‘I found out that she’s got four children – a girl of seventeen, boys of fifteen and thirteen and a little girl of six.’
‘Fifteen and thirteen.’ I rubbed my hand over my brow.
Bridgit guessed the direction of my thoughts. ‘How old are you, Cat?’
‘I’ve never been sure – no more than fifteen, I guess. Mr Sheridan said I was an infant, not a tiny baby, when I was found – a toddling two-year-old or thereabouts. I suppose that rules her out as my mother.’
‘Not necessarily.’
I cocked an eyebrow.
‘Twins. Or you might fall between the two boys.’
I shook my head. ‘The chance of that is very slight. She never claimed to be my mother in her letter after all. And I’m not sure I’d want her to be if she’s managed to keep all her other children with her except me.’
Bridgit squeezed my hand comfortingly. ‘Still, it is a possibility.’
Our discussion was brought to an end by the arrival of Overseer Shaw. A large man in a brown suit, he walked with the air of someone with much to do and too little time to accomplish it – a busy bear with a pocket watch.
‘Mr Dale’s new lasses?’ he asked us briskly.
‘Yes, sir.’ We both bobbed curtseys.
‘Follow me, then.’ He strode towards Mill Two with us jogging along at his heels. ‘The maister explained that he wanted ye to start in this mill. The wee lass will be a piecer – always need of nimble fingers in the spinning room. And ye, lass,’ he nodded at Bridgit, ‘are to be placed in the carding room, working as a tenter. Mr Dale suggested Moir look after ye – he’s one o’ our most experienced hands.’
Mr Dale had not forgotten our quest – this would give Bridgit a chance to get to know another of the family.
‘The carding room,’ announced the overseer.
He had opened the door on to a chamber filled with rumbling machines that resembled nothing more than two-humped iron monsters, the inner workings hidden by their metal casing. I’d never seen anything like it, not on this scale – the room seemed to stretch on and on. At one end of each beast stood barrels of raw cotton with women feeding the white fluff into the steely mouth of the carding contraptions; at the other, children were gathering the straightened fibres into containers to take them to the next stage in the spinning process. Stray cotton wafted in the air like dandelion seeds, catching on clothes and machines in an indiscriminate snowfall. Strange to think that this ghostly stuff came from fields on the other side of the world worked by slaves. Black slaves, white workers – we were all linked by the same thread.
Once the first shock of seeing the vast scale of the factory passed I studied the machinery more closely, trying to fathom what made it all work. Stout straps linked the wheel turning the mechanism to a revolving pole that ran the length of the room.
Seeing my interest, the overseer pointed upwards. ‘There lies the secret of New Lanark. The waterwheel outside turns that shaft up there and that in turn powers all the machines on this floor.’ He rubbed his hands for a moment, enjoying the spectacle of the world’s most advanced technology. ‘Nature harnessed by man – an inspiration to us all.’
‘And what do these machines do, sir?’ asked Bridgit.
‘Have ye used a carder at home, lass?’
‘Yes, sir, but they were two little paddles with spikes on – nothing like this.’
‘Believe it or no, lass, but these machines are just a big version o’ that. The cotton is tumbled inside until it comes out all combed straight and ready to turn into thread.’
He led Bridgit over to a man on the second machine. ‘Moir, I have a new lass for ye.’
A skinny brown-haired man with an unhealthy pallor nodded at Bridgit. ‘Pleased to meet ye, lass.’ His attention immediately returned to his machine like a chef fearing his sauce might burn if he spared a moment to look away.
‘I’ll leave her in yer capable hands, Moir.’
‘Aye, sir. Here, lass, I’ll show ye where to put the raw cotton. It’s simple enough.’
Leaving Bridgit to get accustomed to her new role, I followed the overseer up to the next floor. This room was also filled with machines, but these looked very different from the hump-backed carders, being made of open iron and wood frames suited to the delicate spinning of such fine threads. I tried to find something to compare them with and decided they were a little like giant pianofortes with a front section that moved out to transform them to a grand before retreating back to more modest proportions. Rows of bobbins sat on the top like a cluster of white doves watching the musician at play.
