The Sunday before Christmas was a bitterly cold day when Nathan and Lacey met on the riverbank behind the Mill. Underfoot the path was slippery and overhead thick grey clouds threatened snow.
It was only just after two in the afternoon yet already the sky was darkening, and Lacey shivered as they walked gingerly, hand in hand, over the icy ruts. It was so dismal she couldn’t help thinking of the warm, jolly places they could be were they not keeping their friendship secret.
Christmas Day being a Thursday, the Mill would close until the following Monday and Lacey, looking forward to the holiday, attempted to lighten her spirits by talking of what she might do. ‘It’ll give me chance to catch up with me sewing, an’ there’ll be folks coming and going at all hours so I’ll not be short of company,’ she said, at the same time hoping Nathan would suggest she spent some of the time with him.
Nathan, sensing her forced jollity gazed down at her, his heart heavy. She looked a picture in her navy woollen coat with its nipped in waist, a bright blue knitted scarf covering her glossy brown hair and framing her lovely face. He desperately wanted to say he would share every minute of the holiday with her, yet he knew family duties would claim him.
His spirits sinking even further, he reiterated his request for her to meet his family. ‘Do come. There’ll be other workers there so you won’t feel out of place. We’ll get it over with in one fell swoop.’ To Lacey it sounded as though he dreaded the event so she said as much.
‘Look, if you’re not sure about this we can leave it for another time.’
‘No, the sooner we get it over with, the better.’
For the rest of the afternoon Nathan was tense and distracted and they almost quarrelled when Lacey chose to discuss a topic close to her heart.
‘They’ve arrested Emmeline Pankhurst again. I think it’s disgraceful that women aren’t allowed to vote. If I were in London I’d join the protest.’
Nathan stared at her, askance. ‘She was involved in a bomb attack on Lloyd George’s home. Surely you don’t condone such actions.’
‘They wouldn’t have to resort to such actions if men were intelligent enough to acknowledge that women have an equal place in society,’ said Lacey stoutly. ‘I think Sylvia Pankhurst and her daughter, Emmeline, are extremely brave.’
‘Foolish, more like; it all seems dreadfully unladylike to march in mobs, yelling and jeering at those chosen to run the country.’
‘Aye – men – that’s who runs the country an’ women have no say – not even upper class women like the one’s you’re used to,’ Lacey fired back, her cheeks pinking with the heat of her argument. ‘Suffragettes fight for what they believe in. They’re even prepared to starve to death for their rights. The way the government played ‘Cat an’ Mouse’ with ‘em was a dirty trick; releasing them from gaol when they went on hunger strike so’s the women wouldn’t get public sympathy. We’ve as much right to the vote as any man.’ Lacey paused for breath, her green eyes glittering and her expression steely.
Nathan watched the rapid rise and fall of her bosom. ‘I don’t entirely disagree with women having the vote,’ he said reasonably, ‘but I think they should let the law decide. These dramatic little displays of aggravation are getting them nowhere.’
‘Dramatic displays!’
Lacey’s shriek stopped Nathan in his tracks. She stared at him incredulously. ‘You think Emily Davidson throwing herself under the hooves of the king’s horse an’ being trampled to death was just for show. Really Nathan, I thought better of you.’ She turned, marching briskly away from him.
Nathan ran after her, catching her with both hands and swinging her round to face him. He kissed her passionately and when he released her, he laughed, ‘Oh Lacey, my darling little firebrand. What am I to do with you? Of course I agree women should have the right to vote. I’m sorry I upset you; don’t let’s quarrel over things that don’t concern us. We have little enough time together.’
And whose fault’s that, thought Lacey, as he took her in his arms and kissed her again. She responded willingly but in the recesses of her mind she was thinking, the right to vote might not concern you, Nathan, but it concerns me. And why, when you’re so intelligent and well read, are your opinions so skewed? It’s as if someone was telling you what you should think, rather than what you believe. What’s more, people of your social standing don’t have to consider the needs of the lower classes. You have your rights, no matter what.
Before they parted, Nathan said, ‘By the way, Lacey, I’d rather you didn’t mention Mrs Pankhurst during your visit. Mother doesn’t agree with suffrage. She considers it unladylike.’
Lacey sniggered. ‘Oh, I can see me an’ your mother will get along just fine.’
Nathan didn’t look convinced.
*
On Christmas Eve morning the atmosphere in the weaving shed was more convivial than usual. Some of the women had decorated their looms with sprigs of holly and sparkling tinsel. At breakfast time Jonas Brearley supplied hot mince pies for everyone, this being the last working day before the Mill closed for the holiday.
Huddled in a corner of the shed, for it was bitingly cold and the ground outside still covered in snow, Lacey and Joan bit into their pies before settling down to gossip.
‘Nathan’s invited me to that party they give for the managers, though I’m not sure I’ll go,’ said Lacey, her tone deliberately casual.
Joan’s blue eyes opened wide and her mouth turned down at the corners. ‘Does Jonas know you’ve been asked?’
