Lizzie Kinge sat in a hansom cab with her hands folded over the top of her parasol handle and stared out of the window at the big jute mills belching smoke from tall chimneys like Italian campaniles as the horse toiled up the hill towards Green Tree.
By Dundee standards her new possession was small, less than half an acre in area on top of a hill at the back of Dens Road. It was dwarfed by the huge concerns that sprawled over acre after acre nearby but as she gazed towards it, she felt a rush of affection for Green Tree Mill which looked cosy, almost homely. It was basically a huddle of double-storeyed grey stone sheds, one of them topped by a little stump-like chimney.
Her cab stopped at the tiny gatehouse beside the entrance, which was firmly closed by a gate of wrought iron decorated in the middle with a design of a tree.
The mill had been named after a huge oak tree that used to grow in the middle of the yard but it had been felled long ago and only a circle of earth surrounded by blocks of stone showed where it had once flourished.
The gatekeeper came out of his house and asked the cabbie, ‘What’s your business?’
A flourish of the whip indicated Lizzie in the back. ‘Lady wants to see the manager.’
The cab door was opened and a red face peered in. ‘What’s your business, ma’am?’
She turned her head and stared hard at him. ‘My name is Mrs Kinge and I’ve come to see my mill.’
They had not expected her. Like the lawyer, the administrative staff were sure Mr Adams’ heiress would sell her inheritance as soon as possible. The flustered doorkeeper swung open the gate and ran as fast as he could go to the manager’s office to break the news.
‘That wimmen’s here. The yin old Mr Adams left the mill to. She’s coming in noo.’
Lizzie had dressed with care for her first visit, taking a long time over her toilette. When she was finished she had turned slowly before Maggy and asked, ‘Do I look like a mill owner?’
Maggy clasped her hands as she eyed the slim figure in the black costume of finest barathea and the immense, black-plumed hat. ‘You look like the owner of the hale of Dundee,’ she assured Lizzie.
The memory of that commendation gave her confidence as she alighted from her cab, twitched her skirts into place and sailed into the office, pretending not to notice the astonished faces of the male clerks as they watched her progress through the ranks of their desks. From the corner of her eye she saw her brother. As she drew level with him, he dropped his head and pretended to be writing busily.
When the family first heard the news about Lizzie’s magnificent legacy, George had surprised her by assuming that she would sell at once. When she told him that was not her intention, he had been angry.
‘But you can’t run Green Tree,’ he said.
‘Why not?’
‘No one’ll listen to you. You’re a woman.’
‘Let’s tell the truth. You don’t relish working for me,’ she spat back and they had quarrelled really bitterly for the first time in their lives. Now as she passed George, she did not pause.
The manager, Mr Richards, who had seen her on the day she visited Green Tree about George’s original appointment, was waiting at his office door and he seemed surprised that she was alone.
‘Your father didn’t come with you?’
She looked levelly at him. ‘My father has his own business affairs to deal with.’ Her tone said very clearly that Green Tree was her affair and no one else’s. David had offered to accompany her but she turned him down. She felt as superstitious about him as a business partner as a sailor would be about taking a clergyman on a fishing voyage.
The news of her arrival spread quickly and the senior employees, all men, came crowding into the office to meet her: the chief accountant, the mill overseer Mr Bateson, the head foreman, and Mr Adams’ secretary whose name was Argyll. Somehow she knew he was the most hostile though he smiled at her ingratiatingly.
As they shook her hand she noted the expressions in their eyes. Some of them were sceptical; some amused. To her chagrin she realized that none of the men took her seriously. They all thought she was play-acting, that she’d run the mill for a little while but in the end would sell up and retire to embroidery and good works.
She stiffened her back and silently promised them: Just you wait and see.
When the first introductions were over she was taken into the counting house and presented to the clerks. George was in the front row of desks and she could see from his face that he was greatly embarrassed. She did not seek him out as she smiled at the curious faces but favoured him with the same bland expression that she bestowed on all the others.
