The Girl from the Mill

by Chrissie Walsh

  Lacey sipped her tea, no ready answer on her tongue, and the names on the latest list of men from Garsthwaite who had lost their lives flashed through her mind. Young lads she’d gone to school with, others she’d worked alongside, and some she’d walked out with for a week or two, all dead.

  Young James crawled over to Lacey’s feet and fiddled with the buckle on one of her shoes. Taking him on her knee she hugged his plump little body to her own, finding comfort in his trusting innocence. Would he grow up never knowing his father?

  ‘We just have to pray they come home, Joanie. That’s all we can do. We can’t sit moping.’

  Joan didn’t look convinced.

  Lacey gave a ghost of a smile. ‘Actually, I have been thinking of something; something I want to do more than anything in the world, Joanie, but I’m not letting on what it is until I’m sure of me facts.’ She stood and put on her coat. ‘It involves you, Joanie, so keep smiling and look to the future.’

  When Lacey arrived back home she didn’t immediately go indoors. Instead, she stood on the pavement staring thoughtfully at the empty shop next door. The seed planted in her heart when the Mill had been working short-time had flourished, but before it bloomed Lacey had one last battle to fight.

  *

  Sitting in the new canteen along with her workmates, Lacey finished her sandwich then banged her empty mug on the table for attention. The women ceased their chatter, their expressions curious as they waited for her to speak.

  ‘I’ve been talking with the lasses who work for Jarmain’s, Hebblethwaite’s and Brooksbank’s. I told ‘em they’re selling themselves short and that if they don’t demand their worth they’ll always be underpaid,’ she said.

  ‘Aye, that’s right; Jarmain’s pay a couple of bob less than Brearley’s for a finished piece,’ Maggie Clegg chipped in. This being common knowledge, Flo Backhouse shouted, ‘Keep your gob shut and listen to Lacey.’

  ‘Thanks, Flo,’ said Lacey. ‘Now, as you all know, we’ve been arguing the toss over equal pay for months an’ we’re still no nearer to getting parity with the men. So, what I suggest is, we form our own Union an’ fight for it that way. Most of the lasses at the other mills are willing to join us in our struggle, an’ you know what they say; the more the merrier.’

  ‘Aye, who needs bloody men, anyway?’ whooped Flo Backhouse. A loud cheer went up followed by cries of, ‘What’ll we do first?’

  ‘To start with, we’ll march through Garsthwaite demanding the bosses meet their obligations,’ said Lacey, thoughts of Isabella Ormston Ford in mind. ‘Approaching ‘em through the proper channels hasn’t worked. Now it’s time for shock tactics. We’ll shame ‘em into it. They’re desperate for us to work on the new Government contracts they’ve negotiated; they’ll not want us withdrawing our labour at a time like this.’

  Lizzie Isherwood’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Are you saying you’ll go on strike?’

  Lacey grinned. ‘If we have to, Lizzie; the time’s ripe for it. Now, do I have everybody’s backing, lasses, or am I fighting on me own?’

  ‘I’ll march to hell if it gets me a few bob extra.’ Lily Skinner’s shout encouraged a chorus of ‘So will I.’

  ‘We could all be sacked.’

  A howl of derision met the lone, timorous voice followed by ‘Don’t be bloody daft. They’ll not sack us. They need us to meet their contracts.’

  ‘They do indeed,’ said Lacey, ‘so we’ll rally the women at Jarmain’s, Hebblethwaite’s and Brooksbank’s, and arrange a marching day. Remember, lasses, there’s strength in numbers an’ by God we’ll show ‘em we’ve got both strength and numbers.’

  *

  When Lacey paid her weekly visit to Fenay Hall later that week, Soames met her with, ‘Mr Jonas would like a word, madam.’ He ushered her into the library.

  Jonas sat behind a large, leather topped desk, his face creased with consternation. Indicating for Lacey to sit at the opposite side of the desk, he glared at her. ‘Is it true what I’m hearing,’ he rumbled, ‘that the women are thinking of withdrawing their labour an’ that you’re encouraging them?’

  Lacey met his gaze. ‘It is. You’ve ignored the Union’s requests to discuss equal pay, so now we’re taking action.’

  Jonas leaned forward, his features and tone of voice imploring. ‘Lacey, you’re my daughter-in-law. Do you think it right to go against me like this?’

