The Mill Girls of Albion Lane (2 page)

‘Yes, thank you – thank you!' She was blushing and trembling like a leaf.

‘I expect promptness and a smart appearance at all times,' the manageress went on in a severe tone. ‘You will buy your own burling irons and scissors and you will need size-five needles and a thimble, plus a tin box to keep them in.'

Lily nodded. She caught a reflection of herself in the window – eyes wide open in disbelief.

‘I take it you want the job?'

‘Yes. Oh yes. Thank you, Miss Valentine. Oh, yes please.' Lily could think of nothing better than this move up in the world and she wondered just why she'd been selected. Yes, she'd been punctual and hard working during her six years at Calvert's, but then so had Annie, Sybil and a dozen other girls in the weaving shed. And yes, she kept herself as smart and fresh-looking as she could, taking care to brush the dust from her dark hair each night and to arrive at work the next day in a neat blouse and skirt beneath her grey winter shawl. But it must have been more than this that had led Miss Valentine to single her out.

‘As a matter of fact, it wasn't necessary for Fred to recommend you. I keep my wits about me whenever I have reason to walk through the weaving shed and I've paid particular attention to you and the way you work,' the manageress said, as if reading Lily's thoughts. ‘I like what I see.'

‘Thank you, Miss Valentine,' Lily breathed. Her face felt flushed and she gave a shy smile.

‘Good. Then I'll see you on Monday at seven thirty sharp,' the diminutive manageress concluded, allowing Fred to open the door for her and stepping out into the corridor. Then her dainty leather shoes pitter-pattered along the polished wooden floor and she was gone.

‘I hope you won't forget your time with me in the weaving shed,' Fred said to Lily as she gathered her wits and left the office. He came so close that she could smell the Brylcreem in his sandy-coloured, thinning hair and there was no mistaking the leer on his broad, fleshy face.

‘I won't,' she vowed, hurrying on. But she knew without having to think about it that Fred Lee was one person she wouldn't mind spending less time with in future.

‘More haste, less speed, Lily Briggs!' he crowed after her.

She took no notice. Her feet hardly touched the ground as she grabbed her shawl from its hook by the main door, flew out under the high stone archway and across the greasy November cobbles, out into the foggy afternoon.

Number 5 Albion Lane was the third in a row of sooty, terraced houses built for workers at the half-dozen mills that overlooked the canal. Albion Lane ran uphill to join the main Overcliffe Road where the trams rattled their way out of town. It backed on to Raglan Road, which overlooked a patch of scrubby grassland called the Common – a poor, unfenced grazing area for six shire horses from the local brewery. The neighbourhood was by this time badly run down, with blocked gutters and grass growing between the cobbles. Though women still made an effort to donkey-stone their steps and keep their windows washed, most of the shabby front doors were in need of several licks of paint. These days there just wasn't the money and sometimes not the will to keep up appearances as they once did.

This Saturday, the day of Lily's meteoric promotion, was too damp and cold for outside play so her little brother Arthur sat at the steamed-up window of number 5, waiting eagerly for her to come home.

‘Why isn't she here yet?' he asked Evie who was busy lugging a heavy coal bucket up the cellar steps ready to feed the kitchen-range fire.

Evie reached the cellar head, clanked the bucket down on the floor and groaned at the weight of it. ‘Give her a chance. She'll be here soon enough.'

‘How long, though?' Arthur cleared a patch in the window pane and watched the moisture trickle down on to the sill where he perched.

Evie shook her head. ‘Hold your horses,' she told him. ‘And instead of sitting there twiddling your thumbs, why not help me fetch this coal?'

‘Can't – too heavy for me,' he replied, pressing his face against the wet, cold glass.

‘Excuses,' Evie grumbled, but she let him off as she always did.

Arthur was just turned six and far and away the baby of the family. Lily, Margie, Evie, Arthur – four kids and that was four too many for a broken-winded, out-of-work war veteran to bring up on a wing and a prayer, according to their father. So Rhoda and Walter Briggs had stopped at four children and had scraped along for years on what Rhoda could earn as an unofficial midwife in the neighbourhood and on Public Assistance until first Lily and then Margie grew old enough to earn a wage. Now it was Evie's turn to start contributing to the meagre family pot.

