Lacey waited on the corner of Towngate for the women who had promised to meet her there, her moral fibre wilting as the hands on the church clock ticked relentlessly towards seven thirty. She glanced up and down the street but none of those who had shown interest in attending the Union meeting were in sight. Even Joan had let her down.
Disappointed, Lacey entered the room at the rear of the Bull’s Head public house where the members of the Weavers’ Association held their Union meetings. Heads turned as she stepped inside.
Twenty or so men sat on benches facing a long trestle table behind which sat four others, papers set out in front of them. Ascertaining these were the Union officials, Lacey walked towards them, ignoring the banter aimed at her from the body of the room.
‘Atta lookin’ for your old man, luv?’
‘Oy, if you’re lookin’ for custom you need to go round to t’public bar.’
Whilst his allusion to her being a prostitute irked Lacey, she was even more annoyed to find herself flushing at the remark. ‘I’ve come to join the Union,’ she said to the men behind the long table. Much to her satisfaction her voice rang out clear and unwavering.
A sudden hush in the room was just as abruptly broken. ‘This is no place for a woman. Bugger off home an’ mind your bairns.’
Lacey turned to address the heckler. ‘I don’t have any, but if I did I wouldn’t want you to be the father of ‘em.’
The men laughed at the sharp response, one shouting, ‘Hey up, we’ve got a right one here.’
Lacey’s eyes roved her audience. ‘You have, and talking of rights, mine are just as important as yours. Like all of you I’m a weaver who wants the same improvements in wages and conditions. The more members you have the stronger you become, even if some of those members are women.’
‘Order, order,’ called one of the men behind the table, a man whom Lacey knew to be Harry Clegg. The noise abated. ‘Now lass, what can we do for you?’ His tone kindly, Lacey suspected he was merely appeasing her before refusing her request.
‘Like I said, I want to join the Union. You all know me, or at least you’ve seen me at work in Brearley’s Mill. Some of you I work alongside, so you know what I do. I’m willing to pay me subscription an’ abide by Union rules, so I don’t see how you can refuse.’
Somewhat surprised by the directness of her answer, Harry Clegg looked from one to another of his colleagues, scratching his head as he awaited their intervention. None forthcoming he proceeded to deal with Lacey’s request unaided.
‘You’re right in what you say, lass. If you pay your dues and abide by the rules we’ve no reason to refuse you membership but…’ He scratched his head again, searching for words before adding, ‘we’re not used to women at meetings. T’language can be a bit rough sometimes, lass.’
Lacey widened her eyes. ‘Mr Clegg, I’ve worked in t’mill for years. Don’t you think I’m used to a bit o’ cursing and swearing by now.’ Her reply raised a ripple of laughter. Lacey relaxed.
Harry hid a smile. The girl’s forthright manner was refreshing and he was enjoying the unsettling effect it was having on the other members. ‘Give us your details, lass, an’ sign there.’ He pushed a sheet of paper across the table. Lacey signed with a flourish.
*
The hot summer days faded into glowing autumn, the moors around Garsthwaite burnished with browning bracken and the ugliness of the town itself muted by early morning or evening mists. However, the townspeople’s attentions were elsewhere. As the war in Europe escalated it seemed to Lacey that everywhere she went people were discussing the implications of Britain being dragged into a war not of their making.
‘What’s it got to do with us?’ Joan wanted to know.
‘A hell of a lot,’ replied Lacey. ‘Rumour has it we’ll be on short-time afore long.’
‘But why?’ groaned Flo Backhouse.
Lacey had the answer. ‘Because there’s a slump in the demand for worsted cloth; trade all over Europe’s being affected because countries are concentrating on killing each other rather than buying the stuff we make for export.’
‘How come you know so much?’ Flo asked.
‘Union meetings,’ replied Lacey, ‘you should come along.’
*
Within days rumour became reality when mill workers throughout the valley were reduced to working a three day week. The sudden drop in income caused hardship to many, particularly Joan who still lived with her mother-in-law, the dreadful Hettie Micklethwaite.
‘Now we’ll never save enough money to get a place of our own,’ Joan grumbled. ‘What with this baby coming we’ll be stuck forever, but there’s nowt we can do about it.’
They were sitting in Lacey’s bedroom, Lacey at her sewing machine and Joan sewing buttons on a dress for Lily Hopkinson, landlady at The Bull’s Head pub.
‘Listen Joanie, I’ve been thinking,’ said Lacey, easing her foot off the treadle. ‘I’m still earning because I’ve a suit to finish for Mrs Brearley. Then Felicity an’ her friends, Miss Murgatroyd and Miss Earnshaw, all want dresses an’ I’ve more orders for alterations than I can cope with. If you help me run a little business on the side when we’re not at the Mill we can both make money.’
But how can I help?’ wailed Joan. ‘I can’t treadle or cut out.’
