holding several small tins containing money. When he handed Lacey hers, she knew by its weight that her Christmas bonus wasn’t in it. Damn Sydney Sugden, she silently cursed, counting the coins then shoving them into her overall pocket. It was no use complaining – she’d brought it on herself.

  But complain she did, to Joan as they hurried out into the mill yard at the end of the day, the clatter of their clogs muffled by the thick snow underfoot.

  ‘The dirty, rotten sod,’ Joan commiserated.

  Lacey chuckled. ‘I just hope his balls are that tender he can’t enjoy his Christmas dinner.’

  ‘Do you think I should tell him to rub some goose fat on ‘em,’ scoffed Joan.

  ‘I’d prefer to set me Mam’s geese on him. They’d rip ‘em off an’ do us all a favour.’

  At the bottom of Turnpike Lane, the girls parted. ‘See you tomorrow then, Joanie; enjoy your Christmas dinner.’

  ‘Aye, me an’ Stanley’ll come to yours about six.’ Joan headed up Turnpike Lane and Lacey down Backhouse Lane to meet Nathan on the riverbank.

  A chill wind blew up from the river, stinging her cheeks and making her eyes water, and as she trudged through the snow to the riverbank she couldn’t help feeling peeved. Why did their meetings have to be so clandestine? When were she and Nathan going to spend time together like other courting couples?

  In the shelter of the Mill wall Nathan held her close, Lacey warming to his kisses. ‘Have you thought any more about coming up to our place tomorrow?’ she asked, fearful she might not see him at all over the holiday.

  There was a long silence before Nathan answered. A cold shiver fingered Lacey’s spine. ‘I don’t think that will be possible,’ Nathan said, ‘I have family duties to attend to and, furthermore, don’t you think it will seem rather odd, me celebrating Christmas with your people?’

  A hot spurt of anger flared in Lacey’s chest. ‘What do you mean – my people? If we’re ever to be together you’ll have to learn to mix with my people just as I’ll have to learn to mix with yours. If we mean anything at all to one another we’ll rise above whatever other people might
think.’ She pulled away from him. ‘Or maybe you don’t love me enough, an’ it’s just a game you’re playing, salving your do-gooding instincts by being nice to the poor little factory girl.’

  Nathan blanched. ‘No, Lacey! I love you truly. You mean the world to me. I just don’t know how we are to overcome our different stations in life without there being ructions.’ He hung his head, utterly dejected.

  Lacey gave him a withering glare. ‘If you truly loved me you’d put aside all this class nonsense and if, as you say, I mean the world to you then your world must be a very petty place indeed.’

  Nathan clutched her to his chest. ‘Please, Lacey; don’t be like this. I’ll come tomorrow evening, if I can get away.’ He kissed her fleetingly on the cheek then turned and ran.

  Lacey gazed at the fast flowing river. You know where you’re going, she silently told it, whereas I don’t know whether I’m coming or going. One minute I’m certain of Nathan’s love, and the next I believe he doesn’t mean a word of it.

  Totally confused, she retraced her footsteps until she came to the bottom of Backhouse Lane. What a waste of time on a night like this, she thought, as she trudged up the snowy pavement, irked and disappointed by Nathan’s feebleness.

  At the top of Backhouse Lane she saw two men, both familiar, deep in conversation. She quickened her pace but failed to reach them before Jimmy ran off in the direction of Netherfold. Arty Bincliffe strolled towards her. Lacey blocked his way. Her eyes raked his pocked, weasel-like features. ‘I want a word with you.’

  Arty grinned lewdly. ‘You can have owt you want wi’ me, Lacey, luv.’

  Ignoring the innuendo, Lacey glared. ‘Leave our Jimmy alone,’ she threatened, ‘cos if you don’t you’ll have me to deal with. I know about them turkeys, so if you don’t want me to report it was you as stole ‘em, you’ll tell our Jimmy to get lost next time you see him.’

  Arty smirked, rocking back on his heels, unfazed. ‘Ooh, you’re scarin’ me,’ he mocked.

