Home Is A Strange Country Chapter One

 

HOME IS A STRANGE COUNTRY

 

 

CHAPTER ONE

December 1903 Bolton

Florence's nose froze. It was six o'clock in the morning, and the hard December weather was cold enough to create intricate flower patterns of frost on the inside of her bedroom window, not that Florence could see them. She lay with her eyes tightly closed under the bedclothes. A thin dribble of transparent snot slowly ran from her nose onto her top lip. In her sleepy state she rubbed at it with her hand from beneath the blankets and sniffed.

'Florence.' It was the voice of her Pa calling from downstairs to wake her. The unconscious part of her brain had dimly registered the voice coming from the foot of the stairs, but the noise still had to make the transition upwards into the conscious part of her brain to make any real impact.

'Florence.' This time a little louder, but still not shouting. The impact on her unconscious was marginally greater, but still only enough to make her eyelid twitch and her head move slightly, unwillingly and unconsciously.

'Florence.' This time his voice was just about normal talking level. Florence's unconscious registered the noise, and this time so did the conscious part of her brain. She tossed under the thin blankets and eiderdown on her bed, and flipped from her left to her right side.

'I'm up Pa,' she muttered almost in her sleep. There was a wait of three seconds, and then,

'Florence.' This time Pa called her in a slightly louder tone. Florence turned again and groaned,

'I'm up Pa.' He didn't believe her and called her name again, and again, each calling of her name two seconds after the preceding call. The sound broke the thread of sleep and her eyes flickered open and then closed again, just as quickly.

Florence snaked out her left leg from under the covers, and tapped her foot hard on the bare floor by the side of her bed three or four times to indicate to her Pa that she was up and out of bed. Her Pa was not fooled, he continued to call her name gently to her, just above normal speaking level, every two seconds. Florence could bear it no longer and in a fury she swept the clothes off her bed and stamped her way blindly and angrily to the door of the bedroom, flinging open the door and stepping through onto the small landing at the head of the stairs. The warmth of her body melted away in the cold morning air and she stood shivering on the small dark landing.

'I'm up Pa!' she shouted down the stairs to him. He wasn't there. He had heard the real sounds of her movement in the bedroom and had resumed his seat by the kitchen fire. In a blind anger she stood at the top of the stairs with her hands clenching and unclenching by her sides, her face twisted with hate and anger, her breath coming in deep uncontrolled gasps, her long dark brown hair falling over her face in a bedraggled mess, like a Welsh pony needing a haircut.

'I'm up Pa!' she shouted angrily. There was no response, so she shouted again, 'I'm up!'. His voice floated up gently in reply from the kitchen.

'Right-o love. Tea's ready when you are.'

Florence turned back to the bedroom, pulling at her long cotton nightdress from the cheeks of her bottom, which had been trying to eat it since she had risen from her bed. She stamped back into the dark bedroom and slumped down on the side of her bed, fishing in the darkness with her toes for the socks and clogs she knew were somewhere under the bed. From the other side of the room she saw a small pile of bedclothes move as her Ma turned over in the bed she shared with her husband.

'Do you have to make so much noise,' her mother muttered. 'It's still the middle of the night.'

'Sorry Ma.' Florence quietly threw a reply over her shoulder, whilst pulling on the rough hand knitted socks she had found stuffed into her clogs from the previous night. She stood up shivering, her breath blowing in small clouds into the room, and pulled on her drawers and smock and then a cardigan, before rubbing the sleep from her eyes with the heel of her hand. She crept silently now from the room, not wishing to waken her sleeping mother any further. Her mother had not been well for some time, and always slept late in the morning; her weakness the result of bearing too many children too quickly over too few years.

Florence pulled the bedroom door gently behind her and walked as quietly as her clog shod feet would allow, down the plain uncarpeted wooden staircase. Though there was no light on the staircase itself, she could see where the door at the bottom on the stairs stood closed, illuminated by a yellow line of light shining through from under the door, where it failed to meet the bottom stair. Holding her hand on the banister on the wall she crept downstairs and entered the kitchen, closing the door quietly behind her. Her father was seated in his armchair by the fire, resting his hand on a large white pot mug on the table set in front of the fire. Hearing the door at the foot of the stairs open he half turned his head towards Florence, his only daughter.

'Tea's here ready for you,' he said, nodding towards the teapot standing on the griddle over the open fire in the cast iron range in front of him. Florence said nothing in reply, simply walked quickly in a simmering silence the few steps to the back door. She slithered down the short icy back yard to where the privy stood by the back gate. She sat in bitter cold and almost total darkness in the privy, clutching her arms around her and shivering uncontrollably in the early morning cold. Icy blasts blew through the gap between the bottom of the door and the floor, making life difficult for her as she sat on the wooden toilet seat. She reached up in the darkness to take a piece of torn newspaper from a short length of bent wire which hung at the side of the door and wiped herself with it. Then, clutching her shawl around her shoulders, she hurried back into the kitchen, kicking closed the door behind her. She went to the fire which was now sending flames half way up the chimney, and rubbed her frozen hands together in the heat. She looked over her shoulder down at her father's balding head, as he sat sipping his tea from his pot.

'Why do you do that Pa?' she demanded, still angry. He looked up from his tea and grinned.

''Cos it works love, 'cos it works. Never fails to get you out of your bed in a morning, does it?' he said. Florence did not reply, simply took a mug from the table and filled it with dark brown tea from the teapot by its side. She stood gazing into the flames of the fire, sipping her tea until the mug was empty. Neither of them said a word whilst they both drank their early morning tea. Placing the empty mug down on the table she took her shawl from the back of one of the chairs at the table and wrapped it around her shoulders. She bent down and planted a kiss on her father's head.

'Don't deserve it,' she muttered. Her father turned his head towards her as she went to leave the room.

'Work hard love, work hard,' he said grinning.

'No choice have I?' she replied sullenly, walking quickly down the hallway to the front door.

Florence was tempted to slam shut the front door in anger, but remembering her mother in bed above she simply closed it normally, and stepped out into the freezing morning. Stepping out along Waterloo Street she pulled her knitted shawl tightly around her head and almost immediately stopped at the house next door. She kicked her clogged feet one against the other as she listened to the sound of her friend Hettie coming noisily along the corridor, and then the front door was opened by her. The wooden front door did nothing to hide the noise of what was going on inside, it simply formed a barrier from people on the outside. Florence said nothing but stepped sideways and started to walk on again up the street, Hettie stepping out quickly to catch up with her. 'Alright Het,' Florence asked eventually.

'God but it's cold isn't it?' her friend answered.

'Language Hettie. What would your Ma say if she heard you swearing like that?'

'Don't care, it's freezing. Put a hurry Flo, I'm freezing to death here.' The two young women increased their pace and soon joined up with other clog shod young women walking in their direction. By the time they reached the top of Waterloo Street where it met Blackburn Road the pavements on both sides of the road were full of single individuals and groups of two or more, all heading in the same direction as Florence and Hettie. The pavement was frosty white and uneven where the stone flags had tipped and chipped over the years, and where now the cold winters frost had taken hold. They walked as quickly as was possible in their steel tipped clogs, but were constantly aware of the danger of falling flat on their behinds. In twenty minutes they had walked up Waterloo Street and Blackburn Road until they were almost at the Iron Church, so called by the locals who attended the church because when first built the congregation ran out of money and could only afford a sheet iron roof. Opposite were the imposing double wrought iron gates of the Prospect Mill. The mill was made up of three solid block like buildings, each of six or seven stories, and finished some ten years before Florence and Hettie started to work there. The two young women were forced to slow to a crawl almost, as the throng of workers grew larger at the double gates of the mill. Elbowing their way silently into the crowd they entered the doorway on the ground floor of the mill.

............................................................

The two young women were soon lost in the crowd of men and women bustling to enter the comparative warmth of the mill, and elbowed their way through the large wooden door leading to their respective workrooms. Both joined a queue of workers at the time clock on the left hand wall by the foot of the stairs, and punched their cards and then placed them in the correct place in the rack by its side.

The floor of the cotton spinning mill was over two hundred feet long, but probably nearer to three hundred, and sixty to eighty feet wide. Then it disappeared into a haze of semi darkness at the far end. Since the mill had opened in 1864 it had accumulated steadily increasing layers of smelly oil from the machines installed there, and natural oils and grit from the cotton which was worked on those machines. The room's ceiling was about fifteen feet high, to accommodate the lines of cotton spinning machines which were crammed shoulder to shoulder along the whole of the floor, and the extraction ducts which followed the ceiling.

