Working in t'Mill

Beehive Mill, Lostock, Bolton

I finished my last blog by saying that I was to start work as a trainee towel weaver at the Beehive Mill, Lostock, Bolton. Well, nothing anyone said could have prepared me for the shock to the system of actually walking into the weaving shed on that first day when it seemed as if all the demons of hell had been released. The sheer speed and clatter of the looms was frightening to a young and inexperienced girl of barely fifteen and I felt totally overwhelmed. It could be a dangerous place too, such as when the belts that descended from the central drive shaft broke, snaking like a whip round unwary weavers’ legs. Then there were the 12-inch steel tipped shuttles that occasionally flew out, causing considerable damage to either looms or any weaver who happened to be in the way.

              On my first day as a towel weaver, I, along with two other trainees, was assigned to an older weaver. With no chance of a normal conversation, she had to shout instructions directly into our ears. Most of the weavers communicated with a combination of lip-reading and exaggerated hand movements known as ‘mee-mawing.’ Our instructor taught us how to stop and start a loom and to replace a shuttle. Re-threading an empty shuttle was a fiddly process that needed precision and took some time to master. Many of the older weavers still drew the thread through by sucking, known as ‘kissing the shuttle,’ but this was frowned on as the cotton fluff could clog the lungs.

              We started at 7.30 am and finished at 5.30 pm, making it a 45-hour week. The mill itself was a Victorian structure with an assortment of buildings clustered around a mill yard and a gatekeeper’s lodge which might once have been the mill manager’s house. After punching my clocking-in card into the machine, I’d make my way through the bleaching and dyeing rooms, holding my breath against the stench. Next came the sweeter-smelling warp shed, containing the stacked drums of spun cotton waiting to be lifted onto the looms.

              The adjoining weaving shed, with its ridged glass roof, was either uncomfortably hot in summer or piercingly cold in winter. All would be silent to begin with. Then, as the central drive shaft hummed into life and the pulleys started turning, a solitary loom would clatter into life to the cat-calls of ‘grabber’, followed by another loom then another until the noise reached its usual crescendo. I’d set my own looms going, one by one, then I’d be replacing shuttles, threading them, resting them against the wooden barrier that protected me from the spiked roller that held the already woven towels. I had to be on a constant watch for broken threads which needed to be ‘drawn-in’ with a reed hook. Failure to do so could result in a ‘smash where the loose end became tangled with others, breaking even more, and risking the wrath of the ‘tackler’ (mechanic) who would have to sort it. Spoiled towels didn’t count and, as we were paid on piece work, this was important.

              Our first break would be ‘brew time’. A huge cistern was located in the warp shed and weavers would stand in line, glad of a chance to chat, each with their own mug with a teaspoon of tea and sugar in a twist of greaseproof paper. The cistern was temperamental and known to spit if you weren’t careful.

              At dinnertime, when the ‘hooter’ went, the looms would fall silent as the central drive shaft and pulleys slowed then stopped. In chattering groups, we would make our way across the mill yard to the canteen where we would eat our dinners, serenaded by ‘Workers’ Playtime’ on the wireless.

              After progressing from one loom, then two and finally to three, I found the work monotonous. Although I carried out the routine tasks to keep my looms running, my mind wandered, often with a disastrous ‘smash’. One of the most quoted remarks on my old school report was, ‘Anne would do much better if she didn’t spend so much time day-dreaming.’ As I’ve said in a previous blog, I’d always had an over-active imagination and I pictured myself in all sorts of scenarios, usually involving a handsome film star. My mother would often say to me in exasperation, ‘Your head’s full of jolly robins and boys.’

              Although earning a good wage was the primary objective, fun and laughter were important too. When one of the weavers was getting married, her looms would be decorated, not only with useful household gadgets but often with suggestive items as well. When it was time to go home, her coat would be decorated with balloons and ‘L’ plates and she’d be carrying a suggestively illustrated chamber pot. A couple of her colleagues would accompany her on the bus, to her embarrassment and the amusement of fellow passengers.

              Christmas was a time of merriment, too, with looms decorated with tinsel and balloons. The more daring weavers had a sprig of mistletoe tied to one of the cross beams so that they could catch the ‘tacklers’ and warp carriers unawares. Going home, the weavers would be slightly merry after the ‘footing’ of sherry and mince pies.

              And, of course, there were the ‘Wakes Weeks’ to look forward to and save for all year round. Every factory and mill would close their gates for two weeks to enable essential repairs and maintenance of boilers and machinery. We weavers didn’t care about that. All we cared about was our annual trip to the seaside. For most folk, this was Blackpool but other resorts such as

My friend, Vera, and I - still friends 60 years later!