That ordeal over she was ushered back into what the managers called ‘Mr Adams’ office’. Though the old man had not been in the mill for years it was kept like a shrine with his leather-topped desk in the window and his pens lying on the blotter beside his seal and a pair of spare gold-rimmed spectacles. Lizzie fingered them thoughtfully as she gazed at two large oil portraits that dominated the walls. One was of Mr Adams himself when young and the other was obviously his father, for the sitter showed a strong resemblance to her old friend. In the middle of the floor was an enormous table with eight high-backed chairs round it.
Argyll, the secretary, opened a cupboard and brought out a decanter of sherry but Lizzie held up her hand and said, ‘I don’t want to waste time on that. I’d rather see round my mill. Where will we start, gentlemen?’
Men clustered round her like a bodyguard as she stepped into the big cobbled courtyard and stared up at her mill buildings where the real work was done. In the windows that looked over the yard she could see the clustered faces of the women workers.
‘How many people are employed here?’ she asked.
‘There’s a hundred and fifty on the payroll right now but in the busy time during the war with the Boers we had over three hundred. Trade’s fallen off in the past year though, and we’ve cut the workers by half.’ The supplier of this information was Mr Bateson, a white moustached old fellow who was the mill overseer.
She could tell that he had changed his mind about her and was no longer condescending but was prepared to give her the benefit of the doubt and to acknowledge that she had sufficient intelligence to understand business matters. In time he might even be made into an ally.
‘So turnover’s down?’ she asked and the men nodded together.
‘Trade’s bad, it’s bad all over Dundee. Everyone’s hit – even Cairds,’ said Mr Bateson.
If Cairds was suffering trade was indeed bad because it was one of the biggest businesses in Dundee. She knew the town was in a slump because the business at the Castle Bar was very poor and on her drive to Green Tree she had seen crowds of unemployed men hanging around at every street corner.
‘How many men are on our payroll?’ she asked next.
‘There’s fifteen in the offices, ten in the carting department, five in dispatch, and six foremen – as well as some wee laddies that help with the shifting. Then of course there’s all of us and Mr Argyll…’ This information was supplied by Richards and Lizzie did some rapid calculations as he spoke.
Less than fifty adult men out of a force of one hundred and fifty, she reckoned. The business was powered by women who all occupied the lowliest jobs. Her gaze was turned back to the curious faces at the shed windows.
‘Take me in there,’ she said, pointing with her parasol.
The noise in the weaving shed was deafening. When she stepped inside the door Lizzie had to restrain herself from putting her hands over her ears for she was genuinely afraid her eardrums would burst.
Mr Bateson saw her expression of pain and leaned towards her shouting, ‘You get used to it.’
Noise throbbed and swelled like a roaring sea inside the stone shell of the shed with such force that she felt it vibrating inside her body.
‘How do people talk to each other?’ she shouted back to him, cupping her mouth with her hand and speaking against his ear.
He laughed and shook his head. ‘I’ll tell you later.’
The women, who she knew had been watching her progress across the yard, now seemed oblivious of her existence for they all stood engrossed in their work in front of their weaving machines, eyes fixed on the flashing shuttles.
She walked down the broad passages between the looms, acutely conscious of her clothes and the sideways scrutiny of the working women who wore multicoloured pinafores, and had their heads covered by large bandanas to keep their hair from being entangled in the machinery.
She had never seen such a sight of frenzied activity. Flashing, dangerous bars of metal; rapidly twirling pirns of spun jute; shaven-headed little girls and boys running up and down changing the pirns when they were empty.
It seemed as if everyone in the shed was anxious to impress her with how hard they were working. Mr Bateson put a hand on her arm and steered her towards a large woman who was standing with her arms crossed at the far end of the shed.
‘She’s Mrs Armstrong, the forewoman,’ he roared into her ear.