There were so many machines in the room, that human passage around the edges of the floor, and between the individual machines, was done only with difficulty and care. Along the short ends of the room high windows allowed the winter sun to create an aura of brightness and light which belied the intense industry for which the room was constructed. Over the years the windows had become coated with a thick film of grime made from the oils and dust coming off the cotton, so that even on bright summer days it was sometimes not possible to make out anything beyond the windows other than shadowy shapes and figures.

Florence hated the place with a fierce and youthful vengeance, and had done from the first day she had started work there. When she was a child on her way home from school, she had frequently peeped into the mills during the summer months. It was only during these hot and steamy days, when the interior of the mill became so hot as to be intolerable even to the foremen and overseers, that the spinners and doublers working there were permitted to open up the doors to allow some warm air to draft into the place. She would stop, and bend her young legs down, to peer inside the maelstrom of noise coming from the looms, and each time she did, she became more and more convinced that she was never going to work there when she left school.

Life isn’t always ours to decide upon though, and Florence dutifully, though not with any pleasure, went to work at the mill when she left school at the age of twelve. The mill she worked at was owned by Barlow and Jones Ltd., and was called the Prospect Mill. The mill was on Blackburn Road, Bolton, close to the Blackburn Road Congregational Church, and was no better nor worse than many others in the Lancashire mill towns. Bolton was similar in many ways to all the other mill towns which had grown with the cotton trade. The Prospect Mill had one thousand three hundred looms in it, running eighteen hours a day in good times, twenty four hours a day in better times. Florence worked the day shift, from seven thirty in the morning until four thirty in the afternoon. In the winter time she went to and from home to work in darkness and cold for weeks on end, kept warm in winter by a thick woollen shawl around her head and shoulders, identical and indistinguishable from all the other mill girls. She wore solid wooden clogs tipped with steel horseshoe shaped soles on her feet. Like horses, but not as well fed or treated.

Bolton had nearly two hundred mills which spawned a series of spin-off industries of bleaching and dyeing mills. The town existed, had grown, and lived for cotton, but in recent times had also grown prosperous with the addition of paper, coal mining and engineering companies, which for the men of the town, provided some occupational alternatives. For women and girls there was little alternative. It was the mills or pregnancy. In the previous hundred or more years cotton had grown and flourished in the town, developing from family run looms worked by hand in the cellars and roof spaces of the poor homes in which people also brought up their families. With the invention of new looms and processes by Crompton and Arkwright the town itself had grown to accommodate the influx of workers from around England and afar, mainly from Ireland. The massive and rapid growth of the town brought with it all the social ills associated with that growth. Housing was built cheaply and badly, health facilities were poor or non-existent, drink was cheap and work was hard.

Florence hated working in the mill more than she hated her youngest brother Albert, who demanded more of their mothers’ attention than Florence received when she was his age. She hated the mill almost as much as walking through the dark cold streets in the morning to get to the place. She hated it more than the ice cold weather outside on winters mornings, and the contrasting overwhelming stifling heat of the spinning floor generated by the hot machines, which kept the operatives scurrying antlike all day, until they were at last switched off. The noise on the spinning floor was constant whilst the machines worked, and the shuttles shot to and fro turning out the miles of thread every day. The level of the noise was such as to make conversation impossible. Most of the men and women who worked in the mills, particularly the women, quickly developed the skill of lip reading across the length and breadth of the looms, above the noise they made.

The noise was worse than the Margam iron mills of South Wales, or steel works of Sheffield and Rotherham, worse than the riveting yards at Clydebank, louder than the loudest steel pressing plants of Tyneside, which is why after only a few weeks working in the place she, like all the other mill girls, had mastered the art of lip reading at a distance. She had also fostered a solid determination that working in the cotton mill was not going to be how she would spend the rest of her life. For many of the mill girls the way out was marriage and pregnancy; for more than a few it was the other way round. In her mind there was an angry conviction that she would not remain in the mill a minute longer than she needed to. She also developed a jealous regard for her brothers who were not automatically thrust into the mill when they had finished at school. She would get out of it in time and would not be relegated to its dimness and noise like her mother had been, and her aunts and uncles, and those others before her. Unlike them, she would not wait for marriage and a string of babies, one each year of the marriage, to escape from the place. For many of the women she knew, like her mother, they would probably lose as many of the children she birthed as they managed to persuade to live. She was sure she could do better than them. She had that level of solid determination which comes with the inexperienced knowledge and longing of youth, youth which had still to learn the pitfalls and hurdles which adult life could place in her path. She also had a level of natural intelligence, like her brothers, to enable her to view life and the world around her with a cynical and yet optimistic attitude. It was an attitude which would allow her to see life as others of her class could see, one which gave her a level of freedom few of her mill contemporaries possessed. She knew she was different, but had yet to understand why she was different.

Her father frequently commented to his wife, Harriet, that she had as much cunning and intelligence as either of their two older sons, Ernest and Willie, and that she would make something of her life, or end up, 'under the town hall clock.' A popular euphemism in Bolton for making an appearance at the local magistrate’s court, which lay in the town hall which stood in the centre of Victoria Square, a town hall which sported a large and imposing clock face.

The floor which she and Hettie worked on in the mill was one of six floors in that building, and one of three red brick and stone buildings which now made up the entire mill. Since the completion of the third building earlier that year it was one of the larger mills in the town, and just one of almost three hundred mills in the town of Bolton. Bolton was one of the main eleven ‘Cotton Towns’ in Lancashire, apart from the metropolis of Manchester, named Cottonopolis by the newspapers, and one of almost three hundred towns and villages within a fifteen mile radius of Manchester engaged directly in the processing of cotton. It was easy to understand why the cotton trade had become such an important part of the industrial wealth of the country. In the previous one hundred years the population of Bolton had grown massively from under twenty thousand people to over two hundred and sixty thousand. An enormous growth which in itself brought problems of a similarly enormous nature. Florence was a worker ant. One of hundreds of thousands who worked in the cotton and woollen mills of the north of England, whilst the queen ant dictated and controlled their lives.

She pulled her reluctant clog shod feet one after the other sluggishly up the stone steps from floor to floor of the mill, walking alongside her best friend Hettie Thornton. The two girls, being now fifteen years old, had gone beyond being classed as Half Timers, and now worked the full shift in the mill five and a half days a week. The memory of the luxury of being a Half Timer now seemed far away. On leaving school at twelve her Pa, William Henry, had walked down Blackburn Road and Waterloo Street onto Flash Street, along with many other fathers of school leavers that year. They were bound for the Bolton Council education and employment offices on Flash Street, to purchase the necessary birth certificate and licence, issued under the Factory and Workshop Act of 1901. The licence permitted their children to work part time in the mills, and then return to the school for the rest of the day. Sometimes the children did go back to school, but frequently the lure of addition hours and wages was too great, and they worked almost full time. The licence had cost him seven shillings and six pence, a sum he begrudged, but was forced to pay. The sooner Florence went full time to the mill, the more money she would be able to ‘tip up’ at the end of each week, to contribute to the family coffers. It was an important contribution, now that there were three other brothers in the family who were younger than Florence, but made up for in some ways in that there were two brothers who were older than her, plus her Ma and Pa. Eight in total in the family, living in a brick built, terraced, two bedroomed house.

Florence walked with her head down into her chest, almost shuffling, as she and Hettie trudged slowly up the wide stone staircase to the fourth floor of the mill. The staircase was eight feet wide and the risers were a little over eight inches high, higher than the ones at home, and so particularly difficult for the shorter legs of young women to manage. If truth were known, they were difficult for some of the grown men to manage as well, but no one mentioned this out loud to any of the foremen or managers. It didn't do to complain, although by nature the girls in the mill were frequently happy enough to voice their complaints amongst themselves, they had enough inbred sense of survival to keep their mouths shut and their opinions to themselves when one of the bosses was about.

Florence walked on the inside edge of the stairs and took advantage of the unpainted wooden handrail to help hoist herself up the steps, her breath becoming more and more laboured as they ascended. The stone walls of the outer part of the staircase were painted in a dark cream colour from the ceiling down to within three feet of the actual stairs, and then the colour changed to a very dark dismal green to the floor. When it was first completed and opened, the mill staircase and the outside of the mill, had looked very handsome, but now, some ten years later the sheen had gone off the paintwork and knocks and chips were in evidence on all the door jambs. The high wrought-iron mill gates on the front of Blackburn Road were also in need of a fresh coat of paint, and the mill as a whole was starting to look used and old.

Hettie puffed as she heaved herself up the stairs.

