Tangled Threads (14 page)

Maybe Uncle Harry would allow her to learn to operate one of the machines. She would speak to him later. She could see now for herself why it was important not to be disturbed during work.
Perhaps, she thought, if the rhythm were interrupted at the wrong moment, the whole piece of knitting could be ruined. And while from a short distance away she had just now watched her uncle at
work, he had not looked up once to acknowledge her presence. Perhaps he had not even been aware that she was standing there.

At the bottom of the stairs she almost bumped into a young man about to take the steps two at a time. It was the same one who had winked at her cheekily the previous day.

‘Oh, sorry,’ he mouthed, catching hold of her as she stumbled against the wall. Even down here conversation was impossible because of the noise from the machines above them and from
the lower floor too. Although Eveleen twisted herself free of his grasp and said, ‘S’all right,’ they continued to stare at each other. She gave a quick nod and stepped to one
side to pass by him and out into the yard once more. But the young man moved in front of her. ‘Hey!’ He had to shout to make himself heard. ‘Not so fast.’ He stepped outside
and when she followed, he asked, ‘Are you Eveleen? Old Harry’s niece?’

Eveleen raised her eyebrow. My word, she thought. We’ve only been here a couple of days. News does travel fast. But, of course, it would in such a close, confined community. She nodded and
the young man’s grin widened.

‘Pleased to meet you, miss.’ He held out his hand. His grasp, when she put her hand into his, was warm and firm. He wore a shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a tie, a
waistcoat and trousers. Most of the men, Eveleen noticed, wore some kind of headgear, caps or bowlers, hanging them by their machines while they worked but putting them on immediately they stepped
out of the workshop. This young man wore neither and she could see that his straight, light brown hair was cut very short. His hazel eyes were looking into hers and when he smiled the laughter
lines around his eyes crinkled mischievously.

He was still holding her hand, so Eveleen pulled herself free of his grasp and again stepped to one side to walk past him, but he side-stepped once more to bar her way. ‘My name’s
Andrew Burns and I work for your uncle, so’ – he winked at her – ‘we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.’

‘Unfortunately, Mr Burns,’ Eveleen said primly. ‘Unfortunately.’

His face fell. ‘Aw, don’t be like that. All uppity. And there I was thinking how nice yer looked.’

He looked so like a boisterous little puppy that had just been smacked that Eveleen could not stop the smile that twitched at the corner of her mouth. Seeing it, he said triumphantly,
‘There! I knew I was right.’ Then he leant towards her conspiratorially. ‘I know, you don’t want to let your uncle see you getting friendly wi’ me. That it, eh?’
He shook his head and added wisely, ‘Well, you’re quite right. He’s a hard man. Keeps poor little Rebecca on a tight leash. She’s hardly allowed out the door let alone
allowed to speak to the likes o’ me. He’ll have trouble with her one day, if he’s not careful. She’ll break out.’

Eveleen stared at him. For a young man, he had a wise head on his shoulders, she thought.

Was that what had happened to her mother, she wondered, a generation earlier? Had she been kept on such a tight leash that, at last, she had broken loose and run wild and free?

‘I must go,’ she told Andrew and, lest he should try to stop her, added, firmly, ‘Really.’

He stepped aside and gave a mock bow. ‘We’ll meet again.’

‘No doubt we will,’ she murmured.

As she walked towards the houses, her back straight, her head held high, she did not look back although she sensed that Andrew was standing watching her.

He did seem nice. Friendly and a bit of a rogue. She allowed him that. But, Eveleen told herself sternly, he’s a man and I’m done with young men for good.

With three women in Harry Singleton’s house, the chores were shared, but there was other work at which they each took turns. While the larger knitting frames in the
workshops were operated by men, smaller stocking- and sock-making machines were part of the furniture in many of the houses in the locality.

‘I expect I can still remember how to work a Griswold,’ Mary murmured as she watched her niece working.

Rebecca looked up shyly. ‘I’m sure you can, Aunt Mary. When I’ve finished this, would you like to have a go?’ She glanced from Mary to Eveleen and back again. ‘And
you too, Eveleen. There’s nothing to it really.’

