Shining Threads (45 page)

‘
No!
’

They turned as one, all heads moving as one to look at the drained and pallid face of Joss Greenwood’s son. He sat beside his wife, his hands wringing hers most piteously. Gone was the
look of indolent amusement, of unruffled carelessness, and in its place was an expression so haunted Jenny was reminded of the day he had come back from the Crimea.

‘I cannot work in the mill, Father.’ He lifted his proud head but in his eyes was the terrified look of a child about to be shut up in a dark cupboard. His bravery on the field was
beyond question, both on the hunting field and on the field of war. His courage had been spoken of by several returned officers, acquaintances of the Longworths and the Taylors, but the horror and
dread which the one word ‘mill’ conjured up had, it seemed, unmanned him.

‘Then what will you do?’ his father asked him, his voice steely.

‘Must I do anything, Father? Could we not sell the mills? We could use the money to buy an estate . . . land . . . farm land . . .’ His face brightened and the expression of horror
began to fade from his eyes. ‘I could live as the Squire does, not farming, of course, but looking after the tenants, acting as a magistrate . . . a gentleman’s life, Father, to which I
am particularly drawn . . .’

The echo of a conversation – a hundred years ago now, surely? – slipped into ‘Tessa’s mind and the day on which it had taken place became clearer with every minute. There
had been just the four of them dining that night. Her mother had been there, yes, and this man who was now her husband, Drew Greenwood, and another – his brother, his
twin
brother who
was dead but who surely lived on in the man who had just spoken. Her mother was looking towards her as though the thoughts in her head were the same as her own. Drew, as always, had met the
confrontation with his aunt that night head on, arguing that what had been in the past should remain there and did not concern those who lived in the present and the future. But it had been Pearce
who had sworn he would sell his heritage, sell it without a thought for the men of his family who had made it. Sell it and live as the Squire did, close to the land which bred him.

And now, in almost the same words, Drew had pronounced that that was his hope, that he wanted nothing more than to live the rest of his days in idle luxury,
as Pearce had said
. Where was
the Drew Greenwood who had taken up any challenge flung at him? Flaunting and arrogant and sure of himself, was he now, sadly, merging slowly into the weaker, or perhaps gentler character his
brother had possessed?

He was still babbling on: ‘. . . we could sell Greenacres. There are a dozen new manufacturers who would be only too glad to take it off our hands,’ he added contemptuously
‘and buy an estate where there is a bit of rough shooting, farming land . . .’

‘Don’t be foolish, Drew.’ His mother’s voice was more amused than angry, for had anyone ever heard such nonsense and could anyone be expected to take it seriously? Sell
the mills? Sell Greenacres! One might as well decide to sell one’s own flesh and blood to those who dealt in the slave trade as sell this heritage of theirs, her smile said, and when her
husband chose to ignore his son’s outburst, she was not surprised.

‘You would let others support you then? For that is what you are saying. Your Aunt Jenny and Charlie would do the work whilst you spent the money they earned?’

‘Could I not employ a man to do my share? To . . . to do whatever it is you are asking me to do?’ Drew was sullen now, his grand scheme which, Tessa was completely aware, would suit
his nature better than any other, flung back in his face.

‘Jenny and Charlie can do that,’ his father’s cool voice told him, ‘most efficiently too, and there are a score of managers under their directorship, but do you not think
it unfair that they alone should take the responsibility of what belongs to you?’

His son twisted about like an animal trapped in a cage which is far too small to accommodate it and for a dreadful moment Tessa thought he was about to spring it and flee, away from his father
and mother, away from the prison they were preparing for him, away from his new wife who was all that was holding him together. But her hands steadied his and she drove her unfrightened will
directly into his wild eyes, telling him with her own that she was here, that they were together, and the boy who had, for the first eighteen years of his life, been one half of a whole part and
had thought he would never survive the loss of the other, sat back and the fear fell away.

‘I’m sorry, sir. Forgive me. I was somewhat stunned and spoke without giving the matter any thought. You must not worry about me, about us.’ He turned to smile at his Aunt
Jenny, then at Charlie and they all relaxed quite visibly.