  Lacey sighed and then said, ‘You have to understand how the women feel. It’s unfair for them to do the same work as a man and get paid far less just because they are women.’

  Exasperated by her far too logical reply, Jonas ran his fingers through his sparse hair. ‘Women have always been paid less, Lacey. You know that for a fact.’

  ‘I do, but it doesn’t mean it’s right. The world’s changing; the war’s done that and we’ve got to move with the times. There was a time when women of your social standing were expected to be nothing more than pretty ornaments and the mothers of your children. Now, girls like Felicity are nursing, working in munitions, driving buses or joining the Land Army – proving they’re capable of anything – and women in the mills produce cloth as good as any man.’ Lacey’s impassioned delivery leaving her breathless she paused, fully expecting a heated response from Jonas.

  When Jonas made no attempt to intervene, Lacey continued. ‘Women like me keep the mills, the munitions factories and a lot of other industries going; they only thrive because of us. It’s high time our valuable contribution was recognised; equal pay for equal work. We—’

  Jonas slapped his palms together. Lacey fell silent. ‘I’ve heard enough, lass. Now look at it my way. It’s my responsibility to keep the Mill in profit. I do that by securing contracts that keep you in work. If I raise your wages I have to justify it elsewhere. Furthermore, I have to keep wages in line with my competitors. I can’t double your hourly rate without considering every option.’

  Lacey gazed at him defiantly. ‘You need us just as much as we need you. I’d appreciate it if you could make a decision before next Saturday.’

  Jonas smiled wryly. ‘Are you threatening me, lass?’

  Lacey didn’t return the smile. ‘We’ve waited long enough; we can’t wait forever.’ She stood up, prepared to leave.

  Jonas stayed her with a wave of his hand. ‘Before you go, lass. How do you think this makes me look, my own daughter-in-law fighting for the other side?’

  Lacey’s eyes flashed. ‘I’ve always been on the other side. Just because I married your son doesn’t mean I’ve given up fighting for my beliefs. Much as I love Nathan and respect you, I won’t abandon the cause.’

  Jonas sighed wearily. ‘I can see that, lass. You run along now; Constance and Felicity are waiting for you. Leave me to think things over.’

  *

  For the rest of that week, every evening after work Lacey and a handful of weavers from Brearley’s Mill hurried to the gates of the other mills handing out leaflets explaining their actions. With Lacey’s guidance, chosen representatives from each mill approached their employers, requesting a meeting to discuss their demands. These requests were denied, some vociferously. When Lacey approached Jonas he still hadn’t reached a decision.

  On Saturday afternoon Townend bustled with women from several mills in the valley, their children running in and out of the noisy gathering. Lacey dashed from one group to another urging them to form a procession then, positioning herself at its head she addressed the women in clear, ringing tones.

  ‘Ladies, we all know why we’re here and what we’re asking for; equal pay for equal work. So, raise your voices and make yourselves heard; show the bosses we mean business.’ The women cheered their approval, Lacey waving her hands to silence them. ‘We’re marching to show our solidarity. We’ll do it peaceably, no rough stuff. Chant if you like, but no slander, no bad language. We’re ladies, remember?’

  A roar of laughter drowning her words, Lacey struggled to continue. ‘We’ll stop outside the gates of each mill to s
tate our demands. If the owners aren’t there to meet us they’ll soon hear about it. Are you ready to follow me?’

  Shouting and laughing, the eager women formed a straggling throng. They carried placards with the names of their mills and the words:

  Equal pay for equal work

  daubed on them. The women from Brearley’s Mill held aloft a white sheet emblazoned with the words:

  Women are the workers of today. They deserve equal pay

  The procession surged forward, the women chanting and cheering. Listening to them, Lacey wondered if they realised the effort that had been expended in bringing them together.

  ‘I’m worn out already,’ she muttered to Joan, marching beside her, ‘but look how many turned out, an’ listen to ‘em. It makes it all worthwhile.’

  22

  In the week following the march, the women waited for the mill owners’ response. When none came, Lacey called for the women from each mill to withdraw their labour on Saturday morning. It being a half day, the majority agreed as they weren’t losing a full days’ pay.