The only way she could talk to Mrs Armstrong was to take her out into the yard.
‘What were they doing in there?’ was her first question.
‘It’s the weaving shed,’ she was told by Bateson. ‘They’re weaving sacking. Mrs Armstrong sees that nobody wastes their time. She’s been with us for thirty years.’
Lizzie turned to the forewoman and saw at once that here was someone who did not appreciate a woman as a boss. Mrs Armstrong’s eyes were hard and calculating as she weighed up the new owner.
‘How do you stand that noise?’ asked Lizzie, whose head was still ringing from the din.
‘You get used tae it,’ said Mrs Armstrong.
Mr Bateson said to her, ‘Mrs Kinge asked me how people talk to each other inside the shed.’
Mrs Armstrong looked at Lizzie as if she might be slightly simple. ‘There’s nae talkin’ allowed even if they could hear it. I won’t have them wasting their time. If they have to pass on a message they do it with sign language.’
Lizzie was interested. ‘Sign language? What sort of signs do they use?’
‘They ask each other the time like this…’ Mrs Armstrong twisted a wrist. ‘And they get the answer like this…’ A quick flash of fingers… ‘And they always send a message round if the boss is coming.’
‘How do they do that?’ asked Lizzie.
‘Like this.’ Mrs Armstrong stroked her chin like a man stroking a beard.
‘They’ll have to work out something else now that they’ve a woman boss, won’t they?’ said Lizzie with a laugh, but Mrs Armstrong did not join in.
Next they showed her the spinning shed where the raw jute was spun into thread. It was almost as noisy as the weaving shed but it had another hazard as well, the air was heavy with jute spores that caught in the throat and made people unaccustomed to the atmosphere cough and choke.
Lizzie came out spluttering and Mrs Armstrong, almost pleased, told her, ‘Folk get bad coughs if they’re too long at the spinning. They only go deaf if they’re weavers.’
She knew she was on trial. They wanted to see how much she would take before she gave up her tour of inspection but she was determined to see everything, even going into the huge shed where bales of jute were stored when they first came in from the docks. This was an area closed to women because the men who worked there were naked to the waist as they unwrapped the huge bales and teased them out with their hands.
Sometimes snakes or strange Indian insects were shaken out and there were other dangers, for tetanus spores could get into cuts or grazes and the air was even heavier with jute spores than in the spinning sheds. It was easy to realize why bronchial illness plagued most mill workers who managed to reach middle age.
‘I never realized what went on in a jute mill,’ Lizzie said to her escorts when the tour was over, ‘but there’s one thing more I’d like to know. Why do only women work at the spinning and weaving? Is it because their hands can do it better?’
It was Mrs Armstrong who answered. ‘The owners prefer women because they don’t make trouble. Lots of them are bringing up bairns on their own. They’ve too much to lose to make trouble.’
Before Lizzie left Green Tree Mill, the steam hooter gave its unearthly scream, for it was six o’clock and work was over for the day. At that instant every machine in the mill came to a sudden stop and a strange silence fell over the premises, a silence that fell on Lizzie like a cloak, so noticeable was it after the thudding and roaring that had filled the place.
Then all at once came a noise that sounded like a cavalry charge. She looked around in surprise before she realized that it was the clatter of iron-tipped clogs on cobbles as the women rushed out and headed for home. They were laughing, talking, shouting as they pushed past the office window where she stood in the middle of the group of dark-suited men. Their voices were unnaturally loud, so used were they to the din of machinery, and she could hear every word they said.
They were talking about her.
‘Awfy fancy lookin’, isn’t she? All dressed up like that – She’ll no’ last long – I dinna fancy a woman boss onywey. It’s no’ a job for a wifie – Fancy Mr Adams! I wonder how she got round him – You never can tell even wi’ the old lads, can you?’