Morecambe and St Anne’s had their share of visitors. The mill towns became ghost towns while local train stations were packed as people waited to get on excursion trains. On fine days, the beach at Blackpool would be so crowded, there would be scarcely room to erect a hired deckchair let alone spread a towel. And, if the weather was wet, there was always the Tower with its zoo, aquarium, circus and afternoon tea in the ballroom, with Reg Dixon playing the organ. The Pleasure Beach, with its many sideshows, rides and bruise-inducing Fun House was a magnet for young people. On a night, either the Tower or Winter Gardens ballrooms were the places to be. Much of this is included in my novel Bittersweet Flight.

              Although there was good money to be made in the mill, I never made a fortune because I didn’t apply myself diligently enough. Too much day-dreaming, possibly! I finally left after six years to work in the Advertising Accounts Department of the Bolton Evening News, the local daily newspaper. Although at the time, I thought I hated my time in the mill, I can look back now with nostalgia, proud to have been a part of the once great cotton industry of Lancashire.

(with acknowledgements to the now defunct magazine 'Discover Your History' in which a similar article appeared and to Greenhalghs' Craft Bakery for the picture of Beehive Mill)

'Bittersweet Flight' is here!

Cover design by BerniStevensdesign.com

At long last, Bittersweet Flight is here! This is my long-promised follow-up novel to A Suitable Young Man. I’d originally hoped to be able to produce it by December of last year, making it exactly a year after the release of my first novel. Unfortunately, because of various health problems, this deadline became impossible to meet. After much fine tuning and editing, it is available for pre-order from Amazon UK (and I assume from other Amazon stores) from Tuesday, 1^st March.

So what’s this one about then? It’s a touching tale of self-discovery, family, loss and love set in a Lancashire mill town in the 1950s.

It’s 1956 and Sally Simcox is a girl in trouble, at a time when having an illegitimate child is considered shameful. The father, Nick Roberts, had offered to marry her but, knowing he was in love with someone else, she’d told him she’d had a miscarriage.

Sally has fled to the anonymity of Blackpool, not knowing what she’s going to do there or how she will cope with her situation. On the day of her arrival in Blackpool, she meets a young RAF serviceman. He seems familiar and it isn’t long before Sally realises that he’s the last person she needs to meet for he is Nick’s younger brother, Phil. And he has no idea who she is. Yet it seems that their paths are destined to cross.

To tempt your reading appetite, an excerpt from Chapter 1 follows.

Chapter 1

Today should have been her wedding day.

A sense of desolation swept over Sally Simcox, causing her to falter as she stepped off the train on to the platform of Blackpool Central station. She stood for a moment, gathering courage, aware that her solitude marked her out from her fellow passengers, who were either in family groups or gangs of lads and lasses. Conscious that several of the lads were eyeing her up, she automatically straightened her spine, hoping someone would offer to give her a hand. When no-one did, she shrugged her shoulders and leaned to the side to compensate for the weight of her suitcase.

She staggered onto the main concourse of the station, amid all the hustle of a normal Saturday, mostly day trippers at this time of year, come for the famous Illuminations. Fighting clear of the crowds, she made her way to the exit and on to the street beyond where she stopped to take in this first sight of her beloved Blackpool. She put her case on the ground the better to absorb the sights, the sounds, the smells.

The Tower soared up, gigantic at such close quarters. To her left was the grey choppy expanse of the sea. Its sharp saltiness, the sweetness of candyfloss from a nearby rock stall filled her nostrils as she breathed in. For the first time in several days, she felt the stirring of anticipation and excitement. She was in Blackpool and at the beginning of a new life without her family. Being here was either a gamble or, as her brother, Jud, had said, ‘a bloody stupid idea.’ Gently, she put both hands on her belly in a protective gesture. ‘This is it, kid. It’s you and me against the world’.

From behind, someone barged into her and she landed with a thump on the pavement, where she lay winded. She glanced up in time to see a group of blue-uniformed RAF boys, laughing and jostling each other, eager to be at the delights of the busy seaside town. ‘You clumsy clots!’ she yelled after them, uselessly as it turned out for they were oblivious to anyone but themselves.

Then she felt a hand under her elbow and a voice said in her right ear. ‘Are you all right? Do you think you might have broken owt?’ The familiar Lancashire accent was reassuring.

‘No, I don’t think so,’ she said as, with help from her rescuer, she rose to her feet. Her suitcase had burst open and to her horror, her far-from-white underwear lay exposed to the world. ‘Oh, no!’ she said, inwardly cursing her mother’s laziness at not separating the whites from everything else when doing the washing, no matter how many times Sally reminded her. She gathered her belongings up, shoved them out of sight and snapped the case shut again.