'What do you recon they will give us off for Christmas?' she asked her friend between breaths. Florence thought for a moment before she replied through equally breathless effort.

'I recon we’ll get Christmas Day and Boxing Day and not much more besides. Even though Boxing Day is on a Saturday they will probably not give us an extra day off on the Monday.' She paused then added after extra thought, 'They might give us Monday off though.' She turned to her friend and grinning added, 'Fingers crossed eh?'

'Can’t help but wish can we? I suppose ‘cos New Years Eve is on Thursday next week we’ll get the Friday off then we’ve got the weekend, so at least we’ll have three days off. You going to the fair? It'll be opening New Years Eve, we could go on New Year's Day couldn’t we?' She paused to take a breath and looked across the staircase at Florence before continuing in excited fashion. 'I’m dying to go this year. Last year Pa wouldn’t let me, but this year I'm older and bringing in a full wage, so he can’t stop me, an’ if he tries I’ll sneak off anyway.'

The two girls grinned at each other, contemplating the prospect of the visiting fairground which came to the town each year at this time. The fairground was one of the highlights of the young girls’ lives. The coconut shies and roundabouts each tried to out-compete each other for the few pennies the visitors to the fair clutched in their freezing hands. Favourite for both of them was the Black Pea stall. A white tent erected behind a huge steaming metal container of peas cooked in boiling water then served up in a thick white cup in a vinegary juice. Seated on a wooden bench around the edge of the tent, gripping the cup in their hands, on a cold winter’s day, this was an eagerly anticipated treat for anyone who visited the fair. The stall could be located simply by its smell from almost anywhere on the fairground.

Pulling hard on the handrail Florence finally arrived at the top of the flight of stone steps and turned the corner to face the remaining step before the door which lead into the spinning room. The door was made of hard three inch thick solid wood with a half window of reinforced glass. The doors were coated in the same dark green paint as the walls, but had suffered from the constant opening and shutting, much of it caused by the banging of large wicker skips filled with empty pirns and bobbins. Chips were knocked out of the paint where the hard skips running on small black wheels banged against the woodwork by men unconcerned about the damage they were causing to the doors. The heavy door had to be slid open sideways on its runners by the girls, pulling against the weight of a large piece of cast iron attached to a length of stout rope which would pull the door shut once they were through it. Often the door had to be held open to allow skips to be pushed through, hence the damage to the paintwork. Florence pulled the door to one side and allowed Hettie through before stepping through herself and then allowed the door to bang closed noisily behind them.

The girls edged through the opening into the dimly lit mill room. Electricity was not wasted on providing full lighting until the workforce were ready to start the looms, but the heat was something else. Despite the fact that it was winter outside, the temperature in the mill rooms was at least eighty five degrees, and would become higher once the machines started to run at ‘full tilt.’ The heating was not turned up high until the workforce came on shift; whilst the room had to be kept warm to ensure the cotton did not dry out, there was little point in heating it beyond that point until the workforce arrived.

Heating for the whole of the mill, and the electricity for the looms, was provided by a large pump room engine in a building separate from the three mill buildings. It was a dangerous place to work, and not unknown that serious or even fatal accidents happened from time to time. It was not unknown for a large explosion to completely destroy the entire pump room, often with loss of life.

The girls shed their thick woollen shawls, hanging them on pegs set on the walls close to the doorway, and donned white overalls to protect their clothes. At the end of the shift their sweaty clothes were stained with splashes of oil from the looms, and their hair and clothing would be festooned with small ghost like wisps of cotton which held in the air until disturbed by a body walking too close to the machines. By the time the girls had set the machines to work, the full lighting had been switched on and the temperature raised, they were already starting to sweat uncomfortably.

Florence had served an unofficial four year apprenticeship after leaving school, until now, at the age of almost sixteen, she had made her way comfortably, but with hard work, to the position of spinner in the mill. Being a half-timer, she had learned the work of the spinner, but had done so in small parts, it was too complicated to take it all in at once, until finally when she was fifteen and a half she, and Hettie, had been moved full time onto spinning the cotton thread which was the mills existence. Though she had come to hate the mill and the work she did, she had been taught by her parents the accepted working class norms of hard work and not answering back to the ‘mesters.' Whilst it was accepted that talking back would earn a reprimand or fine, it did not prevent workers in the mill from enlarging their own education and experience after work at their own expense. Often, Florence, despite her tender years, would bite her tongue in order not to answer back with a sarcastic or argumentative response to the foremen's comments to her and the other girls on her floor. She would smile at the foremen from time to time, and occasionally when the managers put in an appearance on the spinning floor to confront a serious problem, she would shyly offer them a smile as well. By the time she had reached the age of seven she knew that she could wriggle her little finger and her father and brothers would do anything for her. When she had reached the age of twelve she understood why this was so, and by the time she reached sixteen her developed body told her that this would always be so. Not that she was a girl to take advantage of her looks and warm smile, simply that if the opportunity arose, well then, she would use it as best she could. Her smile was always returned by the women and girls around her, and it stopped the men dead in their tracks, whilst all manner of unworthy thoughts coursed through their minds. She learned quickly what it meant to be a woman, but did not flaunt it like some of the girls. It was well known that some of the older women would be only too ready to make a grab for any of the younger men walking through the loom rooms, and sometimes there was a willing man on hand as well to help satisfy the urges which seemed to fester with the heat.

Her name, and her work, became known in the upper circles of the hierarchy, so that when they were content that she knew her skills well enough, the promotion was given to her. Not in some formal presentation, she was bluntly told that as from Monday of next week she would be a full time spinner on a spinner’s wages. She had grinned with pleasure when the foreman told her the news, at last she would have more money in her pocket. After all, her father and mother could not keep all of her wage for the running of the house, could they? Less than a man’s spinner’s wages to be sure, but a raise despite that. Like all the other women who worked in the mill, she was bitterly aware of the anomaly between men and women’s wages, but put up with it. It’s what women did, it’s what they were accustomed to and brought up to expect. But for Florence it was a means to an end. What that end was she had no idea at the moment, but knew that when the opportunity presented itself, she would be ready to take it. The women's suffrage movement had already provided her with thoughts which her stunned mother felt were very out of place for a girl of her class.

Home Is A Strange Country Chapter Two

 

TWO

Home. Bolton 1903

At home, there was much which was different than in other mill workers homes. Both her father and mother, whilst conforming to the norms of their cotton town and their class existence, also had a secret, one which they had passed on to their two sons and then Florence, and which they had already started to pass on to her three younger brothers. The house contained books, lots of books. Books of every sort from novels to instruction books. Books on history, geography, travel, novels and a Bible. For them there was nothing forbidden in the reading matter found in book cases and shelves around the house. She and her family took to reading with pleasure, something her friends often found strange and unusual. From an age when she first started to read at school, her mother would take her to the lending library in town, and allow her to select whatever book she wished to read from the children’s section. In this way over the years Florence gained more of an education than most of the others in her class, sometimes to the annoyance of her teacher, and often to the surprise of all those friends around her. Florence did not flaunt this knowledge. She realised at an early age that many of her young friends did not have the same encouragement which she and her brothers had, and this fact would often lead to taunting in the schoolyard at playtime. She kept quiet about her knowledge as it slowly accumulated over the years. Along with the knowledge grew a feeling that she would not follow in the footsteps of her mother or the other women who lived on Waterloo Street. She would get out, sometime, somehow. All that she needed to happen was for the opportunity to present itself.

Home Is A Strange Country Chapter Three

 

THREE  

(My apologies.  The second chapter is after this for some reason.  Please read that one first then thie chapter, chapter three)

New Years Day 1904

Florence sat on the edge of her bed in the front bedroom which she shared with her parents and two younger brothers, and she was sulking. The sulk was because of the aftermath of the argument which she had had the previous evening with her father, over his refusal to allow her to go to the funfair on Howell Croft. She tapped her foot on the bare floorboards in annoyance, trying to work out how she could persuade her Pa to allow her to go to the fair with Hettie. Leaning forward, she pushed with her finger at the thin curtain and looked out of the bedroom window for inspiration, but saw nothing in the heavy grey sky to help her. The weather was cold, and there was a wind blowing from the west which normally meant rain, but it was not normal December or January weather, it was too warm. But still wet and miserable, which did nothing to lift her spirits or inspire her. She sighed loudly and kicked at the book on the floor which she had been reading alone in the bedroom, rather than reading it downstairs in the company of the others. She could hear the noises from the room below of her mother preparing a meal, and trying in vain to carry out a conversation with her husband, who was trying to read the early edition of the Bolton Evening News and the latest news from India of the opening of the Taj Mahal Palace Hotel in Bombay. He knew he would never have the opportunity to visit the place, but he read the account with interest, as he did with most items on the international stage. It was a trait he had passed on throughout the lives of all his children, an interest which was wide ranging and inclusive. His was a home grown knowledge which he fostered in all his children, and which he enhanced with visits to the free library.