  Come Saturday, resolute crowds of women gathered outside the gates of Brearley’s, Jarmain’s, Brooksbank’s and Hebblethwaite’s Mills, deaf to the managers’ pleas to go inside and attend to their looms. Irate mill owners, desperate to meet their contracts, joined in the fray, the women jeering at their half hearted threats of instant dismissal: they would not, could not, afford to dispose of the majority of the workforce.

  The next Saturday, the women again withdrew their labour, although many of them were losing heart as well as earnings.

  ‘We can’t go on like this, Lacey,’ grumbled Sarah Broadhead from Jarmain’s mill. ‘T’lasses are fed up of losing their wages, an’ t’bosses aren’t for shifting.’

  ‘They will when they get these on Monday morning,’ said Lacey, gesturing to a clutch of envelopes. ‘If they don’t agree to meet and discuss our demands we’ll strike every Friday as well as Saturday.’

  ‘Eeeh, I don’t think many lasses will agree to that. They can’t afford it.’

  Lacey gave a brave smile. ‘They might not have to. The bosses can’t make cloth without us. They’ll have to do summat about it.’

  *

  In the comfortable surroundings of Garsthwaite’s Assembly Rooms four sombre gentlemen sat round a table, their snifters of brandy untouched.

  ‘We can’t go on like this,’ snapped Jonas Brearley, ‘I’m already behind wi’ my biggest contract. I’ve Government officials breathing down my neck for a completion date. They’re threatening to penalise me if I can’t come up wi’ the goods.’ He reached for his drink and gulped at it, almost choking when the fiery liquid hit the back of his throat.

  Charles Brooksbank curled his lip distastefully. An owner with scant knowledge of the workings of his mill, he deplored Jonas’s rough manner. ‘Personally, I’m inclined to hold you responsible for this debacle. My informants assure me the instigator of that ridiculous protest rally and the withdrawing of labour is in your employ: not only that, she’s your daughter-in-law.’

  He glanced imperiously from one to the other of the assembled mill owners to judge the effect this information had on them. ‘Had you the foresight to vet your workers more scrupulously you would not have employed her in the first place,’ he continued, ‘and you most certainly should never have allowed your son to marry her.’

  Jonas’s hackles rose. ‘Watch what you say. I’ll not have you cast aspersions on my son’s choice of wife; it’s nowt to do wi’ you.’

  ‘It is when she threatens my livelihood,’ barked Brooksbank, undeterred.

  ‘Listen to yourself,’ Jonas sneered, ‘you’d think we were all bankrupt the way you talk. Haven’t we all made a killing with these Government contracts? Maybe we should give the women a bit more; we’re all in profit.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Brooksbank sneered, ‘and I intend to keep every shilling. Have you no control over the women in your employ?’

  ‘Nay, I’ll not take blame for summat as affects us all,’ Jonas blustered, slamming the flat of his hand down hard on the table. ‘The women in your mills must be just as bloody minded as them in mine. Otherwise they wouldn’t be standing outside your mill gates refusing to work all day Friday and Saturday morning.’

  ‘He’s right,’ Amos Hebblethwaite conceded. ‘We must give this matter careful thought. We need those women just as much as they need us. I’ve witnessed all manner of protests in the industry in my seventy-eight years, and if we don’t handle this one fairly it could be to our cost.’ He sat back in his chair, the better to assess the reaction of his companions.

  For the next half hour they bickered and connived. Eventually Jonas sat back, absenting himself from the argument. In his mind he pictured his daughter-in-law, Lacey. By, but she was a woman to be reckoned with. He who had known the hardships of working in the mill couldn’t help but admire her. His son loved her and his wife and daughter were equally fond. Lacey had made a difference in all their lives. She might only be a working class girl but her beliefs had forced Jonas to reconsider his views on humanity. Maybe now was the time to even things up a bit, make life easier for those that struggled. It wasn’t as though he couldn’t afford it. He leaned forward, demanding attention.

  ‘I’ve decided what I’m going to do,’ he said firmly. ‘The rest of you can do as you please.’

  The others looked at him expectantly.

  ‘If I miss my deadlines it’ll cost me more than I care to think about. Therefore I reckon it’ll be worth my while to make sure I meet ‘em on time.’ He swigged his brandy, then lit a cigar. ‘I pay my lasses four bob less than I pay the men. Now, I’m not going to give ‘em equal pay but I will meet ‘em halfway. Two bob extra on every piece should satisfy ‘em.’ He thumped the table, a smile of satisfaction lighting his florid features.

