Part 3 (1/2)

Paddy raised his eyebrows and made a kissing sound. 'Don't be a silly b.u.g.g.e.r,' Darkie said, blus.h.i.+ng.

He turned around as one of the old men sitting on the bench called out to him and waved him over. Darkie turned to Paddy.

'Come on, Paddy, we'll go and have a natter with old Bob Haskell. He's a bit of a character.'

They sat on the bench next to Bob and his friend, Tom Newbury. Both had worked in the mines all their lives. Tom looked ill, and coughed a lot into a grimy handkerchief. His face was a chalky white. Bob still looked healthy enough, in spite of his hard life down the mines and his seventy odd years.

'See Alf Fifty over there,' Bob said when Darkie sat down next to him on the bench. He pointed to a very small man in well-worn clothing and a black neb cap, selling black-eyed peas from a barrow in the middle of the Square. Darkie nodded.

'Have you ever wondered why he got that name?'

Darkie and Paddy looked puzzled.

'Think about it for a minute,' Bob said with a wink.

'You've got me stumped, Bob,' Paddy said.

'He got it on account of the peas,' Bob said triumphantly.

'Peas,' Darkie said. He grinned at Paddy and winked. 'All right, go on, tell us.'

'Well, I was saying to Tom here. What happens when you eat peas? Tha knows what happens doesn't tha, Tom?'

'Aye, I does,' said Tom and lifted off the seat a little and let off a loud fart.

Paddy and Darkie roared. Bob looked at Tom in disgust. 'All right, all right; you don't have to demonstrate.'

'Sorry, Bob.' Tom grinned, showing a toothless gummy mouth. 'I had to do it or I get a right pain. You know how it is.'

'Aye, I do, I do. Let me get on with me story. Well, now, owd Alf must have eaten a lot of peas, right?'

'Right.'

'And he must have had a lot of wind, poor b.u.g.g.e.r. Right?'

'Right.'

'Well, it stands to reason they couldn't call him Alf Farty, could they. It would have been a bit much.'

'Aye, it would.' Tom was still perplexed.

Bob looked at him in exasperation, then at the two boys who by this time could hardly contain themselves.

'Ee, he's thick,' Bob said to Darkie. He turned to Tom. 'So they couldn't call him Alf Farty. You know, so what did they call him?'

'Alf Fifty!' Tom said triumphantly.

'Good story, Bob.' Paddy grinned down at Bob as he stood up. 'Very cla.s.sy, like.' Bob laughed.

'What's that?' said Darkie. They stopped talking to listen.

'It's the Salvation Army Band and it's coming up Church Street. They're playing Tipparary,' Paddy said. They waited and soon, round the corner came the Band followed by a trail of bra.s.s band enthusiasts and a few heckling children. The Band came to a standstill on the Square and people began to gather round to sing the popular war song. Darkie and Paddy got up off the bench and joined in. Darkie listened to Paddy's soaring tenor in appreciation. When the song finished he turned to Paddy. 'You should do something with that voice, Paddy. It's wasted here in Harwood.'

Paddy was embarra.s.sed. 'Get away with you. What could I do?'

'Oh, I don't know, join a singing group or something.'

'What with all the owd fogeys? You must be wrong in your b.l.o.o.d.y head, Darkie lad. It's bad enough having to sing in the church choir, and I only do that because me Mam pestered me to death.'

'All right, all right, it was just a thought. Remind me to mind my own business next time,' Darkie said.

Leah watched in irritation as Janey wandered around her loom as though she'd all day to do on. Janey was so slow and daydreaming again as usual. You just could not afford to daydream in their job. It was piecework and the more you wove the more you made.

She'll have to pay them soon, Leah thought in exasperation. She signalled to Janey to get a move on. Janey deliberately ignored her. Calling to her was a waste of time. The weaving shed was enormous and housed almost a thousand looms. The noise was horrendous. The weavers employed a kind of sign language to communicate. The mill complex itself was huge; three storeys and numerous smaller buildings and a large weaving shed. The mill was surrounded on all sides by high stone walls and on the far side was a reservoir of water called a 'lodge', which supplied the mills with steam power.

The weaving shed had a cement floor and pipes running around the sides, which every now and then let off jets of steam. This prevented the cotton from becoming too brittle. Even in cold weather the workers shed all but light clothing because of the high humidity. Most of the people at the looms were women, except for a few older men.

Leah ran two looms, efficiently for her age. She was good at weaving. Janey ran one because she was on half time, although she had trouble with one at times because she was so slow. 'They're like chalk and cheese, my two,' Emma would say.

'I hate weaving,' Janey complained the first week. 'It gives me a headache. All that noise. I don't know how you've stood it all this time, Mam.'

'You'll get used to it,' Emma said. She couldn't weaken with Janey or she'd sit home on her b.u.m all day looking at movie star magazines.

The older women had their hair severely sc.r.a.ped back into a huge bun.

'That's enough to give you a headache, without the noise', Emma would say, 'some of 'em must weigh a ton'.

The young girls wore theirs in plaits, although some had it tied back in a ribbon.

Leah could see Alf Tatler in the distance changing a loom. She liked Alf. He was also responsible for the maintenance of the looms and always had a friendly word and wave for her.

'You're a good little weaver, Leah la.s.s,' he would say as he watched her quick movements with the shuttle. 'Some of 'em are always getting cotton in a mash or break t'cotton a hundred times a day.'

At the end of the week Leah took home six s.h.i.+llings for her five and half days and Emma, who ran four looms, one pound. Emma complained incessantly of the unfairness that men got double that of a woman. Sometimes she had been at her wit's end to make do on that one wage. Now they were all working it was a lot easier.

Leah saw Alf walk towards Janey and hand her a piece of paper. Not again, Leah thought. She made sure her loom was running smoothly and then went over to Janey.

'You didn't get another one?' she said.

Janey nodded glumly. 'I'm sick of 'em. Have a look.' She held out the sc.r.a.p of paper. Leah read 'report to Ted Hindley'.

Leah handed the note back. 'At least it's Ted, not Ben Gribble. Anyway, Janey, you should be more careful with your weaving. You're too sloppy.'

'It's all right for you,' Janey retorted. 'You like it and you're good at it. I hate it. One day I'll get out of here and do something else, see if I don't.'

'Now don't get in a huff. Just go and see him at lunch time.' Leah said. Janey was almost in tears and it would be just like her to leave her looms and run home.