‘You look a bit pale,’ the young man said. ‘Are you OK?’

She looked at him for the first time and saw that he, too, was an RAF serviceman, of medium height, good-looking in a quiet, restrained sort of way. Under his cap, his eyes were a grey-blue colour and he was fair-skinned. Troublingly, something about him was vaguely familiar. Aware that she was staring, she said, ‘I do feel a bit wobbly.’

‘Do you fancy a cup of tea? There’s a café not far from here. It’s a bit basic, but at least it’s clean.’

She shouldn’t; she didn’t know him. On the other hand, she did feel shaky and there was the baby to think of. ‘Thanks. But what about your mates?’ She nodded in the direction the other RAF servicemen had gone.

He laughed. ‘They’re not my mates. They were probably erks – National Servicemen – on their first pass after being on an armament course at Kirkham.’ He picked up her suitcase with ease and indicated that they should turn right. ‘I’m based at Kirkham too, only I’m a regular.’ The lift of his muscular shoulders showed his obvious pride.

He led the way down Central Drive until they came to a brightly lit café. From a juke box came the sounds of Elvis Presley’s ‘Don’t Be Cruel.’ Leaving her sitting at one of the formica-topped tables, the young serviceman went up to the counter where he chatted to the proprietor. He’d taken his cap off as they’d arrived, revealing fair hair ridged where the cap had rested. His manner seemed affable and easy-going, though he would never stand out from the crowd in the way Nick had done. A sharp pang of pain shot through her as she thought of Nick, lost to her now. Occasionally, she doubted the wisdom of passing up the chance of marrying him but the decision had been hers alone and she must live with the consequences. And she could never go back because she’d told her family – and Nick – that she’d had a miscarriage.

‘Are you feeling dizzy? Faint?’

She looked up, saw the concern in his eyes and pulled her thoughts to the present. ‘No, I’m OK thanks.’

He indicated the two thick white cups he’d placed on the table. ‘Sorry about the mugs but it’s a good cup of tea.’

‘I’m more used to these than china cups and saucers.’

He raised his own mug to touch hers. ‘I’m Phil, by the way, Phil Roberts.’

As he said that, the vague familiarity that had been troubling her since he’d first helped her to her feet, clarified in her mind and a sick feeling spread to her stomach. Improbable though it might seem, this personable young man was Nick’s younger brother.

The link to pre-order is here http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B01CBTQH54.

Coronation Year 1953

My life has undergone many changes but by far the most significant came when I was 13 and we moved back to Horwich. Mum had been born and brought up there and still had lots of family and friends. Before moving into domestic service, Mum had worked as a towel weaver so she went back there part-time. Within a few weeks, she was persuaded to organise to celebrate the upcoming Coronation of Elizabeth II. She and some friends got together to draw up a programme and the hard work began, planning, deciding who was to do what, what kind of costumes were going to be worn, being involved in the actual sewing of them.

              As for the concert itself, who could forget tall, ungainly Mona, dressed as a ballet dancer, singing, ‘Nobody Loves A Fairy When She’s Forty,’ or Mum and a busty woman called Kathleen singing ‘We Are The Bold Gendarmes,’ or Mum later doing her standard impersonation of Carmen Miranda. Even I sang, in the chorus, dressed as a toy soldier while a tackler from the mill sang, ‘Goodbye,’ about a young man joining the Foreign Legion.

              After the concert, my mother seemed different. It must have been a week or two later that she told me that she was going to have a baby. Surely, at 42, she was too old to have a baby? Suppose she died like I’d heard some women did.

              Our flat had only two bedrooms and was on the first floor so Mum and Dad began to look at the possibility of getting a larger house. After asking around her friends in the mill, she heard of a couple who had no children but had a three-bedroomed house. After the pokiness of our flat, the house seemed enormous and very tempting but there was a big drawback. The rent was 42/- a week (about £2.10p) which was almost double that of the flat and as Mum would have to give up work, they didn’t know if they could afford it. Yet now, it seems a paltry sum but back then, wages were much lower.

              Eventually they decided it would be worth it and early in 1953, we moved. It proved to be one of the coldest houses we’d ever lived in, simply because of its size. The only really warm room was the kitchen which had a large range, called a bungalow range. We lived in the kitchen and kept the front room for special occasions like Christmas.

              The bathroom was so cold that we only took a bath once a week on Sunday, when Dad took a paraffin heater up there. In the mornings, with your breath misting in front of you, you had just a quick ‘cat-lick’ and got dressed as quickly as possible. At least we had a bathroom and didn’t have to resort to using a tin bath in front of the fire as so many people still did.

