Bone Street/Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
TOILING ON
NEXT morning again found father and son amongst the mill hands wending their way to the various factories. Old men, old women, young men, young women, boys and girls by the hundreds. The men and boys in their coarse harden smocks, the women and girls wearing mill shirts made of the same material. Almost all of them were wearing iron-shod clogs, the clatter of which was indescribable. Here and there an overlooker could be distinguished from his fellows, for they wore blue and white check smocks or coats, and boots instead of clogs.
This day Jack was more accustomed to his work, and although his whole body was sore and aching, he did not find the work so hard as on the previous day.
A week’s work in the mill, and they were both more than ready for a day on the moors, longing for the big wide spaces, which give one room to breathe. And so Sunday found them well away from the grimy town. This time a different direction was taken, and the day spent in a lovely part of the locality, not many miles away, fondly called by the residents of Beckton “Throstle’s Nest.” Here, stretched by the riverside, Jack again read to his father. The book was about half read by now, for Jack had snatched a few hours in the evening after their labours were done. It was almost impossible for the lad to imagine the infinite pleasure these hours were giving to his father, whose soul had been starved of literature, and Bradley instinctively knew that it was worth while giving up some of the pleasures he had previously indulged in, and received in return something which lifted them both away from the sordid realities of their miserable lives.
And so the days went on—work, sleep, eat, read. They did not ask for much leisure, nor did they receive it, but Jack was laying in store for himself a treasure that money cannot buy, namely, a great love and appreciation of good books, for with book companions man can never be quite lonely. The mill was becoming interesting, too, for in his capacity as warehouseboy, he was gaining an acquaintance with the various departments of the huge spinning-mill. Going to the spinning room for sample bobbins of yarn, he saw the young children—endlapping as it was called, that is, when the bobbins were full of yarn, the machines were stopped, the little half-timers broke the thread, and with a deft turn of the fingers passed one end in a simple knot over the top of the bobbin to prevent the thread running loose. Then came the “Head Doffer,” usually a full-timer, or in other words a boy of 13 or 14 years, who had left school. “Doff here,” he shouts, and up they come, full-timers and half-timers, boys and girls, each with a rawhide tub in front of them suspended with a strap over their shoulders. They took the full bobbins off the spindles, emptied them into the tubs, and then carried them away to the cellars.
After the doffers came the “Bobbin Ligger”; he also was a full-timer, again with a tub slung over his shoulder, but in this case it contained empty bobbins, and with these he filled the spindles. It was just wonderful to see the dexterity with which the work was performed. The spindles were in rows on the spinning-frames, with not more than an inch and a half between them. He would pick up in each hand half a dozen bobbins, and with a downward striking movement would place an empty bobbin on each spindle. The flanges had to be placed at the bottom of the spindle, but he rarely missed his mark.
When all the spindles are full along comes the “Side-minder.” She, for it is usually a woman or a girl from fifteen upwards, has been carefully wiping off the machines the dust and fluff that has accumulated. She takes the end of the yarn with one hand as it emerges from the rollers, passes it through the spindle, gives the bobbin a few turns with the other hand, and so passes down the frame until they are all ready for running, then the machine is started.
At the back of her is a similar set, and both are watched by the one girl to see if any ends break down. If they do, with a leather pad protecting the palm of the hand, she stops the spindle from revolving, takes the stray end, twisting it to the end on the bobbin, and the spindle is allowed to revolve again. Sometimes the end falls between the rollers; the side-minder dives her hand in the running machinery to seize it, and, alas, screams are heard, quickly the spinning-frame is stopped, and the hand released, often mangled beyond recognition, which may mean some of the fingers being amputated. This was before the Workman’s Compensation Act. So while they were recovering from the accident, in addition to the pain and suffering, they lost their wages.
Jack saw all these operations, at first with wonder, later getting used to it, but he never ceased to admire the cleverness of the “Bobbin Ligger.”
So day by day, week by week, and month by month, Jack’s life was proceeding. His schooling, with the exception of his reading aloud, was of an almost negligible quantity, but in the reading lesson he always excelled. The fact that he was habitually reading aloud to his father was altering his manner of speech. Gradually he dropped the “thee” and “thou,” and the slurring of words so common in the West Riding. He said “not” instead of “noan,” and so absorbed grammar without knowing it.