Down Weaver's Lane (11 page)

Jack could not gainsay her. ‘I’ll keep my promise, Mam.’ Though he knew well enough that her memories of her husband were flawed. Well, let her think that way if it gave her comfort.

‘Funny way you two had of showing your love, then. You did nothing but quarrel. An’ as for you, our Jack, you’re a soft fool to give in to her,’ Meg snapped and whisked out of the house, banging the door behind her.

It was weeks before the final trial would take place. Mr Bradley had explained to Jack about the others being just committal hearings and having to wait for the Assizes before a judge could make a final decision on such a serious case.

Watching his mother fret and worry, Jack wondered if these rich folk realised how hard it was on the families of the accused who had to wait such a long time to find out what would happen to their loved ones. His mother looked years older since his father’s death and his sister’s tongue had never been so sharp, while he felt weighed down with sadness and responsibility - and terror that they would hang his brother.

Even if they only sentenced Tom to transportation, he would be lost to them and that was a hard thing to face.

Near the time for the trial, the Parson came round to tell his mother that Mr Samuel was to attend it and put in a plea for clemency. He would take Constable Makepeace with him to give evidence. Since it was his family’s property the men had attacked and he who had been bashed, there was hope that this would sway the judge to be lenient. But apparently old Mr Rishmore was angry about what his son was doing and had washed his hands of the whole business.

‘Will it really make a difference if Mr Samuel does that?’ Jack asked quietly as he showed Mr Bradley out. ‘I want the truth, please.’ He was the one who would have to deal with his mother.

‘He thinks so. It’ll still be transportation for your Tom, his lawyer thinks, and the Rishmores will be satisfied with that as punishment.’ He patted his young companion’s shoulder. ‘If you ever need someone to talk to, lad, my door is always open.’

Jack nodded but knew he wouldn’t take advantage of this offer. What good would talking do now? No one could help Tom’s family face their loss, and Jack missed his brother’s cheerful presence and his father’s solid warmth every single day. But the Parson was a kind man and it had been a good thing for the town when he took up the living. His wife was exactly the same, always helping folk in trouble.

 

When Mr Samuel came back from the trial he called Jack and the others who had family members involved into the mill yard and told them gravely what sentences their sons, husbands and brothers had been given. Only Tom had been sentenced to transportation, because he had used violence against a soldier, and he would be sent to the hulks in London. He would stay in one of these rotting old ships, which were used as extra jails, until he left for New South Wales, never to return.

All Jack could do was write a letter to Tom, find out from Mr Bradley where to send it - and lie awake at night wondering how his brother was and where he was now. He did a lot of that.

His sister’s friend Sam Repley had been let off with only a fine and some uncle had come forward to pay it. His sister was missing Sam greatly, he knew, more than Jack had expected her to, since he agreed with his mother that at fifteen she was too young to get wed. But Sam had gone to live with the uncle, not returning to Northby when released from jail. Well, there wouldn’t have been a job here for him any more, would there? The uncle had a farm, it seemed, with work for his nephew. But if he’d really cared about her, Sam should have come and said goodbye to Meg, or at least sent her a farewell note. She had wept over him several times, Jack had heard her in the night.

He sighed as he went about his work. He seemed to be beset by worries on all sides since his father’s death.

 

As the months passed Jack continued to act as head of the household and to work at the mill, doing all sorts of odd jobs in the evenings and on Saturday afternoons as well to earn extra pennies. Mr Samuel occasionally stopped to speak to him in the mill yard and would then walk off looking smug, as if it pleased him to see Jack bobbing his head and saying, ‘Yes, sir. We’re all grateful for your help, sir.’

Charity was a heavy burden to bear, though, and if Jack ever could he’d leave Northby and find a job where you didn’t have to kow-tow to anyone, a job where there wasn’t all that noise beating at your ears from dawn till dusk from those metal monsters which wove the cloth better and faster than men ever could.

He thought it must be wonderful to have a little shop and that became the dream into which he escaped sometimes. Life would never get boring, there’d be so many different things to do, and you’d be in charge of how you worked, which must be wonderful. They had shopped in the town centre before his father’s death, but things were cheaper down at the far end of Weavers Lane, so they walked the extra distance now. He would watch Grandma Hickley serving the customers in her little shop when he bought things for his mother. The old woman was slow and clumsy, and didn’t keep things as clean as he’d have done. Eh, he could have done everything so much better.

He mocked himself. Fine dreams these were! He was stuck in that bloody weaving shed for life, he reckoned. And that was if he was one of the lucky fellows who were kept on.

The only good thing about going to Grandma Hickley’s shop was that he sometimes saw Emmy Carter on his way back. She’d be working in the garden of the cottage or helping her mistress take a short stroll in the evening. The sight of her always brightened his day. She was so pretty and her smile was warm and friendly.

He didn’t attend the Bible reading classes any more, because he had grown too skilled to need them, but he was still in the church choir and that was his only real escape from his mother and her never-ending complaints. It was hard going out to rehearsals after work, because he didn’t finish till eight o‘clock at night and had to be in the mill at six o’clock sharp the next morning. But he looked forward to the singing, which seemed to lift his heart.

One Sunday Mr Bradley took him aside after church.

‘Do you think you could help out at the Sunday reading classes, Jack? We’re to have several classes now and we need another teacher for the beginners. Mr Samuel himself suggested you for the boys. He’s very keen for the young people of the town to learn their letters and wants my wife to start a girls’ class now as well.’

Jack sighed. This would eat further into his precious spare time. He had been thinking maybe on fine Sundays he could get out on the moors after church. That surely wouldn’t be considered breaking the Sabbath?