‘Where's Mam?' Arthur wanted to know, feeling cramp in his legs but refusing to alter position until Lily came into view carrying his precious bag of Saturday sweets.

‘You know where she is.' Evie carried the bucket to the fire and tipped a few coals into the glowing grate. There was a billow of black smoke up the chimney and then a crackle of yellow flames. ‘She's up the street with Mrs Lister.'

‘What's she doing there?'

‘Don't ask me.' Done with the coal, Evie went to the stone sink and turned on the tap to wash her hands.

Actually, she knew what their mother was doing at number 21 because Mr Lister had come running to their door at six that morning and frightened the living daylights out of them with his loud knock and urgent cry of, ‘Can you come, Rhoda? Baby's on its way!' Their mother had got dressed straight away and left the house with hurried instructions for Evie to mind Arthur while Lily and Margie went to work. ‘Your father's not feeling too good so best leave him to sleep,' she'd added on her way out. Now Evie didn't fancy giving an answer to Arthur's question that might lead him to pester her about how babies were born so she left it at three short, dismissive words.

‘Here comes our Margie!' the spy at the window reported when he spotted his middle sister hurrying up the street. Margie entered the living room with a rush of cold air, bringing with her the smell of factory oil and untreated wool. ‘What a morning I've had,' she complained, lifting her shawl from her head and throwing it on to a chair. ‘I only had Sam Earby on my back the whole time, telling me this was wrong and that was wrong and if I wasn't careful I'd be put on short time and I don't know what else.' She removed her work apron, threw it down on top of the shawl then went to the sink, took up the block of carbolic and elbowed Evie aside. ‘Just you wait,' she warned her. ‘You'll soon find out.'

‘But I'm not at Kingsley's with you, I'm at Calvert's.'

‘Same thing.' Margie lathered her hands and arms then ran them under the water. ‘Work's work wherever you are, and it's drudgery from seven thirty to five, five days a week, plus Saturday half days. It's a rotten life, ask anyone around here.'

‘At last, here's Lily!' Arthur spotted his favourite sister at the bottom of the hill and jumped down from his perch. He ran to the door and flung it open, waiting on the top step for her to arrive. ‘Where's my chocolate?' he yelled down the street, his face falling at the absence of the usual brown paper bag clutched in her hand.

‘Oh, Arthur, I clean forgot!' Reaching the house, Lily scooped him up and carried him indoors, skinny legs dangling. She deposited him on the rug then reached into her skirt pocket. ‘Never mind. Here's tuppence and you can run down to Newby's and buy some for yourself. How's that?'

Snatching the proffered coins and grinning, Arthur was out of the house like a shot – no coat or cap in his haste to be gone.

‘That's not like you to forget Arthur's sweeties,' Margie commented, peering critically into the small square of mirror fixed to the wall above the sink. ‘My hair needs a good cut,' she sighed.

‘Is Mother not back?' Lily enquired, looking about her.

‘No, but Father's up and getting dressed at last,' Evie reported. ‘I expect he'll be down in a minute.'

‘Why, what's got into you?' Margie asked as she turned from the mirror. ‘Evie, why is Lily grinning like a Cheshire cat?'

‘I am here, you know,' Lily protested. She took off her shawl and hung it on the hook at the cellar head. ‘Go on, Margie – take a guess at why I'm so pleased with myself.'

‘Let me see – you've bagged yourself a sweetheart at last?'

‘Trust you. No – wrong. Guess again.'

‘Mother says you can go into town tonight with Annie and Sybil?'

‘Wrong. I haven't asked her yet.'

‘I don't know, I give up.'

‘The truth is – I've got a leg-up at work!' The words were out and Lily could still hardly believe it. ‘I'm to go upstairs and work in the mending room, starting Monday.'

‘Never!' Margie declared. She felt a pang of jealousy when she realized that Lily would now go to work in a nice hat and coat and would be looked up to by the girls in the weaving shed. With four years between her and her eldest sister, she knew it would be a long haul before she left the spinning section at Kingsley's and reached the same dizzying heights.