As we stood in the doorway, the front part of the loom rolled forward again, drawing out hundreds of white threads from bobbins of combed cotton, twisting as it went. Once it reached its limit the process reversed, but this time the threads were wound on to spindles, neatly combining the two processes of spinning and winding in one action. I found the sight mesmerizing; it looked like a vast game of cat’s cradle played over and over by the machines.
Only then did I notice the people. Men and women tended the machines with anxious care, watching each bobbin and spindle. Occasionally one would shout over the din to a child-worker, pointing at the threads. The child would dive under the machine and next their fingers would be seen twisting together a broken thread from beneath. Work had to pause while they did this, but as soon as they were clear the machine would trundle back. No wonder Annie said you had to be quick.
The overseer took me to a woman standing with her back to us.
‘Mrs Moir, I have a new piecer for ye.’
I gulped, my thoughts stunned as if I’d just been clubbed over the head with one of those bobbins. I hadn’t been expecting to be working with her. Mr Dale was nothing if not direct in his approach.
The woman turned round and bobbed a curtsey to the overseer. I stared at her face, drinking it in, trying to memorize the details for later contemplation. Her hair was hidden by a cap, her nose freckled, skin pale. She turned her eyes on me and I swiftly dropped my gaze. For a moment, it had been like looking in a mirror: green eyes rimmed with my own reddish-blonde lashes.
‘Get one of the other lasses to show her what to do,’ the overseer continued.
‘Aye, sir.’
‘Good luck, lass.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ My words came out hoarsely, but I couldn’t blame the cotton dust for that.
Once he had left, Mrs Moir beckoned over the little girl I had taught her letters. ‘Jeannie, show the new lass her duties. What’s yer name?’
‘Catherine,’ I murmured, trying to return Jeannie’s delighted smile, but my face felt stiff, like the time I’d sneaked into the theatre dressing room and applied too much of Mrs Siddons’ egg-white skin cleanser.
The little girl tugged on my hand. ‘Dinna fret, Catherine; it’s easy – easier than school.’
‘Well then, let’s set to.’ I crouched down beside her, leaning against a pillar to regain my composure.
Mrs Moir had already forgotten us as she was busy replacing the bobbins on her loom. I watched her back, the flexing of her shoulder muscles as she worked. Slender, not tall – could she be?
Jeannie nudged me. ‘Wake up, Catherine – the mule is moving again.’
The front of the loom began its glide across the floor. Jeannie spotted the break before I did and dived under the stretched cotton. I followed quickly. Above us the white threads vibrated like piano strings. Two ends sagged to the floor. Jeannie grabbed them and with a deft pinch and twist pieced them together.
‘Now out we go,’ she sang happily.
I scurried after her – we’d completed the move before the loom had begun its retreat, allowing the machine to work uninterrupted.
‘Well done, Jeannie,’ called her mother. ‘So that is being gleg,’ I muttered, my heart racing. Dodging the loom reminded me of trying to beat the waves on a beach; I had got my feet wet too many times to be confident of avoiding the mechanical mule.
&nb
sp; ‘Ye’ll get used to it,’ grinned Jeannie with all the wisdom of her six years.
And she was right. By the end of the day I was able to spot a break, dip in, mend it and be out in thirty seconds flat. Yet despite the rest time at breakfast and dinner, by seven I was exhausted, my back aching, my knees sore. I had not thought of myself as being particularly soft, but these mill girls were tough if they could survive a day at the looms and still have energy for classes. Only my pride stopped me from complaining; I didn’t want word to get back to annoying Jamie Kelly that I had found it at all difficult. And, of course, the thread of my attention was snagged on Mrs Moir, trailing after her as she paced the mill floor like a dangling end forgotten by the seamstress, but she was oblivious to my desperate interest. Several times little Jeannie had to nudge me in the ribs to remind me to watch the loom, not the spinner.
