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Gillan and Neil went up with Charlie to the mill, stopping only to post a message home about their safe arrival. Charlie thought there would certainly be places for two able-bodied men, and his quick stop in the office of the foreman confirmed it. The boss came out to look them over, and seeing no immediate evidence of drunkenness or sullenness, gave the nod to Charlie to show them around.
Charlie demonstrated his job, at the end of a line of shuttling machine parts, where he checked the speed and lubrication for the moving arms of the looms. Neil’s impression was of overwhelming noise, metal arms of perpetual motion, and shadowy figures darting amongst the clouds of white fuzz floating through the air.
Skylights high above the floor let in natural light, but it was badly obscured by the clouds of fluff floating about. To Neil, it sounded like the clanging of Hell’s minions he’d always heard about from the Reverend Lachlan McManus.
“Yes, sirs, they tell me this is low speed, that the mill hasn’t fully recovered from the war years, but that in the next months, now that duties are being repealed, we’ll have a chance to get back to full capacity, and even expand,” Charlie shouted over the din, grinning. “I expect that’s why you’re asked on so easy.”
“That is good news,” Gillan shouted back.
Charlie took them outside where they saw the factory yard with its wagons. Some were full of raw cotton to be unloaded, some were taking on the finished bales to cart away. Beyond the wagons was the river, tinged an unnatural greenish-blue. Gillan asked about it.
“That’s from the bleaching. The cotton’s got a lot of debris in it when it comes in, so the bits we can’t remove in the tumbling get broken down and bleached so that they form part of the material anyway.”
Neil felt sorry for the river. He looked past the place where the waste water splashed in. Several fish floated there, pinned to the side by the currents, their bellies to the sky. His nose started to run.
“Well, and what’ll ye do?” Charlie asked. “Start now and send for your family, or head back and help them to move?”
“Haven’t decided yet,” said Gillan. “But I reckon we should do some more poking about the neighborhood, see where we might find a house and all that, to make sure we can afford it. What did you say the starting wage was here?”
“Nine shilling a day for a nine-hour day, and that’s six days a week. The boss had it going on Sundays, twenty year ago before the war, but hasn’t had it since then. Although, if it picks up like he says...” Charlie trailed off suggestively.
“All right, I see the way of it. Sounds very good for you, Charlie, I’m glad. Now Neil and I will be off and check around some today, if that’s all right.”
“Course, o’course,” Charlie said. “Now I’m off to work, so ye’ll find yer own way back,” He grinned and waved them off as he headed back inside.
Neil’s ears had still not stopped ringing from the time inside the mill, and Gillan had to repeat his question before Neil was able to answer.
“I said, what do you think, Neil?”
“Oh, it’s quite loud in there,” he said, shaking a finger in his ear.
“That’s true,” said Gillan, looking at him speculatively. “Let’s walk.”
They walked back home to Jenny, only asking directions twice when they turned down the wrong alley. Other than that, Gillan seemed quiet, considering something. Before they went in the door to Jenny’s wee house, Gillan turned to face Neil.
“Neil, I’m thinking we should not take this step until we have to. There’s the harvest to take in, the chance we’ll make our rent another year, and it looks as though this place will have enough room to take in newcomers for quite a while yet. I say we shouldn’t leave until we must. What do you think?”
Neil shifted his feet, stunned at being asked this question by his stepfather. “I think—” He paused, started again. “I think that while we have a chance to stay with our home, we should. It’s what we’re used to, and we have friends there. Perhaps Aunt Jenny did not like her home as much, and so could leave more easily, but we all like our place at Dalcriadh. Could the price of the kelp-ash change back again, do you think, Father?”
“Ach, no, put no more faith in that, boy. The politicians in London got the Laird into that fix, and then dropped him. Now the Laird’s dropping us. Maybe. We shall wait and see.” He smiled at Neil, another surprise, as Gillan was not generally of a sunny disposition.
“Right,” replied Neil. They would stay another night to see more of the neighborhood so that they’d be familiar if they had to come back, but both men put their hopes in not having to do that. It was not the life for them.
––––––––
The market day had been exhausting for Sheila, but she had made more money than she’d hoped. Enough for the rents, but not enough to replenish the fund for Neil’s schooling. She hurried home with her earnings, taking the back roads and silent paths, even though she’d well hidden the money in the folds of the only blanket not to be sold, and no clinking could be heard as she walked.
As soon as she came into view of the house, Sheena ran out to meet her with the news that they had received the notice from Neil about their safe arrival. It did not say much else, only that they’d had no ill luck on their journey south, and were fair happy to see Jenny and would send word of any decisions just as soon as they could.