‘No, but you’re good at hand sewing,’ Lacey told her. ‘I’ll do all the cutting out and making up, you’ll do the finishing touches; the fiddly, time consuming jobs.’
Joan’s face lit up. ‘I could, Lacey; oh yes, I could.’
Cheered by the prospect of increasing her earnings, Joan sewed the last button on Lily Hopkinson’s dress, the awfulness of living with Hettie Micklethwaite diminished. In return for Lacey’s ingenuity, Joan volunteered to attend Union meetings.
*
‘There, that’s finished. What shall I do now?’ Joan snipped at the thread she had used to sew buttons on a coat Lacey had altered for the Baptist Minister’s wife, Mrs Pendlebury.
Lacey looked up from the fabric she was cutting, using one of the new paper patterns now on sale in the haberdashers in Huddersfield. ‘Start on those,’ she said.
It was the sixth week of working short-time in the Mill. Joan began to tack pieces of flimsy white muslin; two First Communion dresses for Lizzie Isherwood’s granddaughters.
Lacey set aside her scissors. ‘We could end up with more money in our purses than we earn in the Mill once we’ve finished this lot,’ she said, gesturing at the garments cluttering the bedroom. She pointed to the now altered, outmoded heavy brown coat belonging to the Baptist Minister’s wife. ‘If I’ve managed to make that fashionable enough to satisfy Mrs Pendlebury, we might get more orders from the upper crust in Garsthwaite. We can charge them a bit more than we do the lasses from the mill.’
Lacey picked up the scissors and resumed work. Alleviating her cousin’s financial distress pleased Lacey, but more importantly her little business had planted the seed of ambition.
*
On Monday evening Lacey and Joan hurried along Towngate, Lacey clutching a parcel containing Lily Hopkinson’s dress. They were going to the Union meeting in The Bull’s Head. ‘Will you raise the matter of the lavatories, Lacey?’ Joan’s eager tone had Lacey smiling at her new recruit.
‘I will if I can get them to stop talking about substitution and dilution for two minutes.’ Noting Joan’s blank expression Lacey elaborated. ‘Substitution means a man is being replaced by a woman who can do the job just as well as him, therefore she should be paid the same rate. Dilution means replacing men with women who don’t have experience, so they’ll be paid at a lower rate. Seeing as how we’ve always been paid less for doing the same jobs as men, I can’t rightly understand the argument. I know I work as hard as any o’ them fellows in our shed, an’ so do you, Joan, yet we’re paid nearly four bob less for every piece.’
‘We should bring that up at the meeting as well,’ Joan said, ‘equal pay for equal work.’
Lacey laughed outright. ‘Listen to you. You haven’t attended a meeting yet and you’re talking like a lifelong member. We might mention it, but we’ve to go easy; we don’t want to get their backs up.’
In the room at the rear of The Bull’s Head, Lacey and Joan sat with Lizzie, Maggie and Sarah, Lacey gratified by the increased female contingency. She’d delivered the finished dress to a delighted Lily Hopkinson and, receiving a shilling more than she’d asked for, Lacey felt ready for action.
The meeting was called to order and the new recruits sworn in. Then there followed a heated discussion on substitution and dilution, the men arguing that if they enlisted in the army and were replaced by women in their absence, was there any guarantee they would get their jobs back once the war ended.
‘It’ll all be over by Christmas, so they say,’ argued one man, ‘an’ Christmas is only weeks away so I don’t know why we’re bothering talking about it.’
‘I know where you’re coming from,’ said Lacey, sympathetic to their argument, ‘but women should be paid at the proper rate while they’re doing the job. I’m sure they’ll be only too glad to return to being housewives once their men return.’
The debate fizzled out, Lacey taking the opportunity to speak again.
‘It might seem trivial at times like this, but there is only one closet for all the women at Brearley’s, an’ that not fit for use.’
‘That’s right,’ Joan interjected, ‘sometimes at breakfast an’ dinnertime t’queues that long we don’t get chance to go before t’hooter blows us back to work.’ Thrilled at contributing to an issue she understood, Joan added, ‘An’ it doesn’t even have a lock on the door.’ She sat back, eagerly awaiting a response.
‘Did you come here to waste our time talkin’ about women’s shit holes,’ one of the men scoffed, ‘cos if you did you can bugger off.’
Joan flushed; squirming in her seat she turned beseeching eyes on Lacey. Lacey stood up, requesting permission to speak. Permission granted she turned to face the aggressor.
‘I know it might not seem important to you but it is to us women. If the Unions can persuade employers to improve working conditions in any way, no matter how small, then they’re doing their job. Every improvement is an achievement – even lavatories. If we can force Jonas Brearley to install decent facilities it shows the workforce we have their interests at heart. Therefore I propose the Union should approach Mr Brearley an’ ask him to deal with the matter.’ She glanced down at Joan. ‘An’ I thank Sister Micklethwaite for her contribution.’ Joan flushed again, this time with pride.