‘It looks easy enough,’ Eveleen remarked as she watched her cousin turning the handle of the circular knitting machine, the needles sinking and rising again like a wave to form loop
after loop and row upon row of knitting. ‘It’s very clever, though.’

‘Father would be so pleased if all three of us could work the machine.’ Rebecca pulled a wry face. ‘I’ve often found it hard to keep up with the amount he wants, what
with keeping house for him and the washing and seaming. I used to do the yarn winding, but there are two children in the street house’ – she jerked her thumb over her shoulder towards
the back-to-back house that faced the street – ‘so they do that now. And their mother does a lot of the seaming up. And, of course, we sometimes have lodgers, young men who come to work
here and then there’s extra cooking and baking.’

Eveleen held up her hands in mock horror. ‘Oh stop, stop, Rebecca. You’re making me feel tired listening to you. And I thought farm work was hard.’

‘It’s lucky,’ Rebecca went on with a glad smile, ‘that the attic room was unoccupied when you arrived.’

‘Or there might have been no room at the inn, eh?’ Mary murmured and smiled a little sadly.

Rebecca laughed softly. ‘I’m sure Gran would have made sure you stayed – somehow. I think she’s very happy to see you again.’

Mary glanced at her shrewdly. ‘But what about your father?’

Colour crept slowly up the girl’s neck and face. Uncomfortably, she looked away. ‘I’m sure he is pleased to see you.’

‘But?’ Mary persisted.

Rebecca shrugged and seemed to be struggling to find the right words. Eveleen, who had been listening to the conversation, came to her rescue. ‘Don’t ask her awkward questions,
Mam,’ she laughed, trying to make light of the matter. ‘What can you expect him to feel? His home’s been invaded by three homeless waifs and you’re asking if he’s
pleased to see us? Come on, don’t embarrass Rebecca.’

Her cousin cast Eveleen a grateful glance and, more confident now, said, ‘I’m sure everything will be all right.’ Then with a spark of mischief added, ‘Especially if you
can both knit socks on this machine.’

The three women laughed together and a bond between them was formed. From this moment, their lives would be as intertwined as the knitting they created.

With only a little practice, Mary was soon working the Griswold. Eveleen took a little longer to learn to cast on and off.

‘It’s easy once you get going, but it’s very different to milking cows,’ she laughed and then could have bitten off the end of her tongue as she saw the homesick look on
her mother’s face.

Later that same afternoon, Eveleen found Rebecca peering out of the parlour window overlooking the yard.

‘Are you watching for your father coming in for his tea?’

The girl shook her head. ‘No. He’s working late tonight. He has a job to finish. The bag man comes in the morning.’

‘Tell me, what is a bag man?’

‘He’s like a middle man. He brings the yarn from the warehouses in Nottingham and then sells the finished garments for us too.’

‘Does your father own all those machines?’ Eveleen asked innocently and was surprised when Rebecca burst out laughing.

‘Oh no. He’d be a wealthy man if he did, wouldn’t he?’

Eveleen was puzzled. ‘But he owns all this, doesn’t he? The workshops and the houses?’

Now Rebecca nodded. ‘Yes. Gran’s parents came to England at the time of the potato famine in Ireland. At first they were down south, London, I think, but then they came here. Gran
married a local man. He was a framework knitter working in his parents’ home. When they married they moved into this cottage and began to build the workshops in the yard and later more
cottages. I think all this was once farm land.’

‘Really?’ Eveleen thought of the street outside and the houses all squashed together. She couldn’t imagine it ever having been fields with cows grazing or chickens running
about the yard.

‘So who does own all the machines?’

Rebecca smiled. ‘It’s a bit complicated, perhaps, for an outsider to understand.’

But Eveleen was intrigued. It was such a different way of life to what she had been used to. Whilst part of her missed the open fields and the mist rising over the flat land, there was something
about this place, this life, that excited her. She wanted to become part of it – at least for the time they were here. One day, she knew, she would have to fulfil her promise and take her
family back to Bernby. But in the meantime she wanted to learn about the hosiery industry, to learn the trade that was in her maternal family’s blood.

Rebecca glanced out of the window again, but there was no one in the yard so the two girls sat down together.

‘Father owns four of the machines and the others are owned by all sorts of people. The knitters own some themselves, those who don’t want to work in their own home or build their own
workshops. Our bag man owns about half a dozen, I think, and some frames are owned by local people, like Mr Mills, the butcher.’