Without rancour she watched them, the ragged army of spinners and their smarter superiors the weavers, who wore hats and gloves and walked on the opposite side of the road. These were her troops, the work force she had to muster if she wanted to make her mark on the world. And want that she did, very much indeed.
That night George came to Lochee Road.
‘I’m sorry we had a row the other day,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t want you to think I was jealous or anything.’
She was glad to make peace with him and to repair the breach that had grown between them during the past year. ‘I’m sorry too if I said anything that hurt you, and I’m sorry about fighting with you over Rosie. If she and you are happy that’s all that matters.’
‘We’re very happy, but that’s not what I’ve come about. I’m glad you’re taking over Green Tree but I won’t be staying there now. I made up my mind when you came to the office today.’
‘But I want you to stay. If you stay I’ll put you in charge of the office,’ she protested.
‘That’s why I can’t stay. I don’t want to be in charge of anything. I don’t want to change. People would know I’d only been promoted because my sister’s the boss. They know I’d sooner spend my time with my feet on the fender reading a novel than doing any work. I’m a lazy fellow, Lizzie, I’m not like you. If you put me in charge of the office it’d be unfair to people who deserve the promotion. Let me leave. I can’t stay in a place where they think I’m the boss’s spy. Rosie’s spoken for me at Brunton’s. They need a book-keeper there.’
There was no point arguing with him so she kissed him on the cheek. ‘At least let’s be friends,’ she said. He was her little brother and she loved him.
‘You’ve taken over the mill at a bad time,’ said Mr Bateson when he and Lizzie were having a meeting in her office.
She nodded. In May 1902 the British and the Boers had signed the Peace of Vereeniging, bringing to an end both the war in South Africa and the huge demand for military equipment, sacks and tents made from jute.
‘Look down there.’ Mr Bateson pointed towards the docks away at the foot of the hill. She looked and was surprised to see how empty they were.
‘Last year all the berths were full and ships lined up outside the harbour waiting to get in with their hemp from Bengal. But now jute’s in a decline. It’ll be hard work to survive. You should copy some of the other mill owners and sell up.’
She shook her head. ‘I’m not selling. I’m determined to make a success of this mill.’
He looked sorry for her. ‘Are you sure you’re not trying to prove something? It would be far easier for you and your wee laddie, if you just enjoyed the money you’ve been left.’
She was not offended because she could see that he meant well, but he was verging on a subject she did not want to think about. She was not sure why she was so determined to keep Green Tree Mill but in a way it was a substitute for everything she had enjoyed in her marriage to Sam. She could sink herself in it, and if she succeeded that would be a victory – against what? She did not know. Perhaps it would be a victory against fate.
‘I’ve seen trade come and go but this time I think the bubble’s really burst,’ said Mr Bateson, breaking into her thoughts. ‘This time it’s affected everybody. The rope works are quiet, engineering workshops are closing their doors. The city’s sick.’
She remembered his words as she drove home that night in her hired cab. A terrible lethargy hung over her native city. In the main streets everything seemed half finished. During the boom years there had been a reconstruction craze and, when money ran out, uncompleted schemes covered the city. The few buildings that were finished, like the big new Tay Hotel, had imposing façades and grandiose decorations, often in the French style which was much admired, but behind them she could see the bleak and crumbling tenements of Old Dundee.
Something of the despair reflected the bleakness of her own soul and she knew that if either of them were to survive, they would have to fight, and fight hard.
Her father told her that the news about Mr Adams leaving Green Tree Mill to a woman had spread through the mill owners’ network quickly. When they heard their rival was the daughter of David Mudie they were amused, for most of them knew him and a few were his friends; though they appreciated him as a congenial companion, none of them were under any illusions about his dedication to hard work.
‘They’re all on at me. They say Green Tree hasn’t been much of a business for twenty years and they want to know how much you’ll sell it for,’ said David.
‘What did you tell them?’
‘I said, “The mill’s not mine. It’s my daughter’s. If you want to know anything about it, you’ll have to ask her.”’