  Lacey tried a different tack, despising the pleading tone of her voice as she said, ‘Look Arty, our Jimmy thinks he’s a big man running round wi’ you, but he’s only a daft little lad. Do us a favour an’ leave him alone.’

  ‘Can’t say as I can, Lacey. Your Jimmy’s my little lackey. There’s nowt he wouldn’t do for me.’ Arty’s cocky tone and smug expression confirmed Lacey’s worst fears so she reverted to threats.

  ‘I’ve not said owt yet to our Matt but if he hears that you’ve been putting our Jimmy up to no good, he’ll give you a bloody good hiding.’

  This time she managed to dent Arty’s arrogance. Matt Barraclough was a big, brawny man noted for being handy with his fists, whereas Arty Bincliffe was a weedy runt fit only for dominating the vulnerable. Astute enough to know Lacey had kept the incident of the turkeys from Matt to protect Jimmy, he shrugged carelessly. ‘Rightio! just for you, Lacey. I’ll tell him to bugger off next time he comes lookin’ for me. Mind, I’m only doin’ it ‘cos I fancy you. Do you want to go out wi’ me?’

  Lacey laughed in his face. ‘You cheeky bugger; are you seriously expecting me to return the favour? I’ve said what I have to say, Arty, an’ I mean it. Leave our Jimmy be.’

  She left him standing like a dejected scarecrow and hurried home to Netherfold convinced she’d dealt with the problem successfully.

  7

  Nathan Brearley was bored and irritable. He’d spent the earlier part of Christmas Day attending to his filial duties, and now it was six in the evening and he needed to escape the drawing room at Fenay Hall. He’d partaken of a sumptuous turkey dinner and played numerous foolish party games, several of them resulting in his having to kiss his cousin, Violet. That she had purposely arranged these forfeits did not escape Nathan’s notice. But he didn’t want Violet – he wanted Lacey.

  ‘Oh, don’t they make a charming couple,’ Violet’s mother gushed, waving her fan with one hand and clasping Jonas’s arm with the other.

  ‘Aye, they’re a bonny enough pair,’ Jonas agreed half heartedly, as he helped himself to another glass of port. Jonas was well aware that Alice Burrows, his wife’s second cousin, had set her heart on making a match between Violet and Nathan. He concentrated his gaze on his son. Nathan was reluctantly standing under a crystal chandelier festooned with mistletoe, Violet on tip-toe clinging to his lapels and waiting to be kissed.

  Unfortunately for Violet, her protruding upper teeth and pouted lips were not the prettiest sight. Hesitantly, Nathan brushed her lips with his, unhanded her and strode across the fine Turkish carpet to the drinks trolley. He poured himself a hefty measure of whisky and swigged it in one gulp.

  Jonas smiled sardonically. Aye, he mused, they might look a charming couple to you, Alice, but my lad has no notion of your Violet. In his mind’s eye he pictured Lacey Barraclough’s vibrant face and commanding eyes and wondered if the rumours he had heard at The Mill were true. Maybe he should have a word with the lad. Excusing himself, he left Alice and went to the bathroom. When he returned to the drawing room Nathan was nowhere in sight.

  *

  At the end of the lane leading to Netherfold Farm, Nathan stopped to catch his breath. He’d run all the way, buoyed by the whisky and the half bottle of wine he’d downed before leaving Fenay Hall. Now, the cold sobering air made him think twice. What would the mill hands and Lacey’s family think if he joined the party? Word that he had been there would be all over the Mill when they returned to work on Monday morning. Then there would be no hiding his relationship with Lacey.

  Damn it, he ached to be with her, and to hell with the consequences. He’d socialised with the workers on the Mill outing at his father’s request. What difference was there in sharing their company tonight? Before his nerve wavered, he set off again at a run.

  *

  The kitchen and parlour at Netherfold were crammed with the Barracloughs’ friends and neighbours, all there to celebrate the festive season in high old fashion. It was something of a tradition for Edith to hold open house on Christmas Day evening. The sideboard was loaded with jugs of ale and bottled beer, the kitchen table swamped by a plentiful supply of cooked meats, mince pies and Christmas cake, much of it contributed by the revellers.