The noises from below were part of the background to her life as she racked her brain to try to overcome the argument from the previous evening. She was determined to get her Pa to change his mind. She and Hettie had been planning a visit to the opening night of the annual winter fair for several days, and finally had decided on what they would see and what they would do during the visit. During tea, when the whole family was seated around the kitchen table eating their meal, she had casually announced to them all that,

'Me and Hettie are off to the fair tonight, should be good fun.'

Her father continued to move the knife and fork on his plate, and failed even to raise his head from his position of intense concentration on the meal.

'I don’t think so young lady' he said quietly. Florence looked across the table at him, her face blushing red with anger.

'Pa! She said, 'I’m grown up now and bringing in a full wage, so I think we should be allowed to do what we want.' She looked to her older brothers for their agreement. The brothers said nothing, simply kept their heads down and carried on eating, though Willie who was four years older than her, grinned and fought hard to stop himself bursting into laughter, anticipating the coming storm. Her father, William Henry, placed his cutlery down on the table, resting the knife and fork against the side of his plate. He quietly brought his hands together, his fingers forming a pyramid above his plate, and turned his head upwards to view his daughter at the opposite side of the table. There was silence for a moment, as the children old enough to recognise the challenge to their father’s decision waited for the explosion which must be just around the corner.

'You might be old enough' he said menacingly, 'and yes you are bringing in a full wage, but you are not going to the fair on New Year's Eve with only Hettie by your side.' He paused, then carried on as Florence fought to stop tears of frustration brimming over her eyes and down onto her fair cheeks. 'It’s a dangerous place for young women to go by themselves. You don’t know what could happen. There are too many rough drunks there. You’re not going.' He met her eyes quietly and held them until she broke his gaze and blinked in frustration and pique. 'Its' for your own good.' William picked up his knife and fork and continued to eat slowly, his head bent down to the plate. Florence banged her chair back from the table and stalked furiously from the room, stamping up the staircase which ran between the two downstairs rooms, and into the shared bedroom. She slammed the bedroom door shut and threw herself onto the bed, tears streaming from her eyes, her fists clenched in frustration. In the room below, her father looked around the table at his two sons.

'Don’t think you two are going either' he said quietly, pointing from one to the other with the knife in his right hand. 'It’s too much likely there’ll be trouble.' He licked a piece of food from his lips before carrying on. 'Don’t want my family becoming known to the Police after getting into trouble.' The two boys nodded silently and carried on with their tea. Silence fell, other than the muted sounds from the bedroom above of Florence crying to herself.

In time Florence dried her eyes and reached below the bed for one of her hidden books and curled up under the covers for warmth, and in time fell asleep reading.

Home Is A Strange Country Chapter Four

 

FOUR

Saturday 4^th January 1904

The fairground was always erected by travelling fairground people near to the outside market on Howell Croft for almost two weeks, and towards the middle of that period William relented and gave his permission for Florence to go to the fair. By Saturday her anger had dissipated and she and Hettie looked forward to their visit with excitement, planning and discussing during the walks to and from work what they would wear and what rides and amusements they would go on, providing they had enough money.

Shortly after two o’clock on Saturday afternoon both girls strode in the cold grey afternoon light off along Waterloo Street towards to the town centre with arms linked together, ignoring the trams which ran from there to the market place. They had no wish to spend any of their hard earned money needlessly on tram fares when there was so much to excite them at the fair. When they arrived at the fairground they were both immediately overwhelmed by the noise of the rides, the shouting of the stall holders and the smells of sweets and toffee apples. There was so much to see and hear that the cold they had felt on their walk into town did not even figure in their minds, so excited were they. The lights on the stalls dazzled them, and as the afternoon drew on and darkness started to fall the whole place became a riotously noisy, magical place. Bright red toffee coated apples were being sold from a small stall on the outer edge of the fair, providing too much of a temptation, and both girls succumbed. They purchased one each to eat as they strolled on the wet cobbled stone surface of the fairground. A complete circuit of the fair took them thirty minutes, by which time their lips were covered with a sticky smear of hard red toffee.

'Come here Hettie' Florence said, beckoning her to her side. She took a small handkerchief from the pocket of the long dark purple coloured woollen coat she was wearing, the one her mother had bought her for Christmas. Taking the piece of cloth in one hand she spat gently onto it and rubbed the red smear from around her friend’s mouth. 'There, that’s better' she said, 'Now do me will you?' Hettie took the handkerchief and repeated the process on Florence’s face. They glanced at the results, nodding approval.

They were standing near to one corner of the fair where a booth made from a large multi-coloured brightly lit tent announced the display of two headed sheep, a monstrous snake, Siamese twins, the world's strongest man and various similarly contrived freaks of nature. They stood watching with mouths open, reading the garish writing on the sides of the tent, and listening to the descriptions shouted by the fairground man, Florence became aware of three young men walking in front of them across their path. She glanced at the tallest of the three and without looking directly at him nudged Hettie in the side, who at first turned to remonstrate with her. Florence said nothing, but moved her eyes gently in the direction of the group of men. Hettie followed her look and took the three young men in with one glance. She looked back to Florence and grinned, then stepped half a pace forward so that she was standing with her side to the group so they could not see or hear what she was saying to her friend.

'What do you think?' she asked quietly. Florence looked her friend in the eye and replied,

'The tall one’s mine.' She replied. Hettie nodded and said,

'I’ll have the middle one.' The two girls sauntered towards the group, continuing to read the words on the freak show stall, but placing themselves in a position so that the men would become aware of them immediately. When they were sure that they were within the men’s eye line, they stopped and turned to each other talking nonsensical words, which the men were unable to hear, and smiling broad smiles, which the men were well able to see, whilst offering them the best view of themselves, dressed as they were in their long heavy coats and wide brimmed hats.

The tallest of the men nodded to his two companions in the direction of the girls, then stepped forward a few paces until he was standing close to Florence’s shoulder. He stood quietly and patiently whilst the two girls chattered on, pretending to ignore him, yet being completely aware of his presence. Eventually Florence stopped talking and made a half turn towards him.

'Yes?' she asked, her eyes giving nothing away. 'What do you want?' He smiled at her and briefly nodded his head, half turning back to his friends.

'My brothers and I,' he said, half turning to indicate the other two men. 'My brothers and I were wondering if you were going to stand there gossiping all day, or whether you were going to get out the way so we could go in to see the show.' His eyes were bright and cheeky. Florence blushed.

'Well, I don’t know. The nerve of some folk' she huffed. Before she could pull away from his presence he hurriedly added,

'No. What I meant to say, my brothers and I were wondering if you would like to come in with us.' He paused and smiled broadly for a moment before she could answer. 'I’m paying.' He added quickly, smiling directly at her. He rocked back on his heels and held out one hand towards them, 'Come on, what’ve you got to lose?' Florence looked away from him and back to Hettie.

'I suppose we could couldn’t we? We’re not doing nowt special are we?' Hettie grinned back at her nodding her head.

'Better than standing out in the cold isn’t it?'

'I suppose you're right about that. And if they’re paying it means we won’t be wasting our own money will we?'

'No you’re right. It makes sense.' She turned to the young man who had listened to the exchange with a broadening grin on his face.

'Come on ladies, we’ll look after you. Make sure the sheep doesn’t get you.' He took Florence by the elbow and directed her back towards the two other young men who had come to join them. 'Right,' he said to Florence. 'They're my two brothers and my names Tommy.' Florence nodded to the two younger men who had stood silently at the edge of the group nodding shyly in turn at both of the young women.

'I'm Florence, and this is my friend Hettie' she said. 'Are we going in then?'

Tommy nodded and indicated with his glance for one of his brothers to take Hettie’s arm. Hettie allowed herself to be guided gently alongside Tommy and Florence into the freak show tent.

The darkened interior of the tent added to the eerie atmosphere of the attraction, which encouraged Florence not to draw away when Tommy started to gently pull her closer to him. As they walked slowly around the tent, peering at the curiosities, Florence felt Tommy’s presence growing closer and closer, then he would pull away again, as if to demonstrate to her that his intentions were purely protective, and nothing more. Florence for her part played along with him. She drew close when they stopped, and gently pulled away when they started to walk again. Each time they drew closer she felt her heart start to beat faster under her coat, and her hands started to sweat within the thin cotton gloves she wore on her hands. Eventually they had seen all the exhibits at least twice and could find no other excuses to remain inside the tent.

