Down Weaver's Lane (12 page)

‘I have my books. I haven’t stopped learning.’ For Mr Bradley lent him books and newspapers regularly and he even owned four books of his own now, as well as a Bible. But it was very difficult to read quietly in the crowded little house, with his mother wanting to talk about how the day had gone, and his brothers and sisters quarrelling, laughing or just being exuberant and full of youthful energy.

‘You should be finding yoursen a lass an’ getting wed, our Jack,’ said Meg, unrepentant. She turned to her mother. ‘You’re not being fair to him. You could be walking out with Phil Gritten if you wanted. Now his wife’s dead he’s looking for another. And since he’s not got any childer, he’d be a father to yours. He’s a really nice fellow, Phil is, but no, you wouldn’t even see him when he came to call.’

‘Meg!’ Jack said warningly.

She scowled at him. ‘Why do you let her do this to you?’

‘Because it’s my duty and anyway I promised her.’ And because the children would have an unhappy time of it without him.

Netta emerged from her handkerchief again to hurl at her daughter, ‘I’m not wedding anyone else because I’m loyal to the memory of your father. An’ I don’t need to force Jack to stay with us, he wants to.’

‘Well, more fool him. An’ Dad wasn’t loyal to us, was he, when he went and got hissen killed doing something like that?’

Which frank talking soured the atmosphere in the little house for days.

 

In the end Meg arranged to get married one Saturday after work. Her mother refused to attend the wedding, but Jack took the children along to watch his sister make her vows. Meg’s expression was softer than usual and she looked almost pretty, while Ben had a fond look on his face.

Afterwards Meg came home for her few possessions and went to live in one room with her new husband. Within a few weeks Ben had found another job and they’d moved away to Rochdale.

‘You can come and see us any time,’ Meg told Jack before she left. ‘It’d do you good to get away from here. But don’t bring Mam. She hasn’t a civil word for Ben an’ she’ll drive him back to the drink if she goes on at him like she did last time she saw him.’

‘You’ll let us know your address?’

“Course I will.’

But although a carter brought a badly spelled note from Meg saying she and Ben were fine and giving their address, that was all they heard for some time.

Jack missed her greatly. She was the closest to him in age now and in spite of her sharp tongue he loved her and knew her worth. He kept his feelings to himself, though, because his mother still hadn’t a good word to say for her elder daughter.

On Christmas Day Jack could bear it no longer and went for a walk on the moors in all the glory of a bright frosty day, in spite of his mother’s shrill protests that she needed a bit of company. The beauty out there moved him so much he found himself sobbing for no reason, unable to stop until some of the grief and frustration had poured out of him.

But he didn’t tell anyone about that, of course. Not even Emmy Carter, the only one now to whom he could talk about his problems.

In May 1828 old Ebenezer Rishmore dropped dead in the mill he’d created from a few handlooms and which was far more important to him than his family. One minute he was standing in the weaving shed berating a young woman who had dared leave her loom to answer a call of nature, the next he was clutching his chest. With a long groan he sank to his knees and fell sprawling at her feet.

She let out a piercing scream that could be heard even above the noise of the machinery and edged away from him, calling for help.

People rushed towards her, but Martin Graslow got there first and gave her a good shake. ‘Be quiet, you fool, and tell me what happened!’ He knelt beside the still figure, but could find no sign of life. After a moment he sat back on his heels and looked up in shock. ‘He’s dead. Go and fetch Mr Samuel, quick! Don’t say the old man was shouting at you, just that he’d stopped to talk to you. No use stirring up trouble if you don’t need to.’

She nodded and rushed off across the mill yard to fling open the door of the office and yell dramatically, ‘Come quickly. Mr Rishmore’s just dropped dead.’

Isaac and Samuel went pounding across the yard, with her panting along behind them because now she had got over the initial shock, she didn’t wish to miss any of the excitement.

When Samuel looked down at his father he could see at once that the old man really had passed away. Strange how quickly a body lost its humanity. He bent his head for a moment in prayer for his father’s soul, then turned to the overlooker, his voice rough with emotion. ‘Have his body carried through to the office, please, Martin.’

Isaac, who had known Samuel Rishmore since they were both lads, laid one hand on the new master’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

Samuel gave him a flicker of a smile, appreciating the gesture which no other worker in the mill would have dared make, then walked slowly back to the office, trying to come to terms with what had just happened with such brutal finality.

As the day passed half of him continued to do what was expected, expressing sorrow, sending word home to his wife who had kept house for them all since his mother’s death. But behind the solemn façade of grieving only son, the other half of him relished the position in which he now found himself. He and his father had been disagreeing about the future of the mill for some time and suddenly it had been given over into his hands. He did not intend to ‘mollycoddle the operatives’ as his father had contemptuously said about some of his suggestions, but he did believe it was his duty as a Christian gentleman to treat them humanely - those who behaved themselves, that was. There were certain employees whose private lives were a scandal and who would be given one warning now, especially those living openly in sin, to remedy matters or lose their jobs.

Kneeling by his bed that night, he prayed long and hard that he would always know his duty, but as he climbed into bed, his elevated mood slipped and his thoughts turned to his daughter’s marriage. They would have to put that off for a year at least. He had been seriously considering young Marcus Armistead, the son of his closest business colleague. However, Jane could not marry while in mourning for her grandfather.

Anyway, he and Claude Armistead had not yet got down to the hard bargaining - or informed the young people of what was planned - so it could wait. For the moment the mill would take priority over everything else as Samuel reorganised things to his own liking.

He fell asleep with a smile on his face.