‘Aunt Jenny, Charlie and I will, I’m sure, work out some arrangement convenient to the three of us. After all, the mill belongs to us all and we would not see it go to the wall for
the lack of a decent commander, would we?’

His manner was vital and confident, a complete reversal of his terror of a moment ago, letting his parents see that, though he might not have the slightest idea how he was to do it, he would run
his
concern as he damn well pleased. It was a gamble he took for the documents which were to make the mill his were not yet signed. Yet his father appeared prepared to take that gamble, for
surely it would make a responsible man of this valiant son of his?

‘Then it only needs all our signatures then me and your mother will be off back to that sunshine which, they tell me, is keeping me alive. And you and your bride can be away on your
wedding journey which I’m sure you’re eager to begin.’

He made love to her that night and indeed every night of their stay abroad with an intensity that told her he was in some desperate straits which only the act of love could assuage – the
act of mindless, greedy lust which, though he loved her, was really nothing to do with her, nor him, but the dread of what hung over him and which must somehow be hidden. He groaned and shuddered,
giving no thought to her desire, should she have had any, nor her pleasure, should she have had any of that, lying against her, still trembling. His face in the lamplight was drawn, his eyes
staring sightlessly to the corners of the shadowed room. When she touched his shoulder he turned again to her, violently, nuzzling his face to her breasts, curling his body about hers, a hurt child
seeking comfort and reassurance, protection from the demons which had come to plague him.

‘I can’t do it, you know,’ he said unnecessarily.

‘It would be difficult at first.’ Her voice was careful.

‘You aren’t listening to me, Tessa.
I cannot do it.
’

‘Then what are you to do, my darling? You heard what Uncle Joss said.’

‘Yes.’

‘The papers are signed.’

‘They are nothing to do with me, Tessa.’ His voice had become sullen. ‘I didn’t ask for this.’

‘Then . . . will you refuse?’

He flung back the bedcovers and with a rapid stride moved to the table beside the fireplace. His tall, naked body was brown and beautiful in the lamp’s glow. He poured himself a whisky,
throwing it down his throat in one neat swallow. He had another, then turned to her, his face irritable, his eyes perilous but very sure.

‘Oh, no. If I refuse my income will without a doubt be taken from me and I will be forced to manage on some schoolboy’s allowance, or whatever they think I am worth. They must give
me something since I am the son, but the bulk will go to Aunt Jenny and Charlie, and wouldn’t Laurel be pleased about that?’ His laugh was harsh.

‘Does that matter?’

‘It does to me. She is not a true Greenwood.’

‘Neither am I.’

‘You are my wife and will have what is your right.’

He stood by the fireplace, his body brooding and taut, staring into the fire which still blazed. ‘Besides, there must be more than enough for us all. Let us say
my
contribution will
be to help them spend it.’

She lay beside him as he tossed and fretted the rest of the night away, her mind struggling to retain the pleasant pictures of her wedding day. She wondered desperately if Joss Greenwood was
aware of the box of imps he had opened and set free in his damaged son. She knew he had thought to provide Drew with an incentive to take up his duties by making him head of the firm, whereas he
had merely turned his son from an irresponsible, but engaging pleasure-seeker, into a cheat and a liar.

22

The machinery in the mill had been running for twenty hours, two shifts of ten hours each, when it was turned off at eleven o’clock on Saturday night. Tomorrow was Sunday,
the one day of the week when the mill was quiet, and as the operatives poured out of the gates their wooden-soled, steel-tipped clogs made a merry clatter on the uneven cobbles.

The evening, though dark by now, of course, was still warm with the residue of the heat left over from the day and the navy blue sky was clear and punctured by the light of a million stars.

They were weary, all of them, especially the women who, after a morning of washing and mangling, of cleaning and donkey-stoning the steps of the neat houses they rented from Mrs Harrison, had
stood for ten hours on their shifts, spinning, carding, weaving, or toiling in the bleaching and dyeing processes which created Chapman cloth.