‘And quite right too,’ she said with a smile.
‘I’d a hard job convincing them that a woman’s taking over the mill and that she won’t allow any interference – even from her father.’
‘Did they think that unsuitable?’
‘Well, I don’t suppose unsuitable’s the right word but they certainly think it’s unusual.’
‘Because where money is concerned men do all the managing, I suppose,’ said Lizzie. ‘What did you tell them, Father?’
‘I said they wouldn’t think it unusual if they knew my daughter,’ he said proudly.
What neither he nor Lizzie knew was that the jute-barons discussed the Mudie family well over their brandy and cigars in their club, a large building in Reform Street. They even conspired about who would have the privilege of picking up a neat little bargain when Lizzie was driven to the wall – for fail she must. They were sure of it. What they did not reckon with was the demon that drove her on.
‘You’re killing yourself. Have you had a look in your mirror recently?’ Maggy’s face was mutinous as she stood gazing at Lizzie, who sat white faced at the supper table after coming home from the mill.
‘I’m tired, that’s all. It’s difficult learning all about Green Tree,’ was the excuse.
‘No wonder you’re tired. You’re up at five in the morning and out with the mill bummer at six like our Rosie – and you don’t come back till late at night – long after the mill lassies. That’s no way to live.’
Lizzie raised red-rimmed eyes. ‘It’s how I want it.’
‘But what about Charlie – and what about your father and that household of bairns he’s keeping down in Castle Street? What about that poor wee bairn of Chrissy’s?’
Lizzie was almost angry. ‘My father’s bairns aren’t my concern and Charlie’s happy enough. You look after him, don’t you? I see him as much as I can. And don’t go on about Chrissy’s bairn. I’m not taking it in, if that’s what you’re hinting. I’ve got more to do than that.’
She had longed for another child when Sam was alive; she had been jealous when she saw Chrissy’s baby; she did not want to be reminded of either of those emotions.
Maggy guessed that there was more to her objections than she said, and tried another tack.
‘You’re working so hard you haven’t even taken the time to move into Tay Lodge. Mr Adams left it to you and it’s sitting there empty while you’re still paying rent for this place.’
Lizzie put down her fork with a look of surprise. Of course, she’d completely forgotten about Tay Lodge! She’d been far too busy to consider moving, but now it was summer and she suddenly remembered how beautiful the gardens were out there in the Perth Road. Charlie would love Tay Lodge.
‘You’re right, Maggy. I’ll give up this house and we’ll move. You’d better start packing.’
For the next week, while Lizzie spent her days at the mill Maggy packed up Lochee Road with the assistance – and hindrance – of Charlie. She handled Lizzie’s pretty things with sorrow because every single one of them brought back memories of happier days. When she packed the clothes she carefully put Sam’s in a separate trunk and when all was finished, she asked Lizzie, ‘What’ll I do with his things?’
There was no need to ask who was being referred to – they both knew only too well.
‘Keep them for Charlie. No, don’t. Give them away. Give them to George – No, don’t. I’d see him wearing them. Give them to anybody. There’s only one thing I want, Maggy, I want his white silk scarf.’
‘I knew you’d want that. I put it in your box.’
The move went off with little fuss. Tay Lodge was fully furnished and running smoothly because Lizzie had continued paying the staff wages ever since she inherited the house so they settled in quickly.
Maggy was stranded in an alien element in that beautiful, silent house. She had no training in running such a place and felt overawed and displaced by the other servants. Her gloom deepened daily and when Lizzie realized how unhappy she was, she acted quickly.
‘I don’t want you to work as a maid. You’re my right hand. I trust you most of all and besides, you’re looking after Charlie for me. I wouldn’t allow anybody else to do that,’ she told Maggy who glowed with importance at the words. Her position at the top of the servant hierarchy was secure.