  Silas Jarmain reared up. ‘It’s easy for you. I’ll have to pay my women four shillings more to match your offer.’

  Jonas smirked. ‘That’s because you’re a cheapskate, Silas; you’ve always underpaid ‘em.’ He turned in his seat to address Amos Hebblethwaite. ‘It’ll cost you nobbut a shilling a head, Amos, so what do you say?’

  Amos ran a gnarled hand over his furrowed brow, his aged features revealing a weariness of the debacle. ‘It seems fair to me,’ he growled. ‘The most important factor is to get the women back working full time. We daren’t risk an all out strike. We’ve all got too much to lose.’ His gaze roved from one face to another, the zeal in his rheumy eyes threatening them to dare disagree. Heads nodded assent.

  Charles Brooksbank’s face turned puce. ‘Ridiculous,’ he spluttered, ‘we’re being held to ransom.’

  ‘Aye, we are,’ said Jonas, ‘but, as Amos says, we’ll be the losers if we don’t nip this in the bud.’

  Reluctantly, Brooksbank and Jarmain agreed to comply. Brandy glasses refilled and cigars lit, the gentlemen discussed business.

  *

  Two days later, in four mills in the valley, unusual scenes were witnessed. In Hebblethwaite’s Mill the women weavers raised their voices in hymns of praise before starting up their looms. The women in Brooksbank Mill performed a spontaneous dance in the mill yard, cheering and singing as they jigged. At Jarmain’s Mill they called in a local preacher and gave thanks to God, whilst at Brearley’s they formed a conga line, weaving in and out between the looms, Lacey leading the way. They had triumphed and now they were celebrating.

  Later that night Lacey dashed off a letter to Nathan. As she scribbled she pictured him smiling and shaking his head as he read of her latest escapade.

  In bed, Lacey lay flat on her back gazing up at the ceiling, a feeling of deep content suffusing her mind and body. The past three weeks hadn’t been easy: but what of it? Life wasn’t easy. But you could strive to improve it. That’s what she felt she had done; and not just for herself but for others too.

  Sleep threatening to overtake her, she recalled Henry Wordsworth Longfellow’s words; words
she liked and had committed to memory. ‘Perseverance is a great element of success. If you only knock long enough and loud enough at the gate, you are sure to wake up somebody.’

  Lacey smiled sleepily. She had knocked at the Mill gate and Jonas Brearley had woken.

  23

  In accordance with Nathan’s wishes Lacey visited Fenay Hall at least once a week, sometimes staying for dinner. On this particular evening, as Soames showed her into the drawing room, she was disappointed to find the odious Alice and Violet already there.

  ‘Ah, here’s your little seamstress come to call with you, Constance. Are you planning a new outfit?’ Alice’s arch tone and the malicious gleam in her eye were not lost on Lacey.

  Constance made Lacey welcome but made no attempt to disaffirm Alice’s spiteful remark. Lacey was not really surprised. She still suspected her mother-in-law’s opinion of her.

  Lacey sat as far away as possible from Alice and Violet, half listening to their tiresome prattle and at the same time wondering if perhaps Constance hoped that Nathan might return from the war a changed man and realise the mistake he had made in marrying beneath him. Lacey shuddered at the thought, her reverie broken by Alice calling her name.

  ‘Lacey, is it true that you went against your employer, Mr Brearley, in that recent debacle at the mills? That you organised a strike.’ Lacey heard the pretence of concern for Jonas in Alice’s tone and scorned it, doing so again when Alice turned to Constance, her face twisted in mock compassion. ‘I heard that there were gangs of raucous women at the mill gates shouting the vilest slurs against the mill owners.’ Then, addressing Lacey, she simpered, ‘Were you one of them, my dear?’

  ‘I was,’ said Lacey, her gaze steely and her tone harsh, ‘we were demanding our rightful dues and what’s more we got them, so we must have been in the right all along.’

  Alice slid her eyes in Constance’s direction, eager to judge her opinion of Lacey’s outburst. Constance, her cheeks flushed, clapped her hands together loudly. ‘Lacey! Alice! I must admit I don’t approve of women disporting themselves in such a vulgar fashion but neither do I approve of mill talk in my drawing room; so let that be an end to it.’