Lacey shrugged. ‘Nathan thinks it will be a gentle way of introducing me to his mother.’
‘Gentle be beggared. It’ll more likely shock her into having a heart attack. You could lose your job over it, Lacey. Don’t go.’
Lacey frowned. ‘I know what you mean, Joanie, but if I don’t go I’ll never find out what way the wind’s blowing. If they go berserk and force Nathan to give me up then that’ll be the end of it. He says he’ll stand up to them, but I don’t think he’s thought how much he might lose if he does.’
Her glum expression tore at Joan’s kind heart so to ease Lacey’s pain she decided to commiserate by relating her own problems.
‘I wanted Stanley to come to us for his Christmas dinner but his mother wouldn’t hear of it. Caused a right stink, she did. She didn’t invite me to their place so we’ll not see one another until afterwards.’ Joan’s face brightened. ‘We’re both coming up to yours though, for a bit of a do later on.’
‘Good,’ said Lacey. ‘I’ve asked Nathan to come but I don’t know that he will. It’s not the done thing for the boss’s son to keep company with mill hands and farmers.’ She grimaced. ‘An’ anyway, we’ll more than likely shock the socks off him with our rowdy carry on.’
Joan grinned. ‘If he’s going to stay friends with you he’ll have to get used to it.’
‘Aye, maybe it’ll loosen him up a bit – show him how the other half lives.’
They both laughed at Lacey’s remark, but deep down Lacey was thinking that rather than make Nathan more carefree she ought to be encouraging him to show a bit more backbone.
Late that afternoon, as pick after pick increased her piece of woven worsted, Lacey thought of the larger than usual pay packet she would receive at the end of the day. The weavers were paid according to the number of pieces they had completed that week, each roll of cloth marked in black wax crayon with a weaver’s individual number. This enabled the wages clerk to calculate what was owed. This week Lacey’s pieces had been good, and added to that she would receive her Christmas bonus.
Suddenly her elation turned to exasperation. The shuttle on one of her looms had come unthreaded. Swiftly gripping the stout handle that stopped and started the loom, she shifted the drive belt from a ‘fast’ pulley to a ‘loose’ pulley. The loom ground to a halt. Annoyed by wasting time, Lacey looked around anxiously for a tuner.
A loom tuner was the man who fixed breakdowns, and whilst Lacey knew she could rethread the shuttle herself she objected to the practice. ‘Kissing the shuttle’ as it was called, meant placing the thread in the shuttle’s eye then sucking it through with a quick intake of breath. To do so she would be sucking fluff and dust into her lungs.
Better to let someone else do it.
The loom at a standstill, Lacey was startled when a pair of grimy hands encircled her waist and hot, fetid breath wafted over her shoulder. Half turning, she saw Syd’s leering face, and through her overall and heavy woollen skirt she felt his manhood rising as he pressed against her buttocks. Elbowing him aside she said, ‘I need me shuttle rethreading. Will you do it for us, Mr Sugden?’
A sprig of mistletoe dangled from the peak of Syd’s cloth cap. He had been drinking all morning, it being the custom at Christmas for the bosses to break open a bottle in the privacy of the office.
‘Aye, I will, but I know what I’d rather be kissin’. He leaned forward, lips puckered. Lacey stepped back, wishing she hadn’t asked for his help.
With one quick suck Syd rethreaded the shuttle and returned it to the loom. ‘Thanks,’ said Lacey, stepping forward to set the loom in motion. Syd blocked her way. She gave an appeasing smile and adopting a conciliatory tone said, ‘Let me get on, Mr Sugden, or I’ll be all behind at clocking off time.’
Syd bared his stained teeth in a grimace. ‘I think I deserve a bit more than thanks,’ he cajoled. ‘Go out to t’lavvy an’ I’ll be right behind; you can give us a Christmas present.’
Ignoring his request, Lacey turned her back on him and, as though he were not there, she waved to Joan then started up a silent conversation. Joan, who had been keeping an eye on the situation, mouthed back.
Syd, realising they were making a fool of him, yanked at Lacey’s arm. ‘Give us a kiss, yer miserable bugger.’ He pushed his face into Lacey’s. She raised her knee, ramming it into Syd’s groin and he tottered away, his face livid.
Lacey groaned. It had been unwise to anger Syd. Now, too late to prevent it, Lacey contemplated the misery of finding her wages minus the small bonus Jonas Brearley gave each of his employees at Christmas. For the rest of the day Lacey felt miserable.
Shortly before clocking off time the head tuner, Arthur Gibson, plodded through the ‘weaver’s alleys’ doling out the wages from a wooden tray divided into numbered strips, each strip holding several small tins containing money. When he handed Lacey hers, she knew by its weight that her Christmas bonus wasn’t in it. Damn Sydney Sugden, she silently cursed, counting the coins then shoving them into her overall pocket. It was no use complaining – she’d brought it on herself.
But complain she did, to Joan as they hurried out into the mill yard at the end of the day, the clatter of their clogs muffled by the thick snow underfoot.