Lizzie had little time to enjoy her new surroundings for she continued to rise at five in the morning and was in the mill before the whistle blew. She stayed there, keeping an eye on everything that went on, till six at night when her carriage and horses, inherited with the house, came to drive her home.
Both at home and in the mill she was acutely conscious of the eyes that were on her. Even in the street, she felt that eyes were following her carriage. Not only were the other mill owners watching but so were her employees.
The women in the work sheds paused and stared with silent hostility whenever she walked among them – she was the boss and she was a woman. They did not like that because, although they were vigorously independent women, and many of them raised their families without the help of any man, they preferred their bosses to be male.
The men in the office pandered to her but she knew that they were all waiting for her to make a mistake. It was difficult to ask questions because most of them acted as if she ought to know the answers. Only Mr Bateson was patient and explained the jute-making processes and secrets of the trade without condescension.
By the time she had been at the helm of Green Tree Mill for six months, all the senior foremen and the secretary, Argyll, had tendered their resignations. She knew it was because they had no confidence in her making a success of her enterprise and were getting out before the ship sank, but this only hardened her determination not to give in and sell up as everyone obviously expected.
Remembering the hours she had spent with Mr Adams and the lessons she had learned from him, she insisted on seeing all the mill books and pored carefully over the orders and balance sheets, spotting every weak point and questioning every loophole.
Eventually she decided that Green Tree’s biggest weakness was the fact that it had no Indian partners. Mr Adams had been content to buy his hemp from middle men, many of whom were old friends, but that made the raw material more expensive than it was for mills who dealt directly with India.
When the slump was at its worst, and when her order books were at their lowest, she took herself down to Shore Terrace for a meeting with one of the biggest importers of raw jute. His name was Skelton and he was a worried man because his business also had fallen off drastically. The big mills had their own ships and their own links with Calcutta so they did not need him. He had always relied on the smaller operations but it was these lesser mills who were feeling the cold draught of recession worst.
When he saw the woman who owned Green Tree being ushered into his office he felt a surge of exasperation. His time was too precious to be wasted by a young fashion plate who was amusing herself by trying to run Mr Adams’ place.
Besides, the Green Tree account had never been very big. Old Adams divided his custom between three or four importers.
He was short with her. ‘What can I do for you, Mrs Kinge?’
‘I’ve come to discuss your price for raw hemp,’ she said.
‘It’s a very good price, as low as I can make it.’
‘I’d like you to make it even lower,’ was her reply.
The cheek of the woman, he thought.
‘That’s impossible,’ he said and shuffled a pile of papers on his desk as an indication that she was wasting his time but she was not discomfited by the tactic.
‘How many ships do you bring in from India every year?’ she asked.
In good times he’d brought in nearly one a week, but recently it was down to one a month. ‘I’m still bringing in forty,’ he lied.
‘If you cut your price by half I’ll take twelve of them,’ she offered.
He stared at her in amazement. That was his whole quota now, and even in good times Mr Adams had not taken twelve ships a year. This lassie was clearly deranged. His thoughts ran wild. Should he agree to the bargain and force her into bankruptcy if she didn’t fulfil her bargain? He knew one or two men who’d thank him if he did that because they’d be able to pick up her place for nothing. Then came an afterthought: if she went broke, he’d be a loser too. The big men weren’t buying from him and even a good turn wouldn’t make them change their ways. Without speaking he shook his head.
She looked levelly at him as if she could see into his mind. ‘There’s other importers I can go to, you know. You all need the business and I hear that if you don’t pick up soon, you’ll have to close down. A regular order for twelve ships would keep you in business.’
He leaned his hands palm down on the table top and told her, ‘There’s not another mill owner in Dundee taking twelve ships a year from me. How’re you going to do it when Green Tree’s just a little mill?’
‘That’s my business. I’ll do it. Don’t worry about that,’ she said. ‘Just make up your mind. Do you want business at my price or not?’
She tried not to show her relief and surprise when he stuck out his hand. ‘I’ll take it,’ he said.