‘The butcher?’

Rebecca laughed. ‘He doesn’t knit himself, but he owns the machine and rents it out to a framework knitter, see?’

Eveleen was doubtful. ‘I think so. But you’re right, it does sound complicated.’

Rebecca ticked off the points on her fingers. ‘So the man who does the work, the framework knitter or the stockinger, whatever you like to call him, pays rent to the owner of the machine
and the owner pays a rent to my father for having the machine in the workshops.’

Eveleen’s quick mind was rapidly doing sums. ‘So Uncle Harry collects rent from all the machines owned by other people?’

‘That’s it. Of course there are other expenses the knitters have to pay for.’ Again she ticked them off one by one. ‘Needles and oil, the seaming – unless their
wives or children do it – candles, coal, and then if a machine needs a major repair they have to call in a framesmith—’

‘Oh stop,’ Eveleen said, ‘I’m bankrupt already. However do they make a living?’

‘We have a saying round here, “As poor as a stockinger”. But we’re lucky really. Most of our workers are fit and healthy and my father keeps the rent low deliberately. He
says he’d sooner have the machines all working than lying idle because some poor feller can’t make enough to pay his way.’

‘Sounds reasonable.’ Eveleen pondered a moment and then said, ‘So the bag man brings the yarn, the local children wind it, the men knit it and then wives and daughters do the
seaming up.’

‘And the washing. Sometimes the garments get oil on them from the machines.’

Eveleen remembered seeing the girl coming out of the washhouse at the end of one of the workshops on the day of their arrival. So that had been the reason for washing being done at an odd time
of the day, she thought.

‘Then the bag man fetches the finished garments and takes them to the warehouses, or wherever, in Nottingham,’ Eveleen concluded.

Rebecca nodded. ‘That’s about it, yes. Mind you, there are some ruthless men among the bag men, but my father knows what’s what. He goes to Nottingham every so often just to be
sure we’re all being given a fair price for our work.’ She laughed again. ‘Even us for our socks on the Griswold.’

Eveleen was quiet for a moment. Her mother’s sweetheart had been a bag man, or at least his father had, back then. Had he been a ruthless exploiter of the poor stockingers, she wondered,
as well as a heartless deserter of a pregnant young woman?

‘Oh, here they come.’ Rebecca jumped up from her chair and went to the window again.

Eveleen went to stand beside her. ‘Who?’

‘The lads from the workshops. They’re going to play cricket.’

‘Cricket?’

Rebecca turned to look at her. ‘I’m sorry, I forgot. I thought your mother might have told you.’

Eveleen shook her head. ‘My mother told us nothing about her life here.’

‘Because the knitters are sort of self-employed they can vary their hours of working to suit themselves. And sometimes work is slack anyway. So,’ Rebecca ended simply, ‘they
play cricket.’

‘And your father doesn’t mind?’

‘Mind?’ Rebecca laughed. ‘He’s the first to pick up the bat and be shouting for someone to bowl to him.’

‘Where do they play?’

‘They have matches on the cricket ground down near the railway, but our lads practise here. Look—’

Eveleen peered through the window and saw Andrew Burns carrying a cricket bat and positioning himself in front of the pump.

‘They use the pump as the wicket. Oh, Father must have finished work. He’s joining in. Now, you watch him bowl. He played for the county a few years ago,’ she added
proudly.

‘Did he really?’ Eveleen could not keep the surprise from her voice.

Harry had appeared from the workshop. He had left his jacket behind and though dressed in just trousers, shirt and waistcoat, he still wore his bowler hat. Standing at the far end of the yard
near the pigsties, he rubbed the ball down his leg and then ran a few paces along the brick path, brought his arm up behind him and over in an arc. He released the ball and it bounced once before
Andrew took a swipe at it, knocking it into the patch of herbs.

Among the young men gathered as fielders, Eveleen saw Jimmy scrambling over the fence to retrieve the ball while Andrew was running the length of the brick path and back again, shouting out the
number of runs he was making as he ran. ‘Two.’

‘Come on, Jimmy. Find that ball.’

‘Four.’

‘Here, here, throw it here.’

‘Five.’

‘Run him out.’