'What do you feel like doing now?' Tommy asked her as they came out of the tent into the cold evening air once more. Florence glanced at her friend for inspiration, but Hettie simply looked back at her with a blank expression on her face.

'Don’t know' she said, when Hettie failed to offer any thoughts. 'What did you have in mind?' she asked. He was taller than her, and broad at the shoulder. His hair was dark brown and cut smartly short above his ears. He wore a brown jacket over a white collared shirt with a tie, and dark brown trousers which were cut smartly over a pair of highly polished lace up boots. She liked what she saw, and allowed him to keep hold of her elbow, edging a little closer to him. Tommy reached into his jacket exposing a waistcoat under it and the chain of a fob watch drawn across from one small pocket to the other. He took the watch from the pocket and glanced down at it before deftly replacing it.

'Half past four' he announced. 'How about going for a drink?' He glanced at Florence for a response who looked anxiously at Hettie.

'I’m not sure, I’ve never been in a pub before.' She said. 'My dad wouldn’t be best pleased if he found out.'

'Well, we’ll just have to make sure we don’t tell him then shan’t we?' His grin was warm and infectious, so it was hard for Florence not to grin back at him. For a few moments they walked on the cobbles of Howell Croft and inspected the various stalls, avoiding as best they could the crowds of young boys who rushed helter skelter from one stall to another, threatening to bowl them over. Florence suddenly stopped and pulled slightly away from the hold which Tommy had on her elbow.

'I’m not going to lie to my Pa. It’s not something I’ve done in the past, and I’m not going to start now, so I don't think we should go for a drink in a pub.' She said firmly. Tommy was taken aback by the statement from the young woman. He looked her in the eyes and, after a moment's thought nodded his head in acceptance of her directive. He liked what he saw, and for a girl as young as she was, he felt she was very different from other girls he had been out with. He smiled warmly at her, his dark brown eyes fixed on hers.

'How old are you Florence?' he asked.

'I’ll be sixteen next month, the twenty sixth' she said, adding with a grin. 'So what you going to buy me for my birthday?'

He grinned back at her. 'Well, how about some black peas' he said.

'Had some. Don’t want any more, might give me the runs. You know what black peas are like.' They both laughed and then his face became serious. He looked her in the eyes once more before asking quietly.

'How about a rail ticket to Plymouth then?' Florence was unable to make any sense from the question, and the puzzlement showed in her face.

'A what?' she said, a bemused look crossing her face.

'I’m going to join the Navy soon' he said quietly, 'Might want someone from home to come and see me at odd times, and a ticket to Plymouth should come in handy.' A blast of cold wind blew across the fairground and caught under the wide brim of her hat, threatening to lift it from her head. Her hand shot up to steady it, pulling the soft felt dark blue brim down onto her head and tugging at the wide ribbon on the crown to fasten it more securely.

The ribbon had been supplied by her father who ran a small business selling ribbons and bows from the mill suppliers, so there was always a good supply at home for her to select from when she needed to trim up an otherwise dull dress or shawl. Florence’s dresses, hats and shawls were noted by her friends for their sense of high decoration, and from time to time she was commissioned by those friends to make them a dress or hat from material she could purchase easily in the town.

The hat was now firmly crushed down onto the thick flowing hair she had crammed under it. She suddenly threaded her hand through Tommy’s arm by his side and gently pulled him to her and started to walk. Tommy smiled to himself and guided her away from the noisy fairground and to the front of Victoria Square and the town hall. They talked as they walked, Florence oblivious of the fact that they had left her friend Hettie in the company of Tommy’s two brothers on the fairground.

'When are you going to join the navy Tommy?' she finally asked.

'Soon.' he replied thoughtfully. She said nothing, realising that his answer was incomplete. 'I’ve got a good job at the moment. I’m a fitter and turner and I've done my apprenticeship at Horwich Loco Works, so I’ve got my papers, and that should be good enough qualifications to join the navy with. I’ve been in the job for over ten years now and qualified for over four, I’m twenty four now,' he added. 'There’s not much else here in Bolton for me to do. There's no promotion unless I wait for somebody to die, and I’ve always fancied seeing the world, and the navy seems to be the best way of doing it.' He stopped talking to allow her to take in the flow of information and waited for her questions. He did not wait for too long.

'So what would you do in the navy then?' she asked.

'Well I went to Blackpool last September for the day and there were a couple of Royal Navy ships going to Fleetwood, so I caught a tram there and had a chat with some of the recruiting people on board one of them. It sounded right interesting. They reckoned that with my qualifications and on- the-job-experience that I could easily qualify as an Artificer after my first lot of training.' Florence looked at him quizzically.

'What’s an Artisi...Artisi...' she stumbled over the word. Tommy grinned and helped her out.

'An Art-if-i-cer' he enunciated slowly, 'It’s somebody what looks after the engines and electrics and guns and stuff on a ship. Bit like what I do now, but more important, ‘cos it’s the artificers who keep the ship going, and keeps the guns and torpedoes in good fettle. No good having a ship what can’t shoot its guns is there?' She nodded her head in silent agreement then after a moments' pause she asked.

'When are you thinking of going then?'

'Well, in a few months' he replied quickly. 'I have a big job on at the moment at work; don’t want to walk out in the middle of that. Need to get it boxed off and out the way before joining. If I walked out in the middle of the job then my employer isn’t going to give me a right good recommendation is he?' Florence shook her head thoughtfully and murmured,

'No, I see. Wouldn’t be the right thing to do would it?'

There was a long break in their conversation as they walked amongst the Saturday afternoon crowds pushing along and across Victoria Square. Occasionally one or other of them would stop to look in a shop by the side of the square, then start walking again. After several minutes of slow walking in the cold winters falling light she stopped and faced towards him.

'Where do you live Tommy?' she asked. He paused for a second then answered,

'I live up the top of Deane Road. In The Pocket.' She glanced up at him, he was three or four inches taller than her.

'Can’t say I know it.' She said. 'I live on Waterloo Street, up near Back O’th Bank.' He nodded his head in acknowledgement and then said what she had been waiting patiently to hear.

'Do you think we can see each other again?' he asked. She smiled at him slyly, her eyes bright and glistening in the cold. The corners of her mouth twitched up then settled down again.

'Don’t see why not' she said, 'If you’ve nothing better to do.'

'Oh I can think of a dozen things I should be doing.' He said grinning mischievously, 'But nothing I can’t put off if it means seeing you again Florence.' A broad smile spread quickly across his face and he was rewarded with a similar expression across Florence’s. She squeezed his arm and they turned to walk towards Knowsley Street and in the general direction of Florence’s home. Both of their minds were filled with thoughts of their conversations and the feelings both had experienced.

The following morning, Sunday, all the Hadfield family walked together up the road to the Iron Church, where they took part in the morning service conducted by the Reverend Collier who had been in the post for just a few months. His sermons were not too long, and most of the congregation seemed to like him. After the service had ended, Florence and the family once more walked back down Blackburn Road. Florence made her way hurriedly home ahead of the others, to change from her church clothes to her best Sunday dress and best boots, to walk out with Tommy who she had surreptitiously arranged to meet outside the Victoria Hall on Knowsley Street. It had taken the connivance and collusion of Hettie to make the rendezvous, but it appeared her parents suspected nothing, and at two o’clock that day she met with Thomas once more beneath the great terracotta tower of the Victoria Hall opposite the Market Hall.

As she hurried down the hill along Knowsley Street from St George’s Road, she felt her heart beating faster than normal and her head was filled with all manner of thoughts about the man she was to meet. Though he was some eight years older than her she felt at ease with him, and more than a little excited at the prospect of what might lie ahead. Harriet, her mother, had recognised that something was different in her daughter the previous evening when she had returned from town from the fairground, but had said nothing to her husband William. Suddenly the girl who had been her daughter had acquired an air about her which she recognised from her own life experience as a woman. In Harriet's mind this change could only be attributed to her daughter having met a man, a man who had stirred in her daughter feelings which she had not fully experienced before, but feelings which was subtly changing her from a girl into a woman. She kept her thoughts and observations to herself for the time being, but silently realised that the change she had seen in her daughter might have far reaching consequences for the young woman and the family as a whole.