But tomorrow was their day off and with the prosperity which had come in the past few years as the textile trade of Lancashire flourished, many of them would be taking a train on an excursion to
Preston or Blackburn, Bolton or Oldham where there might be a fair or a circus, a band playing or an open-air troupe of travelling players. Parish Jack, a singer, fluter and fiddler, was a great
favourite, appearing regularly in Lancashire cotton towns at ‘stirs’ and merry-making, in beer-houses and inns. There might be games, a country wake or two, quoit playing, bowling,
wrestling, ‘bumble-puppy’, bull-baiting, all contrived to entertain those who, in the last decade, had the means now to jingle a few spare coins in their pocket.

There were railway day trips to Southport and Blackpool, costing rather more than the working class could afford at two and sixpence a head, but on special days the fare was to be reduced to a
shilling for children, one and sixpence for women, and two shillings for a man. With the increased wages the unions were promising them, another ten per cent it was said, it would not be long
before they would all be paddling in the sea which few, as yet, had ever seen.

Life had changed since their parents’ day when times had been hard. Not that they were easy now but at least families did not starve as once they had. And conditions would continue to
improve as their ‘Association’ fought to achieve an even better standard of living. A pair of self-acting spinning mules which one man or woman could mind had brought about a higher
wage trend that was gaining for the minders an aristocratic position within the industry. They had to work harder, naturally, for the higher spindle speeds made for a greater intensity of labour,
but in one ten-hour day they earned more than their fathers had in sixteen.

The overlooker in the blow room, a man with the necessary half-crown to spare for such things, was off to Blackpool himself the next day. He had been dwelling on the delight of taking off his
boots and dipping his feet in the sea, or even, greatly daring, changing in one of the bathing huts he had heard tell of and immersing his
whole
body in the sparkling wavelets. There might
even be some lass with whom he could strike up an acquaintance, leading to who knew what pleasures. He was adjusting the small wheel on the carding machine which laid the raw fibres of cotton
parallel, and further cleaned them, when the factory bell began its clangour signalling the end of the shift. Wrapped up in his dreams of tomorrow, the tool he had used for the adjustment was left
carelessly teetering on the extreme edge of the machine.

What caused it finally to lose its precarious balance would never be known but when it fell it struck the metal wheel with which the overlooker had been tinkering.

The enormous building was empty by now. The nightwatchman had said good night to Mrs Harrison an hour since, and one by one the managers and Mr Greenwood, the last to leave, had nodded to him as
he touched his cap to them. He’d go and have a ‘brew’ as soon as the gate was locked, he told himself, for though the night was warm and a pint of ale would have been more
welcome, Mrs Harrison and Mr Greenwood allowed no strong drink in the premises.

Although it was dark in the blow room the outline of the machinery showed up clearly in the light of the stars and the splinter of moon which hung in the sky just above the window. It was quiet
and when the spark jumped as metal struck metal, the flare no greater than that of an instantly extinguished match, the sound seemed quite loud. After that there was a hush, almost as though the
ghosts which peopled the room – of those workers who had just gone thankfully, wearily, even blithely if they were off on a jaunt the next day – were holding their breath, waiting for
what would happen next.

The machinery, once so lethal to small, unwary children, was now properly and securely fenced with wooden casing, miles of it, not just in this room but throughout the factory. The machines were
cleaned regularly, of course, for cotton fibres collected inside, mixing, if they were not taken away, with the oil used to grease the parts. There was dust and fly and a collection of flake almost
an inch thick in some places and it was to this that the spark jumped.

Like a small but voracious animal it fed on the dust hungrily, disposing of it in seconds before looking round, considerably grown by now from a spark to a flame, for something else with which
to feed its appetite. As it grew so did its hunger, and gathering strength it gathered speed.

When the flame reached the soft fibre within the casing it ignited like gunpowder, only a small explosion as yet but loud enough to turn the head of the nightwatchman whose kettle had just come
to the boil. He listened intently, prepared to guard against intruders as was his duty, but the sound was not repeated and the hot water was ready to pour on to the tea leaves. He poured it,
sniffing the aroma of freshly brewed tea, then sat down and reached for the newspaper which he had found left behind by some manager. It was
The Times
, costing only threepence now the
newspaper tax had been abolished. It was not a newspaper he himself would have chosen,
Frazers Magazine
, or
Punch
which both had pictures in them being more to his taste since his
reading was not all that good. Still, this was better than nothing and he’d just pick out the headlines whilst his tea mashed.