And yet they were similar, she and Lily – both quick learners, both smart and easy on the eye, with their mother's dark hair and colouring, though their styles differed – Lily being less well groomed and fashionable in Margie's opinion, and certainly less interested in finding herself a nice young man. Why this was so was a mystery to Margie, who had no trouble attracting the boys and revelled in their attention. ‘Aren't you a sight for sore eyes, Margie Briggs!' they would call after her on the street. Or else they would whistle, get off their bikes and walk alongside to keep her company, and she would smile and lap up their compliments and their teasing, giving as good as she got.

‘Does that mean I'll be by myself in the weaving shed?' a nervous Evie asked. It had been a big week for her, turning fourteen and leaving school and then getting ready to start at Calvert's before she had time to draw breath.

‘No, you'll have Annie and Sybil to keep an eye on you,' Lily promised. ‘I'll make sure they do.' Sadly, this wasn't quite the reception she'd hoped for when she'd rushed home with her news. And now she could hear their father moving around on the bare boards upstairs, shuffling to the top of the stairs and making his slow way down.

‘Will you tell him or will you save it until Mother gets back?' Margie shot Lily a quick question.

‘Save it,' Lily whispered back. She thought she knew how her father would react – there'd be a blank look accompanied by a grunt or a shrug. His silence would take the shine off everything good and proper.

Walter leaned on the banister, taking one bronchitic step at a time. He heard voices below. ‘What are you lot up to, whispering in a corner?' he demanded as he opened the door into the kitchen, dressed in shirtsleeves and without a collar, his braces dangling over his broad leather belt. ‘Where's Arthur? What have you done with him?'

‘What do you suppose we've done with him – waved a magic wand and made him vanish?' was Margie's risky reply.

‘He went down to Newby's for chocolate.' Evie stepped in with a sensible answer before their father could react.

Walter sniffed then rubbed the back of his hand across his grey moustache. ‘Did you tell him to buy me my cigarettes while he's about it?'

‘No, but let me go for you.' Evie was halfway out of the door before she remembered she had no money. ‘Shall I get Mrs Newby to put it on the slate?'

‘No – ask your mother to give you a shilling.'

‘But she's at—'

‘Just go!' Walter wheezed before coughing then hawking into the sink. ‘And fetch the ciggies to me at the Cross.'

Behind his back, Margie pulled a disgusted face, which Lily ignored. ‘How are you feeling, Father?' she asked.

Out came the usual complaints. ‘My chest's bad and my leg's giving me gyp,' he informed her, pulling his braces over his shoulders. ‘Anyhow, I'm off to the pub. Has anyone seen my scarf and cap?'

‘Here on the hook.' Lily lifted them down and handed them to him. ‘Don't you want to eat your dinner before you go out?'

‘Keep it warm in the oven. I'll have it later.'

Then he was on with his patched, worn jacket and gone, following Evie out of the front door, head down against the wind, coughing his way to the Green Cross.

Margie shuddered. ‘If he hasn't any money for his Woodbines, who does he think will pay for his beer?' she wondered out loud.

Lily chose not to answer. ‘Dinner,' she said firmly. She opened the oven door, took a thick cloth and lifted out a brown earthenware pot, which she put on a board on the deal table. By the time she fetched plates and knives and forks from the cupboard and laid them out, Arthur and Evie would be back from their errands.

‘And shall you take to the mending work, do you think?' Margie asked as if she hadn't felt jealous and there'd been no interruptions since Lily had announced her news. Sitting down at the table, she ladled out some thin stew and potatoes for herself.

‘I hope so,' Lily answered. ‘And I hope Mother will be pleased too.'

‘She'll like the extra money,' Margie predicted then went on to the topic that really interested her. ‘This afternoon, Lil, will you cut my hair for me?'

‘I don't know. I've to sew Evie's work pinafore – I might not have time.'

‘Before the pinafore?' Ever-hopeful, Margie pulled out the drawer under the table and rummaged for scissors, handing them to Lily. ‘These are nice and sharp. It won't take you long,' she wheedled.

Lily sighed. ‘Finish your dinner then bring your chair over to the window where I can see. Sit here next to the sewing machine. How short would you like it?'

‘Chop off three inches, up to chin length,' Margie decided as she tugged at a lock of her shoulder-length hair. ‘And will you cut me a fringe? That would be smart and up to date.'