‘She’s right tha knows,’ said an old codger at the back of the room. ‘Make bosses give us a bit o’ respect, no matter that we’re on’y asking for shit holes.’
The motion was carried and the meeting ended. The girls departed, their steps buoyed with the sense of having made small but worthwhile progress.
The following day news of their minor triumph flew round the sheds, women weavers and spinners congratulating Lacey and Joan for raising the issue of the lavatories. The next meeting of the Weavers’ Association boasted six more new female recruits and Lacey was triumphant.
*
‘This war’s getting worse,’ complained Edith, setting aside the Huddersfield Examiner. She read it from end to end every evening, commenting on the news as she went. ‘Here’s me thinking it ‘ud all be over in no time, an’ now they’re saying,’ she picked up the paper and quoted. ‘Conflict in Europe intensified.’
Lacey snipped at the thread she was using to sew buttons on a coat she was altering for the coalman’s wife, then pinned the needle to the front of her cardigan. ‘There’s no sign of it coming to an end. You can see that everywhere you look. Nearly all the young lads in the Mill have answered Kitchener’s call, an’ most of ‘em have no idea what they’re letting themselves in for, poor sods.’ She shook her head despondently. ‘An’ now they’ve ordered women to take over their jobs there’s hardly a fellow under fifty in the spinning and weaving sheds. She gave a wry laugh. ‘It’s the same in all the mills in the valley; it must be the first time in history that women have been recognised for their true worth.’
‘Not that there’s that much for ‘em to do, what wi’ you being on short-time,’ said Edith, going to the sink to fill the kettle.
Lacey grimaced. ‘Aye, I’m lucky I’ve got me sewing; even though most of it’s just alterations. It’s only the nobs can afford to buy new material these days.’
‘Well,’ said Edith slowly, as she placed the kettle on the stove, ‘if you keep in with the Brearleys maybe they’ll send more custom your way.’
Lacey chuckled. ‘You make it sound as though I’m only marrying Nathan to make a few extra bob out of his wealthy friends.’
Edith measured tealeaves into the pot and poured in boiling water, a thoughtful expression creasing her face and her tone speculative as she said. ‘You’ll not need to work at all once you’re wed.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong, Mam,’ Lacey retaliated, ‘I won’t be a kept woman. I’ve made it clear to Nathan that I’ll make my own way in the world. There are things I want to do, and if I don’t I’ll not be the person I aim to be.’
Edith shrugged. ‘Suit yourself, you usually do. Most women would give their eyeteeth not to have to work.’ She filled two mugs, setting one down in front of Lacey.
Lifting it in celebratory fashion, Lacey retorted, ‘Ah, but I’m not most women, am I?’
*
The following week, having made a visit to Fenay Hall, Lacey arrived home in a jubilant mood. ‘Guess what Jonas told me,’ she chortled, as soon as she entered the kitchen. ‘Brearley’s have won a contract to make cloth for uniforms for t’British Army. We’ll be back working full time, weaving khaki and serge by the mile.’
She took off her coat and flopped into a chair by the fire. ‘Thank God for that! Short-time’s a curse. Some of the lasses have been really hard up this last while back, but this’ll give ‘em a chance to earn some decent brass.’
Edith placed a plate of bread and butter on the table to eat along with coddled eggs. ‘I don’t know how you’ll manage when you do go back, you’ve been that busy dressmaking.’ She tutted irritably, then said, ‘You take too much on, Lacey.’
Lacey sniggered. ‘You weren’t saying that the other day when Constance Brearley called to collect her suit.’ It had amused Lacey to see how thrilled Edith was by Constance’s visit, and how she had been even more flattered when Constance, accepting a cup of tea, had complemented her on her boiled cake.
Edith allowed herself a sheepish smile. ‘Aye, I’ll admit I was pleased to see her, for it settled my mind.’ She did not openly acknowledge that up until then she had doubted the veracity of Nathan’s feelings for Lacey, and with him in mind she asked, ‘How did Nathan seem in that letter you got this morning?’
‘He sounds cheerful enough. The training camp’s not as grim as he thought it might be and he says he gets on with the men. He’s asked me to knit him some thick socks but I think I’ll leave that to you.’
Edith grinned. ‘Aye, you might well. You never were a good hand at turning a heel. He’d be marching cockeyed if it depended on you.’
*
The following evening, Felicity called at Netherfold, her voice rising above the monotonous clack of the treadle as she and Lacey chatted. These visits, along with the occasional ones Lacey made to Fenay Hall brought Nathan closer, and in her letters to him she wrote of ‘building bridges’ for their future happiness. She made no mention of her suspicions regarding Constance’s duplicity, for whilst Constance accepted Lacey as a worthy dressmaker, Lacey sensed her reluctance to accept her as a prospective daughter-in-law.