  Lacey had decked the mantelshelf in the parlour with holly and ivy, the glossy green leaves and bright red berries glinting in the light from oil lamps and the blazing fire. A small spruce, aglow with baubles and tinsel stood in one corner. Spirits were high but Lacey felt detached from it all. Nathan hadn’t come; but what had she expected? He was lily-livered, his love for her not strong enough to defy his rearing.

  ‘Give us a Christmas kiss for old time’s sake, Lacey.’ Sam Barton, his handsome features and warm brown eyes alight with mischief, and love, dangled a sprig of mistletoe above Lacey’s head.

  Lacey fleetingly pecked his lips. When he tried for more she pushed him aside. ‘Go away, Sam. I don’t feel like playing daft games.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ Sam sauntered over to Mary Collier who obliged in an instant. Sam glanced over his shoulder to see if Lacey had noticed and, if so, was she envious.

  Joan nudged Lacey. ‘Don’t take it out on poor Sam just because Nathan’s not shown up. You didn’t really expect him to, did you? I didn’t. I said as much to Stanley.’

  Lacey glared at her. ‘Don’t be discussing me and Nathan wi’ Stanley,’ she hissed. ‘Nobody’s supposed to know.’

  ‘You can’t keep owt secret in Garsthwaite, Lacey. You should know that,’ said Joan, a little peevishly. ‘An’ anyway, maybe you’d be better off wi’ Sam; he’s really fond of you.’ She turned on her heel, and linking her arm through Stanley’s, left Lacey to her own devices.

  Lacey stayed where she was. Perhaps Joan was right, she mused. With Sam there would be no problems regarding class; our backgrounds are the same. But I don’t love Sam – I love Nathan – even if, at times, he seems spineless. Yet, the pure joy we find in each other, the lively wit and thoughtful conversation makes me hap
pier than I ever could be with Sam.

  A sudden lull in the noise level from the kitchen had her peering through the adjoining doorway. Joshua and Matt, along with a few farmers and mill hands were all gawping at the tall, fair, expensively dressed man standing at the open back door.

  Joshua was the first to recover. ‘Come in, lad, whoever you are, don’t just stand there; make yourself at home. Here have a sup.’ He thrust a bottle of beer into Nathan’s hand.

  Lacey stayed where she was, shock and overwhelming joy rooting her to the spot: he’d actually come.

  ‘What about summat to go with it, sir?’ Billy Northrop, from the dye house, shoved a plate of mince pies under Nathan’s nose. On hearing Billy refer to Nathan as ‘sir’, Joshua’s eyebrows shot up and he looked questioningly at Billy.

  ‘It’s Master Nathan, from t’Mill, Jos; Jonas’s son,’ Billy explained. Joshua’s benevolent expression dissolved into a frown.

  Quickly Lacey regained her composure. Thrusting her way through the crowd she held out her hand to Nathan and he took hold of it like a man clinging to a rock in a stormy sea.

  ‘I’m so glad you came.’ Lacey’s voice was calm but her heartbeat raced and hot blood warmed her cheeks. ‘Do come in and join us,’ she said, leading Nathan past the puzzled faces that openly asked, what’s he doing here?

  In the parlour some of the male mill hands courteously touched their forelocks and the older women bobbed curtseys. The bluff farmers nodded greetings. Nathan took a deep breath. ‘No need to stand on ceremony,’ he said, his tone jovial, ‘I just thought I’d join you for a while. I’m told this is where the fun is.’ The tense atmosphere faded and Lacey could have kissed him.

  Nathan observed the cheerful scene, his face alight with genuine admiration. ‘It’s jolly indeed, Lacey,’ he said, glancing over his shoulder and apologising unnecessarily as a string of merrymakers jostled him from behind. Lacey steered him towards a vacant armchair in a corner, dodging in and out of the revellers circling the room and singing at the tops of their voices ‘Here We Come A Wassailing.’