‘The dirty, rotten sod,’ Joan commiserated.
Lacey chuckled. ‘I just hope his balls are that tender he can’t enjoy his Christmas dinner.’
‘Do you think I should tell him to rub some goose fat on ‘em,’ scoffed Joan.
‘I’d prefer to set me Mam’s geese on him. They’d rip ‘em off an’ do us all a favour.’
At the bottom of Turnpike Lane, the girls parted. ‘See you tomorrow then, Joanie; enjoy your Christmas dinner.’
‘Aye, me an’ Stanley’ll come to yours about six.’ Joan headed up Turnpike Lane and Lacey down Backhouse Lane to meet Nathan on the riverbank.
A chill wind blew up from the river, stinging her cheeks and making her eyes water, and as she trudged through the snow to the riverbank she couldn’t help feeling peeved. Why did their meetings have to be so clandestine? When were she and Nathan going to spend time together like other courting couples?
In the shelter of the Mill wall Nathan held her close, Lacey warming to his kisses. ‘Have you thought any more about coming up to our place tomorrow?’ she asked, fearful she might not see him at all over the holiday.
There was a long silence before Nathan answered. A cold shiver fingered Lacey’s spine. ‘I don’t think that will be possible,’ Nathan said, ‘I have family duties to attend to and, furthermore, don’t you think it will seem rather odd, me celebrating Christmas with your people?’
A hot spurt of anger flared in Lacey’s chest. ‘What do you mean – my people? If we’re ever to be together you’ll have to learn to mix with my people just as I’ll have to learn to mix with yours. If we mean anything at all to one another we’ll rise above whatever other people might think.’ She pulled away from him. ‘Or maybe you don’t love me enough, an’ it’s just a game you’re playing, salving your do-gooding instincts by being nice to the poor little factory girl.’
Nathan blanched. ‘No, Lacey! I love you truly. You mean the world to me. I just don’t know how we are to overcome our different stations in life without there being ructions.’ He hung his head, utterly dejected.
Lacey gave him a withering glare. ‘If you truly loved me you’d put aside all this class nonsense and if, as you say, I mean the world to you then your world must be a very petty place indeed.’
Nathan clutched her to his chest. ‘Please, Lacey; don’t be like this. I’ll come tomorrow evening, if I can get away.’ He kissed her fleetingly on the cheek then turned and ran.
Lacey gazed at the fast flowing river. You know where you’re going, she silently told it, whereas I don’t know whether I’m coming or going. One minute I’m certain of Nathan’s love, and the next I believe he doesn’t mean a word of it.
Totally confused, she retraced her footsteps until she came to the bottom of Backhouse Lane. What a waste of time on a night like this, she thought, as she trudged up the snowy pavement, irked and disappointed by Nathan’s feebleness.
At the top of Backhouse Lane she saw two men, both familiar, deep in conversation. She quickened her pace but failed to reach them before Jimmy ran off in the direction of Netherfold. Arty Bincliffe strolled towards her. Lacey blocked his way. Her eyes raked his pocked, weasel-like features. ‘I want a word with you.’
Arty grinned lewdly. ‘You can have owt you want wi’ me, Lacey, luv.’
Ignoring the innuendo, Lacey glared. ‘Leave our Jimmy alone,’ she threatened, ‘cos if you don’t you’ll have me to deal with. I know about them turkeys, so if you don’t want me to report it was you as stole ‘em, you’ll tell our Jimmy to get lost next time you see him.’
Arty smirked, rocking back on his heels, unfazed. ‘Ooh, you’re scarin’ me,’ he mocked.
Lacey tried a different tack, despising the pleading tone of her voice as she said, ‘Look Arty, our Jimmy thinks he’s a big man running round wi’ you, but he’s only a daft little lad. Do us a favour an’ leave him alone.’
‘Can’t say as I can, Lacey. Your Jimmy’s my little lackey. There’s nowt he wouldn’t do for me.’ Arty’s cocky tone and smug expression confirmed Lacey’s worst fears so she reverted to threats.
‘I’ve not said owt yet to our Matt but if he hears that you’ve been putting our Jimmy up to no good, he’ll give you a bloody good hiding.’
This time she managed to dent Arty’s arrogance. Matt Barraclough was a big, brawny man noted for being handy with his fists, whereas Arty Bincliffe was a weedy runt fit only for dominating the vulnerable. Astute enough to know Lacey had kept the incident of the turkeys from Matt to protect Jimmy, he shrugged carelessly. ‘Rightio! just for you, Lacey. I’ll tell him to bugger off next time he comes lookin’ for me. Mind, I’m only doin’ it ‘cos I fancy you. Do you want to go out wi’ me?’
Lacey laughed in his face. ‘You cheeky bugger; are you seriously expecting me to return the favour? I’ve said what I have to say, Arty, an’ I mean it. Leave our Jimmy be.’
She left him standing like a dejected scarecrow and hurried home to Netherfold convinced she’d dealt with the problem successfully.