Home Is A Strange Country Chapter Five

 

FIVE

Bolton 1904

'Friday is Fish Day,' so the children's rhyme went. In the Hadfield household this was particularly true, not because the family were followers of the Catholic religion; it was despite that they were staunchly Protestant that they ate fish on Friday. 'A poke in the Pope's eye' Pa Hadfield had once commented when presented with his tea one Friday, and followed it with 'One in the eye for the left leggers'. Whilst Pa Hadfield was a regular church goer, and by the definition of families in those days, so were his family. There was no malice in his thoughts and feelings towards the Catholic neighbours and workmates he knew. It was more of a feeling of class solidarity than anything else which, in truth, stretched back over the previous hundred years when masses of Irish Catholics were enticed over the Irish Sea to the mill towns of Lancashire, and in particular Bolton.

A rather more prosaic reason for the family invariably eating fish on Friday had more to do with the occupation William Henry Hadfield carried out during the week. He bought ribbons, laces, and general drapery from the manufacturers in the town, and sold them door to door and also from a market stall on Ashburner Street.

He had not always done this job. When Florence had been born in Widnes near Liverpool, he had had a business in the town as a photographer, but when his small shop was forced to close due to the economic downturn at that time, he sought more lucrative employment which offered itself in Bolton. He moved there and eventually took up work as a machine minder in an iron foundry and then a polisher. In the early part of 1904 he had set up a small business on the market and took advantage of its location to purchase fish for the family tea on Friday of each week, carrying it wrapped in newspaper home to his wife Harriet to cook for the whole family.

Florence arrived home from the mill that evening brimming with anticipation, fear and excitement, and ran up the stairs to her room to tidy herself from her working grime, then dashed downstairs to have a wash at the sink in the kitchen. Her mother looked sideways at her as her daughter skipped into the room.

'You seem full of it today young lady' she said. Florence silently elbowed herself gently past her mother and ran cold water under her hands from the tap on the top of the square porcelain sink. Quickly rubbing the water over her face and hands she answered,

'I need to tell you something Ma.' She said quietly. Harriet wiped her hands down the front of the rather grubby apron she wore over her housedress, and sat herself down in one of the chairs by the side of the range. Picking up the poker from the hearth she dug its point into the dull coals in the fire making them blaze up into life once more.

'Well,' she said when she could bear the waiting no longer. 'What have you got on your mind then Flo?' Florence wiped her face then her hands on a scrap of towel by the side of the sink and slowly took up a position in a chair opposite her mother. She placed her hands on her knees and sat upright in the chair, facing towards her mother. Her face was red with excitement and her eyes bright with anticipation. She took a deep breath and reached forward, stretching out her hand as if to touch her mother's lap, but changed her mind and sat back in the chair releasing the breath and settling herself down. She paused as though unable to work out the exact words she wanted to say. Her mother flicked one hand towards her in mock annoyance.

'Come on Flo, get it out' she said agitatedly.

'I've met a man.' Florence finally said, the words spewing out in one long subdued noise. 'And I think I want to marry him.' She carried on, then slumped back again into the chair, watching and waiting for her mother's reaction. It was not long coming.

'A what?' she exclaimed, 'Flo! You've only just turned seventeen.' A look of horror crossed her face. 'Oh Flo, don't tell me you are, well, you know, not having a babe.' She stopped and sank back into her chair, gasping for breath, the last word lying dry and dead in her mouth.

'Oh mother' Florence cried out in shock. 'How could you? I'm not that sort of girl.' Her mother's face changed. She looked both shamefaced at having suggested such a thing to her daughter, but relieved also that it was not true, that she was not pregnant. It was a common enough state for many of the young mill girls. She drew several deep breaths and carried on, in a relieved tone.

'But you're right. But you are just a girl.' She paused as Florence shot a look of anger and disbelief at her, then said, 'So, go on, tell me more. Who is he, what does he do, how old is he?' The words tumbled out in one long torrent making Florence smile at her mother's confusion and relief.

Florence sat forward in her chair and held out her hands towards the coal burning in the fireplace, rubbing them together to try and get life and warmth back into them after their immersion in the cold water, taking some enjoyment at the same time from the discomfort she saw on her mothers' face. She took a breath and looked up at her mother smiling.

'His name is Thomas Lowe, he is twenty four and he works as a fitter and turner up Deane Road. He's going to join the Royal Navy in a few months and move down to Plymouth in Devonshire.' She paused for breath and also to gauge her mother's reaction. There was none immediately. Harriet allowed no smile or frown to cross her face. Florence continued, trying as hard as she was able to build a suitably positive picture of the man to her mother. It was upon her mother's reaction that the acceptance of Thomas into the family, and her life, that Florence felt her future happiness depended. She was not wrong in this feeling. Whilst her mother would have been seen by most people to have been just another housewife, Harriet managed to keep a large household afloat with little money and fewer resources, and this depended upon many of the household's important decisions being made by her, alone. Whilst her husband, William Henry, was seen by many to be the breadwinner, and therefore the most important person in the house, it was Harriet who kept the ship afloat. A thought which went through her mind at the time of the conversation, and one she felt was somewhat apposite in view of her potential son in law's future profession.

Harriet considered the news for a moment, absently smoothing out the creases in the dress across her knees then looked up at her daughter.

'He's a good seven years older than you Flo' she said, 'How long have you known him?'

'I know how much older he is Ma, it doesn't make any odds though. We've known each other since the start of the year and we've met several times since then. He works hard Ma, he does a good job. He said that he won't finish with where he is at the moment until he's finished the job he's on, then he's going to join the Royal Navy.' She paused for breath and continued before her mother could interrupt. 'He works at Horwich Loco Works. Has done since he left school. Got an apprenticeship and says there'll be no trouble him getting a good job as an arti, an artisif, an, an artificer, in the navy. It's the sort of job they are crying out for.' She paused again for breath, her face now animated and beaming. 'It's good money too' she added finally and sat back in her chair once more. Her mother nodded silently.

'Light the lamps will you Flo?' she asked quietly, and nodded towards the gas light fitted into the wall above the range they were sat. Florence rose to her feet and took a paper spill from a small round home-made papier-mâché container on the mantle-piece above the now blazing range. She pushed the end of the spill into the flames and it caught immediately. Standing upright she reached to the lead pipe protruding from the centre of the wall above the fire and with her free hand turned the tap on the lamp and held the flaming spill into the gas which poured from it. The gas burst into a yellow flame and she shook the spill to extinguish the burning spill, then adjusted the flame from the wall light until a bright yellow light filled the kitchen. Harriet nodded her head backwards to the wall opposite the fire range.

'Do the other one as well will you love?' she asked. Florence bent to re-light the spill and moved around her mother to the far wall and repeated the process. The room glowed with a bright friendly warmth as Florence took her seat again by the fire. She waited in silence for a few moments and was about to say something when her mother held up her hand to silence her. 'Leave this with me,' she said. 'I'll break it to your Pa tonight when you've gone to bed.' She looked up and across at her daughter, and smiled. Florence let out a long breath of relief and her face creased happiness.

'Oh Ma,' she said. 'Thank you so much. I was scared to death of telling Pa. I'm sure it will be better coming from you.'

'Well, we'll see.' Her mother replied quietly. 'Just say nothing to your brothers until I've settled it with your Pa.' Florence nodded her head in silent agreement, then stood to walk to the sink where she started to peel some potatoes her mother had placed in the sink earlier.

'Maybe we should ask him to come for tea someday,' her mother said, glancing in the direction of her daughter bent over the sink peeling the potatoes. Florence paused mid peel then dropped the finished potato into the sink and turned her head to her mother. 'Thanks Ma. That would be nice,' she said quietly, and turned back to her task. Harriet smiled to herself as she sat before the fire and saw her daughters shoulders straighten visibly as the comment sunk home.

Home Is A Strange Country Chapter Six

 

SIX

March 1904

Florence was seated in the armchair to the left of the range in the kitchen, normally her fathers' seat, but he was absent. Outside the rain was lashing down against the windows and it was difficult to know if it was daytime or night time, it was so dark and cloudy. Notwithstanding the foul and stormy weather, Flo was seated peacefully in the chair, staring blankly into the flames of the fire. The heat from the fire burned her eyeballs, causing them to water, but she failed to notice the pain, slight as it was. She was silently mesmerised, turning over yet again in her mind the day Tommy had come for tea to their home. Her brothers had been unceremoniously moved from the house to her aunt's place, but not without loud complaints from them, and uncontrollable curiosity from the aunt. The world, it seemed, wished to know all there was to know about Flo's feller.