 

Rishmore’s mill was closed on the afternoon of the funeral and all the operatives were provided with a black armband and ordered to walk to the churchyard behind the coffin as a sign of respect. And if they enjoyed the rare chance of an outing during the daytime, they were not stupid enough to let that show in their faces. After the funeral service they were to walk back to the mill, where food and mugs of strong tea would be provided for them.

‘Th’owd man would have a fit if he knew about all this fuss,’ Martin Graslow said to his friend Isaac Butterfield, who had been invited to ride to the funeral in one of the carriages and then partake of more stylish refreshments at the big house. ‘He didn’t believe in pampering his operatives or letting owt stop them machines from running till knocking-off time, old Rishmore didn’t.’

Only with Martin could Isaac be frank. ‘Mr Samuel - no, we must learn to call him Mr Rishmore now that he’s the master, must we not? - takes a certain pride in being a compassionate employer.’

Martin grinned. ‘Well, good luck to him, I say. Why should poor folk be ill treated by them as they toil for? It’ll be nice to have an easy afternoon, won’t it, and they’ve not stinted on the food.’ Almost as an afterthought he added, ‘How’s your Lena taking the invitation to the big house?’

Isaac rolled his eyes. ‘Hasn’t stopped fussing since she heard. Driving us all mad about what she should wear. But I’m not going to buy her a new outfit just for the funeral, let alone there isn’t time to get one made up, so she’s had to be content with wearing her grey and trimming her bonnet with new black ribbons.’ And the fashionable mass of ribbon loops was not at all flattering to his wife’s broad features, though he hadn’t said anything about that, since she was mightily pleased with her efforts and in a good humour for once.

 

The funeral passed without incident, a dignified occasion with the coffin carried to the church on a dray from the mill. This had been covered in black cloth, with flowers and greenery piled around it, and black ribbons tied in the manes and harness of the horses. Professional mutes had been hired from Manchester to show that an important man had passed away, and caused a great buzz of comment when they appeared carrying their banners and wearing wide black sashes over their overcoats, with ‘weepers’ of black cloth trailing from their top hats. All agreed that it was the grandest funeral anyone had ever seen.

After the interment the guests were driven to Mill House where they were provided with lavish refreshments, which they consumed as avidly as the mill operatives were consuming their bread and ham and plum cake a few hundred yards down the hill.

Before Isaac left, Samuel introduced him to a young man who had been standing by the window looking bored. ‘This is my cousin’s youngest: Alfred Rishmore. I’m bringing him into the mill since I’ve only a daughter to follow in my footsteps. I’ll be putting him in the office first, where he can learn how things are run. I rely on you to show him the ropes, Isaac lad.’

He slapped the young man on the shoulder and Alfred produced a sickly grin, nodding to Isaac in a condescending way.

Samuel nodded dismissal then turned to say in a low voice to his head clerk, ‘Only last week my father asked for Alfred to be given a chance so I feel I have to heed his last wishes, especially since old Walker needs pensioning off with his eyesight so bad. But if the lad doesn’t do his work properly, then he’s out, relative or not. I’ll employ no drones in my mill.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘I remember how you helped me learn about the office work. I think you must have been born sensible, while I was a bit restless in those days. That’s why my father made me marry early. He thought it’d settle me down. I’ve never forgotten how you used to make up errands to rid me of some of my energy. Nor do I forget how loyally you’ve served our family all these years.’

Isaac escorted his wife home feeling a glow of intense satisfaction. Samuel Rishmore did not offer gratuitous compliments. His father had never offered any.

 

Isaac found it hard going with Alfred Rishmore. Apart from the fact that the young man looked down his nose at the head clerk, he wrote a poor hand, did not take nearly enough care with transcribing figures into the account books and ledgers, and worked very slowly indeed. No matter how many times he was rebuked, he showed no signs of improvement, heaving sighs as he worked, fiddling with his quill or just sitting staring into space. He was, quite clearly, reluctant to be there at all.

When the paperwork began to fall behind, something which had never happened before, Isaac tried to decide what to do. Should he tell Samuel or not? No, he’d give Alfred a little more time to settle down. After all, it was hard for a young man to be shut up in an office all day.

Then one day he realised that his new assistant clerk had been drinking beer during the hour he had taken for luncheon instead of the half-hour he was officially permitted. Shocked to the core, Isaac went in to see his employer at the end of the day. ‘Sir, I’m afraid that young man will not do.’

Samuel listened in silence to the recital, asked one or two questions then nodded agreement. ‘I feared as much. His father was a ne’er-do-well and I’ve noticed the lad wool-gathering several times myself. Send him in to see me as soon as he arrives tomorrow morning and I’ll deal with the matter.’ He frowned and stared into the flames of the cosy coal fire that warmed his office, then said abruptly, ‘We’ll have to find someone else to help you.’

‘Sir—’ Isaac hesitated.

‘Spit it out, man. You need never fear to speak openly to me.’

‘Well, if you’re going to involve me in expanding the business as you’ve indicated, I shall need two people to help me: a clerk and someone able to undertake a variety of tasks. I have a clerk in mind, actually, a man I’ve met once or twice who would like to move back to Northby to be near his elderly parents. But for the other position, I feel we need someone who knows the work of the mill and is not too finicky to dirty his hands.’ He hesitated again.

‘You have someone in mind for that as well?’

‘Yes, sir. Jack Staley.’

Samuel raised his eyebrows. ‘Big Jem’s son? Are you sure?’

‘Yes, sir. The lad’s always been sensible and since his father’s death he has been the support of his mother who is a weak reed, I’m afraid.’ To Isaac there was nothing more important than work, family and church, in that order.