The rest of the week followed a similar pattern. The noise of the machines prevented much talk in the mill so I learned little about Mrs Moir except that she was attentive to her work, rarely smiled and took pride in her children, particularly Jeannie. The little girl was respectful to her mother, a touch afraid when she thought she had made a mistake but delighted at any praise. From this I deduced that Mrs Moir was a strict but loving parent. Comparing notes with Bridgit, it appeared that Mr Moir had a pale character to match his complexion. Not unkind, not loud, not in good health – he was the kind of man easily forgotten. Putting together what we knew, Mrs Moir seemed the last person one would expect to do anything so outrageous as to run off to London, have a child and dump her there.
So what then did she know about the circumstances of my birth? And, Reader, how to get her to tell me the truth?
Sunday arrived – our day of rest. As the chapel was too small to contain all the workers, the children were expected to attend Sunday school instead. I was asked to read the Bible to the little ones – a task I thoroughly enjoyed as I had always loved the odd stories one can find tucked away in the Old Testament. I read them the tale of sulky Jonah and got them to act it out, resulting in some graphic retching as my whales pretended to cast up their accounts on the beach. I was half-expecting to be reprimanded for unsabbath-like behaviour but was told by the dominie that Mr Dale would approve of anything that encouraged us in our faith, even play-acting.
At the end of our performance, or should I say, lesson, I walked with Jeannie to the door. She was still bubbling over with excitement.
‘Thank ye, thank ye! I so love making up plays!’ she exclaimed. ‘But Mither thinks they are evil. She dinna like it when I play make-believe.’
‘Why not?’ I asked indignantly, finding it hard to imagine anyone taking against dramatic entertainments.
Jeannie leaned towards me conspiratorially. ‘She says they turn people bad, make them do wicked things.’
‘They do not!’ I huffed. ‘I think your mother is mixing up Macbeth with real life!’
Jeannie slipped her hand in mine. ‘What’s Macbeth?’
I was deep into my explanation when we reached a gaggle of boys standing on the foot-bridge over the millstream. They were racing paper boats down the rapids.
‘Mine’s the winner!’ crowed Jamie Kelly, clapping his hands over his head in celebration.
It would have to be him, of course.
‘Look, Catherine – there are my brothers,’ Jeannie said happily. ‘I’ll take ye to meet them.’
She had no idea that every small step of intimacy with the Moir family was a giant stride for me, something I needed to prepare for to protect my raw feelings. Before I could stop her, she was pushing her way through the gang and hooked a tall, handsome red-headed boy by the arm. He looked down and ruffled her hair.
‘What do ye want, chuckie?’
‘Ye have to meet Catherine, Ian – the lass I was telling you about.’ Jeannie pulled me forward.
‘Och, aye, the Sassenach.’ The boy gave me a hostile inspection. ‘Jamie’s been bellyaching about ye all week.’
‘Pleased to meet you too,’ I said coldly.
He elbowed his neighbour in the ribs. ‘See, Dougie, she dinna have two heads like Jamie said.’
Dougie, who was shorter, much stouter compared to his brother’s thin stature, and topped with a mop of dark curly hair, placed a protective hand on Jeannie’s shoulder. ‘Ye’re right, Ian. She doesna look so bad. I suppose she canna help being a soothlander.’
My temper was pricked by their thinly veiled scorn. I crossed my arms. ‘And I suppose you can’t help being ill-bred louts.’
Cat, Cat, what are you doing? my more sensible side berated me. This was a fine way to make their acquaintance: an exchange of insults.
A new voice broke into our conversation. ‘I see ye’ve met Snippie.’
I groaned. Jamie Kelly had sauntered over to see what was happening. I let my hands drop, clenching them at my sides.
‘Good morning, professor,’ I said with barely a snarl.
‘Aye, an hallockit lass as you said,’ pronounced Ian with all the dignity of his year or two of seniority.
Jeannie felt for my hand and squeezed it. ‘She is nae such thing, Ian. Ye are an ill-deedie brother for calling my friend names.’
Jamie took off his glasses to clean the lens. ‘And are ye hen-hertit too, Snippie?’
‘Actually, I’ve always considered myself brave as a lion,’ I snapped back.
‘Some of the lads and I are off to Corra Linn. Will ye come?’