‘We can pay you two shillings a week if you do, Mr Rishmore says.’

Jack looked down at his wrists, caught by a sudden fancy. They wore shackles in prison, but he had shackles, too, invisible ones that kept him dancing to a rich man’s wishes. That made him wonder whether Tom had arrived in Australia yet. He didn’t even know how long it took to get there. ‘Yes, I’ll do it, sir. It’ll mean I’ll be able to pay you back more quickly.’ For he had borrowed the money from Parson to redeem his mother’s wedding ring and then had a big argument with Mr Roper the pawnbroker about the price he should pay for it. Only his threat to ask the Parson to intervene had made Mr Roper stop trying to ask twice what he had given Jack’s mother for it and be content with a smaller profit.

And since his mother’s visit to Lancaster Jack had another worry. Meg was growing wilder all the time, knocking around the streets after she finished work with a group of young people whose main aim in life seemed to be making loud nuisances of themselves. He spoke to her about it, forbidding her to go out at night, but she laughed in his face.

‘If you try to stop me, I’ll leave home. If you want my wages, you’ll have to let me have fun in my own way. We aren’t all solemn and stuffy like you, Jack Staley. The other lads laugh at you, did you know? It’s like living with a parson, living with you.’

That hurt. It really did. When did he have time to enjoy himself? He would look up at the moors sometimes and long to be there, striding along with the wind blowing in his face.

 

By the end of 1827 Jack was earning a man’s wage. He went to the office when they raised his pay and told Mr Butterfield he didn’t need help with the rent any more.

‘I respect you for that, Jack,’ he’d quietly replied, ‘and so will Mr Samuel. I’ll tell the rent collector.’

Meg said he was stupid because now he would be little better off, but he had his pride and that meant more than money to him.

Most of his friends were walking out with lasses now and talking of marriage. Some got wed as the months passed and were proud of their little houses and the rickety furniture they’d scraped together. One became a father and talked with a gentle smile about his infant son who was the light of his life now, it seemed.

Jack wished them well, of course he did, but it only gave rise to another dream he couldn’t see himself achieving: to have a quiet little cottage of his own and a wife to share it. And though she wasn’t old enough yet to wed anyone, he even knew the lass he fancied. Emmy Carter, of course. Her pretty face invaded his dreams regularly and he admired her as well as fancied her. Look how well she cared for that nice old lady she worked for, how trim and neat she kept herself, and how she’d risen above her mother’s immorality. As he’d tried to rise above the disgrace his father and brother had brought to the family.

But Emmy told him one day she was never going to marry. ‘I’d never bring my mother’s shame to any man.’

‘It’s her shame, not yours,’ he insisted. She just smiled sadly and said that made no difference to most folk.

‘Well, we Staleys have been shamed, too,’ he offered.

She gave a sad attempt at a smile. ‘It’s not the same. They think I’m like my mother, and if a woman isn’t considered respectable they treat her whole family badly.’

‘You don’t deserve that.’

She shrugged. ‘Well, I’ve got no choice, so I’m determined not to marry.’ Then she brightened. ‘But Mrs Tibby has hired me for another year. Isn’t that wonderful? I love working for her.’

His mother found out he’d been talking to Emmy and reminded him shrilly of his promise to look after her and the others.

‘I’ve no plans to go courting, Mam. Emmy’s just a friend.’

Netta laughed harshly. ‘There’s no such thing as a lass who’s “just a friend”. Especially one with a mother like yon. She’s after you, that one is.’

‘She’s not like her mother!’ he shouted back, furious to hear Emmy maligned. The accusation made him so angry he walked out of the house, ignoring his mother’s shrieks at him to come back.

He didn’t need her reminders. However hard he thought about it - and he’d racked his brains many a time - he could only come to one conclusion: he could not afford to marry until he was much older, if then. Imagine bringing other mouths into the world to feed when he still had his mother, brothers and little sister Ginny dependent on him.

 

One day Meg came home and announced defiantly that she was walking out with a fellow and intended to get married soon. As his mother burst into one of her storms of weeping, Jack sent the younger kids outside, then begged Meg not to rush into anything.

She stood by the door, arms folded, with a defiant look on her face. ‘You won’t change my mind whatever you say, Jack. I want a home of my own, away from
her.
’

‘Have you thought about what your leaving will do to the rest of us? How shall we manage without your wages?’

‘That’s your business. You’ve had most of them ever since Dad died, so I reckon I’ve done my share now.’

‘Who is he?’ Jack tried to think who he’d seen her with.

‘Ben Pearson.’

‘What? You can’t mean that! He’s a drunkard.’

‘Not now he isn’t. I’ve told him if he wants to marry me, he has to drink less and he is doing.’

‘But he’s years older than you!’

Meg smiled and her voice softened as she said quietly, ‘He’s mad for me and I like him better than the younger lads. An’ it’ll be a relief to get away.’

Their mother emerged from her handkerchief to say, ‘He’s just soft-talking you. It’ll not last once you’re married. He’ll booze all your money away.’

‘It will last! Ben loves me and I love him.’

Jack looked at his sister. She was, after all, barely seventeen. ‘Well, there’s no reason for you to rush into marriage yet, is there?’

‘Yes, there is.’ Meg looked around scornfully. ‘Ben’s looking for a job in a place where there’s more going on than in this stupid town. An’ if you get short of money, our Ginny can allus leave school and find hersen a job. You’re spoiling her, Jack, with all that education. What good will fancy sewing and reading do her?’ Her voice softened. ‘It’s you as should be getting the schooling, not us. You’re the clever one in this family.’