'How come we have to move out just ‘cos Flo has some strange feller comin' round? It’s not as though she's anythin' special is she?' her eldest brother had complained. This was a mistake on his part as Florence was within hearing and striking distance of him. She was standing by the sink drying dishes and the tea towel she carried in her hand was damp. She flicked it expertly at his rump, connecting with a satisfying stinging slap. He yelped and made to swing his hand at her, but Florence had pre-emptied his retaliation and had already moved out of his range.

'Just you make sure you are well out of the way before he comes round,' Harriet had warned shaking her index finger at him angrily, 'Or I won’t be responsible for my actions my lad. You got that?' she had snapped at him.

'Don’t worry Ma, I’ll be gone long before he gets here. Don’t think I really want to see what sort of a bumbling half wit she has managed to trap. Won't be nice to see anyway.'

'That’s enough young man.' his father snapped sharply from the chair at the side of the range, looking sideways around the Bolton Evening News he was reading. 'A joke’s a joke, but that's taking it a bit too far. Get off with you before you get yourself deeper in it.' Her elder brother by four years, Willie, made as though to lunge at Florence, but it was a half hearted attempt and he simply turned away from her and left the room to join three of his other brothers Walter, Harry and Albert who were waiting in the hallway for him to accompany them to Harriet’s sister for the afternoon. He stood in the doorway to the hall and picked his coat from one of the line of hooks on the wall. Pushing his arms into the sleeves he turned for one last volley at his sister.

'If he doesn’t turn up, can you save me his tea Ma?' he asked. William Henry turned in his chair, flapping the newspaper down onto his lap angrily.

'If I have to tell you one more time young man, you’ll wish I hadn’t' he snapped. 'Get off with you.'

'Going Pa. See you later Ma.' He called out as he walked down the narrow hallway pushing the three other brothers in front of him to the front door.

Final preparations for the meal were almost completed, though preparations for the day had started on Friday afternoon when Florence had arrived home from the mill. Almost as soon as she had taken off her shawl and hung it in the hallway, her mother listed the tasks she had for her to complete before Tommy would be allowed across the threshold on Sunday. The front parlour was scrubbed and polished from top to bottom. Cobwebs on the gas light fittings which adorned the wall above the fireplace and above the pelmet over the window were dusted off. The fire was blacked and the grate cleaned with fresh kindling laid for the fire to be lit. The bucket by the side of the hearth was filled with coal from the cellar where it had been delivered only last week. Florence shook the bucket to ensure that the dust from the lumps of coal were knocked off the coal and down into the bottom of the bucket, so that whoever came to replenish the fire on the day would not get the dust on their hands. It was, so her mother had always said, attention to detail which was important, no matter what she was doing. Florence’s mother looked into the room as she was finishing her tasks for the afternoon.

'You can have a bath now,' she said. Florence turned to her mother, a look of dismay on her face.

'Oh Ma!' she said. 'It’s not Sunday ‘til tomorrow. Why do I have to have a bath today? Anyway, our Willie will be home soon. I’m not havin’ him accidentally stickin’ his head round the door when I’m in my nothins.' Though the house was always crowded with children and adults, personal privacy was regarded jealously, and it was distracting for Florence to have to keep talking in a loud voice or singing to herself to warn her curious brothers to stay well out of the kitchen when she was bathing in the tin bath before the range. Her mother insisted.

'You’ll do better to get yourself a bath now whilst most of them are out rather than tomorrow. You want to look your best for Thomas don’t you?' Silently Florence nodded her head in agreement.

'You’re right Ma,' she said, 'I’ll get on with it when I’ve finished here.'

In the end Florence’s fears were groundless. Her brother Willie, and the rest of the family, were not at home when she took the tin bath from its’ hook on the wall in the back yard, and placed it before the warming flames of the range in the kitchen. With her mothers' help she filled the bath with water from the cistern on the range which provided the family with almost constant hot water, then added pans of cold water from the kitchen tap to get it to a manageable temperature. Looking carefully through the window and down the back yard to ensure nobody was around, she stripped off her clothes and stepped into the bath, a block of rough soap in her hand. As she started her normal bath time sing song her mother called to her from the parlour.

'It’s alright Flo, you can shut up, there’s nobody at home.' Florence stopped her singing alarm and finished her weekly bath in peace.

During the forty eight hours before Tommy arrived Florence had been in a state of complete agitation and nervousness. No matter what her mother said to calm her down she continued to re-examine everything in the room to make sure it was ‘just right’. In the end, on the Saturday night, her father had poured his favourite, and only daughter, a small glass of brandy before she took herself off to bed. As he watched her back disappear through the door to go upstairs to her bed he turned to his wife and smiling said,

'He’d better be good enough, this young feller, ‘cos if he isn’t, she’s going to kill him.' He paused and smiled at his wife, 'And if she doesn’t I will,' he continued. Harriet smiled back at him and continued sewing the last of three new buttons onto the dress Florence would wear on Sunday. When she finished she herself went up the stairs to go to bed. As she passed by the armchair where her husband sat her hand trailed gently across the back of his neck and ruffled the greying hair on the back of his head.

'Don’t be too long love,' she said gently. William grunted in reply and continued to read the Evening News’s account of how 'The Stiffs', as the Bolton Wanderers Football team were known, had fared in their latest match. They had lost. Not much new there, he thought to himself. Folding the newspaper he pushed it down the side of the cushion he was seated on, and went to join Harriet in bed.

.....................................................

As it turned out, the worries which had plagued each of their minds prior to the visit were almost without foundation. Within fifteen minutes of Thomas Alfred Fletcher Lowe arriving at the Hadfield household he had William Henry eating out of his hand, though not by any deliberate thought or underhand machinations. Florence’s mother took a little longer to fall under his spell, about one hour. Very quickly they both came to regard him as a man suitable for their one and only daughter.

When his knock on the front door had been heard, Florence had risen hurriedly from her chair by the table in the kitchen and, taking a deep breath, had quietly opened the door to the hallway and walked to the front door. Thomas was stood on the pavement and had been examining the brickwork around the door frame, noting that it required pointing urgently. The door opened and Florence was standing there smiling at him.

'Come in then,' she said to him softly. 'Don’t be standing out there in the cold.' He smiled back at her shyly from beneath the black bowler hat he was wearing and stepped across the threshold into the hall. Florence stretched up on tiptoe to offer her face to him. Before kissing her Tommy glanced over her shoulder along the hallway to check her parents were not looking, then seeing that they were not in sight, he gave her a soft kiss on her lips.

'Alright love?' he asked.

'Yes love, I’m fine,' she replied, taking his hand in hers and guiding him along the narrow hallway to where a line of coats were hung on hooks close to the kitchen door, hiding the dull pale green faded wallpaper which lay behind them. She held out her arms to receive the black woollen overcoat and bowler hat he was taking off, and then hung them on top of the coat which was hers, on the hook closest to the front door.

They stood for a moment in the doorway to the kitchen and looked into each other's eyes and smiled, then taking a deep breath Florence opened the door and they walked into the kitchen. William Henry and Harriet were both stood, shoulder to shoulder, with their backs to the range awaiting their entrance. The fire had been lit early that morning and allowed to blaze away to thoroughly heat the whole of the house. Now that the room was comfortably warm, as was most of the rest of the small house, the fire had been permitted to die down. Florence had turned down the fire damper so that the pie cooking in the oven could be allowed to cook slowly without any further attention.

Florence let go of Tommy’s hand and stepped forward towards her father. She half turned back to Tommy and holding out the hand which she had just released said,

'Pa, Ma, this is Tommy.' Tommy took a step forward with his right hand extended towards William Henry.

'Pleased to meet you Mr Hadfield.' he said. William Henry took his hand and the two men shook.

'Aye, likewise.' He said. Tommy let the hand go and turned towards Harriet.

'Mrs Hadfield.' he said and extended his hand once more. She hurriedly wiped her hands on her apron and shook the hand he offered, then glanced down in horror at the sight of the apron which was still wrapped around her waist. Blushing furiously her hands went round her back and she quickly untied the apron strings and bundling it into a small heap tossed it onto one of the kitchen chairs.

'Sorry,' she stammered, 'Not quite finished cooking tea' she said.

'Not to worry,' Tommy replied smiling at her. 'My Ma is never out of her pinny. She’s even been known to do her shopping wearing one.' He laughed easily and without any malice looking towards William Henry, and Florence joined in nervously. William Henry smiled at the young man in front of him, and liked what he saw.

Tommy was wearing his best suit, a dark grey single breasted smooth fabric, which William Henry recognised as woollen worsted. Beneath it he had on a spotless white shirt with a celluloid collar and a dark blue tie. Glancing down William Henry was pleased to see that the boots Tommy wore were highly polished, not something you saw every day, he had thought. As he lifted his head to look again at the young clean shaven man before him he was surprised to see that Tommy was holding out a small package to him in his hand.