I was instantly suspicious. ‘Why do you have to be so brave-hearted to go on a little country walk?’
He folded his arms and smirked. ‘Well, there’s the wee matter of the estate wall and the ghillie with his gun. His dogs are worse – great scary beasts with a taste for man-flesh. The lady doesna like us trespassing.’
He was baiting me. He wanted me to refuse so he could laugh at me with his mates. But as you now know, Reader, I’m the kind of girl who takes up the bait, regardless of the consequences.
‘I’m not afraid and I had already decided I wanted to see the falls. I’ll come, and gladly.’
Jamie’s face fell.
‘Don’t tell me you are too hen-hertit to go?’ I mocked.
He straightened up and nodded to the Moir brothers. ‘Nae. We’ll go now, before ye change yer mind.’
‘Before I change my mind?’ I protested.
‘Run along, Jeannie.’ Ian gave his sister a push in the back. ‘And dinna say a word to Mither.’
Jeannie gripped my hand tighter. ‘Nae, I want to come too.’
Dougie knelt down beside her. ‘Ye ken ye canna do that. Ye’re such a wee lassock that ye’ll never get over the wall.’
Grumpily, with a curse on all over-protective brothers, Jeannie relinquished my hand and ran off in the direction of her home. Feeling the need for more support, I looked hopefully around for Bridgit, but she had gone to church with some workers of her Catholic faith and would not be back till dinner. I also doubted that she would be as game as me to go on such a foolhardy expedition. But I was eager now I had committed myself; a week confined inside the mill and I was ready for a challenge outdoors. And I had just been handed an opportunity to get to know the Moir boys – the Beau and the Boxer as I’d nicknamed them in my head.
‘Right,’ I said, rubbing my hands together. ‘Where’s this wall?’
Jamie had not been lying when he said that it was difficult to reach Corra Linn from the mills. The owner of the Bonnington estate clearly did not want the thousands of workers at the end of her garden tramping over the grounds: poaching the game, invading her privacy; so she had barricaded her lands off from New Lanark. Not that this stopped us. Having located a suitable tree near enough to the wall, I was up and over in no time – the first to reach the other side. The boys went very quiet when they realized I was no simpering Miss in need of their manly assistance.
‘Where did ye learn to do that?’ Dougie asked once he’d swung himself down with a hefty thump.
‘In the navy
,’ I replied, straight-faced.
‘Shh!’ hissed Jamie. ‘Do ye want the ghillie to find us?’
Following his lead, we crept along the bank of the Clyde. In places it was very steep and slippery and soon my hands, skirt hem and stockings were smeared with mud. I didn’t care: it just felt so wonderful to be outside, though undoubtedly, Reader, it was a shame that I was wearing my Sunday best. My lace-edged petticoats would never be the same again. Yet, despite Jamie’s dire warnings, the hint of danger only added spice to the adventure, well worth the sacrifice of a little trimming. The wood was a patched harlequin cape of green, gold, crimson and brown, dazzling in the sunshine. All around us the trees were shedding their leaves, a celebratory shower at autumn’s wedding. Red squirrels darted along branches, launching themselves across the gaps in the canopy with the ease of rope-walkers at the fair; the rustle of the breeze applauded their antics. Nut husks crunched underfoot.
Climbing steeply, we rounded a bend and emerged out of the trees to a ledge overlooking the river. There before us was Corra Linn. The waterfall was more impressive than I had imagined: two great veils of white water tumbling over a ledge, kicking up spray from the pool beneath. As I gazed, the sun came out from behind a cloud; rainbows shimmered in the mist. I was caught in the spell, enchanted by how the falls could be always in motion yet still the same. The water roared, exultant at being free of the riverbed for one glorious moment of flight. I could almost feel what it might be like to tumble heedless over the edge, out of control . . .
A hand gripped my arm as I swayed forward.
‘Watch out, ye glaikit Sassenach!’ Jamie glared at me. ‘I dinna want to have to dive in after ye!’
I laughed at him, sensing for once that his harsh tongue was due to his fear for my safety. ‘Don’t worry – I know from experience not to jump into a waterfall.’