The letter had come in the post the day of the market, so Sheila considered it a doubly lucky day. She asked Muirne about how they’d gotten on with John, and Muirne blushed a bit in recollection. “We had a very pleasant supper with him, Mama.”
Faced with this tight-lipped response, Sheila turned to Sheena. “And what did ye talk about then, ma wee hen?”
“We talked about the village festival, and the baking contest, and who might win. And Muirne made a pan of flapjack for us.” Sheena turned to smile at Muirne at that, but then turned back to Sheila.
“We also talked of ways to get money for the rents. John was set on poaching from the loch back up by the pit, where he says there’s fine trout to be had. He said he could sell it at the market where no one would ask a word.”
“Oh? Well, that’s sure to land him in trouble. Nothing else then?”
“Oh, and John did happen to mention that some ‘lucky young buck’ would be asking for Muirne’s hand soon.”
Muirne glared at her younger sister and turned a few shades more scarlet. Little Alisdair looked up in confusion.
“Is Muirne going to move? Or are we?” he asked.
“Nobody is moving right now,” Muirne said firmly.
Sheila allowed herself a small smile at her daughter’s embarrassment. She must think of a proper match for the girl then, if people were starting to talk.
––––––––
As the family was sitting down to enjoy Muirne’s whelk stew, there was another knock on the door. Sheila left the children sitting in front of their steaming bowls as she went to open the door slightly. “Who is it?” she asked of the hazy figure in the late dusk.
“Lachlan McManus, ma’am. I’m sorry to disturb you at the dinner hour...”
Alisdair grinned at his use of the word dinner. Sheena shushed him with a look, not wanting to explain why some called dinner ‘luncheon’ and supper ‘dinner.’ She liked their minister with his old-fashioned puffy wig and fine clothes. She often wondered about the other side of life in the manse house. But why would he come knocking now?
“Only it’s that I’m here already and did not want to make the journey down again,” the clergyman started.
“Most welcome, sir.” She ushered him in and bade him sit. “Did you need to stay the night? It’s a fine evening for walking, but if you’d rather—”
“No, no, I’ll be walking back, but I had a message for you.” Sheila and Muirne exchanged glances: another message, after those he read out at kirk?
“The Laird was visiting again, and it seems something was got wrong. Many people who were supposed to get notices did not. More’n likely it was the mercy of one of his tacksmen, gone awry, for what good could it do when you’ll still need to clear out? Any road, that is the sad news I have to deliver to several of the families hereabout.” He waved a small piece of paper. “This area is reckoned to be a grand one for winter grazing, and so I’m to be sure to tell the families who got no notice, that they are indeed required to move out by the end of harvest.”
Sheila was shocked. She’d been expecting good news, as the first two messages had been good, and everyone knew, good or bad, it came in threes.
“Even if we pay the rents same as before, sir, the Laird is set on us losing our land?”
The man tucked in his chin with a jerk. “Well, I’ll no say that’s a surprise if ye do have it, as I figured everyone around here got their siller from the ash, but then I don’t know. You will have to take that up with the Laird himself. I won’t ask how you come by the siller, only,” and here he raised his eyebrows, “don’t be breakin’ the Sabbath, woman. No good will come o’ that.”
“No, sir. Only my husband and son have left to see about a job, so it may be they’ll work it until the rents are due, then return home. I must write to them right away to suggest it.”
“And who will stay then to bring in your harvest? You’ve only girls left, and this wee tyke, who’ll be no good wavin’ a scythe.” He motioned toward Alisdair.
“We’ll manage the field, I think,” Sheila said, a determined note creeping into her obsequious tone.
“Well, but don’t forget you need to ask the Laird if he’ll even let you pay. It may be he needs the grazing for other reasons. It’s happened that way in other places, and he may be no different. But I’ve done my duty,” he finished, and stood, ignoring the still-steaming tea that Muirne had placed in front of him.
After the door closed behind him, mother and daughters looked at each other. Sheena sniffled back tears, and Alisdair seemed in danger of catching the impulse, so Sheila redirected their attention.
“We must trust to God, my pets. He has sent me silver through the woolen market,” she said as she poured out the coins from her blanket sack. “And He must have had a good reason for doing so.” Muirne had the sudden thought that they might be needing it for finding a new home, but she kept quiet. Sheila saw the thought cross her face.
“Whatever it is we need it for, we will know when the time comes,” she said.
“Shall we write to Father and Neil then? What shall we say?” asked Muirne.
“Here, Sheena,” said Sheila, handing her an old piece of paper. “Make the whitewash paste to cover the old writing. Let me think awhile.” Muirne got out the pen and bottle of ink stowed carefully underneath the airing cupboard, and sat down to carefully scratch out the letter her mother dictated.