'I hope you don’t mind Mr Hadfield, it’s just some tobacco, to say thank you for inviting me to tea today.' William Henry took the package in his hand and saw it was a tin containing an ounce of his favourite pipe tobacco.

'Well,' he said, stumbling a little in surprise over his words. 'That’s very kind of you young man,' he said, a broad smile beaming across his face. 'Very kind. Not at all expected. Thank you again.' Tommy turned to Harriet.

'Mrs Hadfield, this is for you. Thank you too for inviting me for tea.' He handed over another small package wrapped in fancy paper. Harriet looked and felt the package in her hand, and squeezed it gently to try and get some idea of what it could contain.

'Oh' she said, 'Well, thank you Tommy. You shouldn’t have. Can I open it now?' Tommy nodded his head and replied,

'’Course you can Mrs Hadfield. Wouldn’t have brought it if I didn’t want you to open it.' He laughed lightly once more and glanced at Florence, who returned his laughter and slowly eased closer to him. The three of them watched as Harriet gently prized and peeled the wrapping paper from what was obviously a flat box of some sort. Finally taking the paper off and placing it carefully on the kitchen table she held up a box of chocolates for the others to see. Her smile went from one ear to the other, as Florence related to Hettie the following day. The gift was well received by all of them, a rare gift.

'I’ll put these in a safe place' Harriet said to William Henry. 'I don’t want those three vultures of mine getting their eyes or hands on them when they come home!' She grinned at her husband and moved to place the box in a cupboard by the side of the range, then gathered up the wrapping paper from the table and carefully folded it into a neat square before placing it with the box of chocolates in the cupboard.

The meal went well, as Harriet had hoped it would. Her cooking was as good as anyone else’s, with the limited range of foodstuffs she had at her disposal. As they sat eating their pudding, a freshly made fruitcake, and drinking their cups of tea, William turned to Tommy and finally started to talk about what had been on his mind since first Florence had told them of the young man she was ‘seeing.’

'Our Flo tells us that you’re bound for signing on with the Royal Navy then.' Tommy turned to his right at the table set in the middle of the parlour floor. The fire at his back, though banked up and therefore not showing any flames, was still warm on his back.

'Aye, I am Mr Hadfield.' He paused to sip from his tea, picking the last crumbs of cake from the small plate in front of him. He turned to glance to his left at Harriet. 'That were lovely cake Mrs Hadfield. As good as my Ma makes, if not better. But don't go telling her.' His smile and comments were received with a warm glow from Harriet who nodded her head in acknowledgement of the compliment. Tommy turned back to face William. 'I went to one of the recruitment ships late last year when they were visiting Fleetwood. I saw them coming up the coast when I were at Blackpool and caught a tram along the prom to Fleetwood to see them at the docks there. They weren’t very big ones, not like the Dreadnaughts or Battleships, but big enough, so I managed to get on board one of them and talked to one of the senior ratings and had a good look round.' He paused to drink more of his tea. William Henry nodded his head for the young man to continue. 'Anyway, I had a good talk to them about prospects and pay and suchlike, and it seemed like this was a good time to join up for a few years. The pay for an Artificer is two to three times what an ordinary seaman would get, and the bloke I spoke to said they were looking to enlist a lot of men with my background in engineering.'

'Why is that then Tommy?' William asked. 'How come they are needing a lot of such like Artificers, an’ anyway what is an Artificer?' Thomas smiled and started to talk to the older man enthusiastically.

'Well, an Artificer is an engineer, and they could be looking after the engines, or the electrics on a ship, or the guns and even more now, the torpedoes. I’m going to be an electrical Artificer, so I will be working on guns and torpedoes and the like. And as to why they need so many, well, I'm sure you've read in the papers about the Royal Navy building a lot of ships these days.' He nodded his head to indicate the evening paper stuffed down the side of the chair William had been sitting in. 'Well the new ones with all the latest guns and torpedoes need specialists to man them, so they are recruiting men with experience like mine, so that even though they will have to train me to be a sailor, I come with a lot of experience they don’t have to train me for.' He paused to let this sink in, then continued. 'I think that’s what's in their minds anyway.'

William looked down the table towards his wife and they exchanged an unspoken look of approval for the young man who sat between them, then looked sideways towards his daughter and smiled at her.

'What do you think our Flo?' he asked. 'Fancy being seen out with a man in a blue suit and a flat cap do you?' he grinned. Florence blushed and glanced down at the empty plate before her and fumbled over her words.

'Not sure Pa. I suppose the blue uniform will go with what clothes I have, but I might have to get some new ones.' She grinned impishly across to her father who pulled a face of mock disapproval before bursting into loud laughter.

'You’ll be the death of me yet young lady,' he said and gave her arm a light tap. William sat back in his chair and patted his hands across his stomach.

'That was a right good tea Ma' he said, smiling at his wife at the far end of the table.

'Well, I’m glad you enjoyed it.' She replied. Tommy and Florence both looked to her and said their thanks as well. William pushed his chair back away from the table and got to his feet.

'Well' he announced, 'I think I’ll just pay a short visit to the back yard and try some of this tobacco you’ve bought for me Tommy,' smiling broadly at Tommy, who was rising from his chair himself.

'I hope you enjoy it Mr Hadfield' he said, 'Flo told me what brand you liked, so I couldn’t go wrong really.' He grinned at Florence who was rising as well. 'I think it’s time I was making my way home then if you don’t mind Mr Hadfield.'

'Alright then Tommy. I think our Florence would like to see you to the tram stop if you would like.' William smiled at him and held out his hand across the corner of the table. 'It’s been good to meet you young man, and I hope you’ll not be a stranger here in the future.' The two men shook hands.

'I hope so as well Mr Hadfield.' Tommy replied. 'Thank you again for inviting me.' He turned to Harriet and held out his hand to her and shook the small hand she proffered. 'Thank you too Mrs Hadfield. That was a lovely tea, I’m a bit stuffed to tell the truth.' She smiled at him and said,

'Like Mr Hadfield said Tommy, I hope you won’t be a stranger here in the future. You’re more than welcome lad.' She released his hand and Tommy eased his way past the table and out into the hallway. Florence followed him to help him on with his overcoat and hat.

'You coming to the tram stop with me then Flo?' he asked her quietly.

'I think I might,' she said, 'Even if it’s just to make sure you get on the right one.' Grinning he dug his fingers in the soft flesh above her waist, she squirmed away from him struggling to put on her own coat from the hook on the wall.

'I think you’ll find it’s raining out,' called William from the parlour. 'Why don’t you take our Willie’s umbrella?'

'Right Pa, we will' Florence called back. Her brother Willie had ‘acquired’ the black umbrella one night after a long session at the Tramways pub on Blackburn Road. He had staggered home with it, using it as a crutch to steady his steps on the walk back. It had hung in the hallway since then, no one having had the nerve to use it. It’s owner had never complained to Willie, so it was assumed he did not know he had lost it.

Tommy opened the front door and stepped outside onto the wet pavement and expertly opened the ‘brolly’ before turning to offer it’s shelter to Flo when she stepped off the step onto the pavement herself. She hugged her coat to herself and threaded her arm through Tommy’s elbow, pulling him towards her a little. The couple started to walk along the street towards Blackburn Road, but had scarcely taken three steps before they were startled by a rapping on the window of the house next to Flo’s. She stopped and looked through the window. Her friend Hettie was standing in the parlour of her house, grinning madly and waving her hand furiously at them. Florence smiled and waved gently back, then hugged Tommy to her side and continued on walking.

'Was that the girl who was with you at the fair that time we met?' Tommy asked.

'Yes. It’s my friend Hettie. She must have had her head to the wall listening for us leaving. The nosey little so and so.' Florence grinned in anticipation of the story she would have to tell her friend on the way to work the coming Monday.

The rain was gentle on the umbrella as they walked along the street, though in truth Florence was completely unaware of the weather, or the dull grey sky overhead. The only thing on her mind at that moment was Tommy, the man she loved, and who loved her. Though it was still only late March she felt that there were a lot of things in her life to change before Tommy joined the royal Navy. The one thing neither of them had discussed with her parents was the timescale Tommy had set out to her. He intended to join the navy later that year, and marry her a little later if at all possible. It was enough that he should be accepted by her parents at this time, he had felt. The fact that he was going to take her away from them would come later though; he thought they would not be too upset. He knew that he had created a good impression on both the parents. They would give their blessing to their daughter’s marriage in time. Of that he was certain.