Down Weaver's Lane Read Online Free PDF Page A

desk now, frowning down at the piece of paper. ‘You’re living in one of our houses, are you not?’
    ‘Yes, sir. In Upper Bank Street.’
    Silence, then Mr Samuel said, ‘We must find you another house. You won’t need the third floor now. And I will reduce the rent to sixpence a week on condition that you attend church every single Sunday. ’
    Jack gaped at him. ‘Sir?’
    ‘They say charity begins at home, do they not? I am a firm believer in Sabbath observance, but I can see that your money will not be enough to feed your brothers and sisters until you’re earning a man’s wages. You would not earn as much on a Sunday as the rent I remit.’
    ‘No, sir. I - don’t know what to say, sir. I’m that grateful!’
    ‘You showed principle, lad, both in refusing to join your father in his criminal attack on our property and in refusing to promise what you could not carry out. See that you continue to live an honest Christian life.’
    Jack felt dazed as he made his way back to the weaving shed. Mr Graslow smiled, clapped him on the shoulder and said he was glad not to have to train someone else. But as well as the burden of his sorrow, Jack now had the added burden that for the first time he and his family needed to accept charity. He hated the feeling being beholden gave him, as if someone had put shackles on his feet. Until now he had been able to get away occasionally on fine weekends, going for a tramp across the moors and clambering up the crags. He loved rock climbing, though his mother would have a fit if she knew about that. But now he wouldn’t dare take a single Sunday off.
    He looked round as he started to sweep his corner of the floor for the third time that day, and it came to him even more forcibly than before that if he ever had a chance to get away from all this, he would. His father had protested about him not getting his own loom at home, but any fool could see that the days of handloom weaving were nearly past so Jack had got a job at the mill instead.
    The noise of the machines seemed twice as deafening that afternoon and he felt as if the walls were closing in on him. That made him feel angry at his father, who was to be buried in a pauper’s grave the next day; angry at Tom, too, for they’d spoiled his life as well as their own.
    But he and Tom had shared a bed all their lives, knocked around together, protected one another. He would miss his brother so very much. Tears welled in his eyes at the thought and he brushed them quickly away with his sleeve, hoping no one had noticed.
    At the end of the day he put his things away and filed out quietly with the others, saying, ‘Good night, Mr Butterfield,’ to the clerk who was counting them out, as he or the other clerk counted them all in every morning.
     
    The following morning Mr Butterfield beckoned to Jack when he arrived at the mill and the lad’s heart began to thump in panic. Had Mr Rishmore changed his mind? Was he going to be dismissed after all?
    ‘There’s a house in Feather Lane. Mr Samuel says you’re to move there at the weekend. And the rent will be sixpence a week only.’ When Jack said nothing, the clerk added quietly, ‘He’s being very generous. You should be grateful.’
    ‘Yes, sir. I am.’
    ‘And I mentioned your father’s funeral. Mr Samuel says you can have an hour off to attend and he won’t dock your wages.’
    ‘Thank you, sir.’ Jack would rather not have gone. It horrified him how his grief for his father was all mixed up with anger. But he would go for his mother’s sake. During the night he had heard muffled sobs from the front room downstairs, where she had slept with his father.
    Yesterday evening she had looked like an old woman, her hair straggling and unkempt, her eyes red and swollen. And she’d shrieked at little Joey for laughing softly over some game or other. As if a child of two could understand what was happening!
    It had galled Jack to see how touchingly grateful she was to the