              The bedrooms were almost as bad for although there was a small fireplace in each of the two big bedrooms, we could not afford the coal for them, except when anyone was ill, when Dad carried hot coals carefully on a shovel. We had no fitted wardrobes either, just big old-fashioned wardrobes bought second-hand. There was a rug by the side of the bed on bare floorboards to begin with, later on linoleum. Downstairs, we had new-fangled asphalt tiles which we kept polished, with a large square carpet rug in the middle.

              Moving to a new area meant making new friends, something I’d never found easy. Someone Mum knew from the mill had a foster daughter the same age as me who knew hardly anyone in Horwich and the two of us were introduced. She was small and pretty with well-endowed breasts. I still had none to speak of.

              Ada and her foster family lived in a terraced house. The rear of the houses had small gardens rather than back yards and these, together with the alley in between, made a marvellous play area. With the selfishness of the very young and oblivious to the fact that my poor mother suffered from sickness all the way through her pregnancy, I spent almost all my time there in the spring and summer of 1953.

Harry on the right

              Ada had a boyfriend Brian, and I was thrown together with Brian’s best friend, Harry. Brian and Ada kept telling me he fancied me, although I privately thought he was more interested in playing football than in wanting to go out with me. Still, having turned 14 in the February, I went along with the idea and agreed to go out with him as a foursome to the pictures, having asked permission of my parents, as one had to then. There on the back row of the cinema, I received a tentative kiss from my very first boyfriend.

              That must have been about May 1953 when preparations for the coronation of Queen Elizabeth II were at fever pitch. There was a tremendous feeling of excitement in the country that year, despite the fact that the so-regal Queen Mary, the Queen’s grandmother, had died only a couple of months before. We were all fierce royalists at that time and followed the Royal Family’s doing avidly. There was so much about them in the papers, much like the celebrities are these days, showing informal glimpses of the Queen and Duke of Edinburgh, with a young Prince Charles and Princess Anne.

              The Coronation took place on 2^nd June 1953 and it was televised for the first time which meant that we could actually see it happening rather than watching it on the Pathé Newsreel at the cinema a week or so later. Those who could asked friends, relatives and neighbours round to watch it. Mum’s sister, Mary, had obtained a set for the occasion, probably rented from Radio Rentals, and we went to watch it at their house. It seems laughable now that a dozen or so people clustered round a tall wooden box housing a 9” television screen. The pictures were fuzzy, the commentary hackneyed but the sheer excitement of the occasion outweighed such minor drawbacks. Everyone ‘oohed’ and ‘aahed’ and toasted the young queen in bottled pale ale and ham sandwiches.

              At night I was to attend a Coronation party with Harry, Ada and Brian. Mum had made me a white dress for my confirmation at earlier that year and she had dyed it yellow for the ‘do’ which was to be held in a private function room at a local pub. The dress had a simple fitted bodice to show off what little bust I had and a full flared skirt. The black bow at the collar and a black belt at the waist made me feel very grown-up. I was so dizzy with the excitement of the whole day that I don’t recall much of the party. I do remember doing a novelty dance with Harry where I had to wear his new brown sports jacket and clomp around the dance floor in his shoes. I don’t think he took much notice of me other than that.

              In the July Wakes Weeks when the mills and factories closed, I went away for a week’s holiday with Ada and her foster family to Blackpool. I hadn’t really wanted to leave Mum, who was by then was in a constant state of discomfort but, as she said, the baby wasn’t due for a week or two. I’d never been away from my parents before and it was a strange experience for me. Brian and Harry came over to spend a day with us but Harry seemed a bit half-hearted about it and didn’t want to kiss me. I sensed rather than was told that our brief romance was at an end.

              Within a few weeks of the holiday in Blackpool,  two events occurred which marked the end of my childhood. The first was starting my periods. At fourteen and a half, I was one of the last girls in our class at school to have had a period. Although I’d been well prepared for it by Mum, it was still a shock. Money was so tight then that both Mum and I used to cut up old towels which were attached with safety pins to our knickers. There was nearly always a bucket of stained towels soaking in cold water and salt in the scullery which were later washed and used again. It wasn’t until I was working that we could afford proper sanitary towels.

              The second event was the birth of my brother, Mark. Mum was two weeks overdue and had to go into hospital to be induced. At that time, only fathers were allowed to visit the new mums and I didn’t see my new brother until Dad and I went to the hospital to pick Mum up after his birth. In the taxi back, I sat with him in my arms, looking down at his little face, scarcely able to believe it. Circumstances meant that I had to take my duties as big sister seriously over the next month. (To be continued.)