The Hawthorns Bloom in May (8 page)

There were three speakers, one with a Lancashire accent from a Trade Union group she was quite familiar with, a second from Belfast whose articles she had read in
The Worker
and the third, a pale young man from the works at Lenaderg, whom she knew only by sight. They all said the same thing in different ways, put their case clearly and persuasively and drew murmurs of agreement and sometimes cheers from their audience.

Sarah could feel Tom fidgeting in distress at her side. Having worked all his life at Millbrook and been devoted to Hugh, she could imagine
what he must feel at the hostile references to slave drivers and parasites, but she knew that if anything were to be done, she must not react to this familiar rhetoric. Only if she kept calm was there a remote possibility that they might listen to a different view.

She and Hugh had often discussed the threat of strike action, genuinely aimed at improving the lot of all workers, but failing through lack of funds. He had seen clearly enough what success might achieve if every textile factory in the north were to close, but the most likely outcome in the present state of the labour movement was the kind of disruption that would leave families penniless.

‘So, comrades, the case is clear …’

The original speaker, the one from Lancashire who’d said his name was Michael Donaghy, stood up again and began a vigorous summing up.

‘Unless we take action and bring the employers to their knees, you good people will be sweating your guts out to feed your families while others enjoy the fruits of your labour,’ he began, his arms embracing his silent audience. ‘Only by joint action can we achieve any progress. And I would speak particularly to you women,’ he went on, adopting a more confidential tone. ‘Women have not been active in the labour movement in this country and yet it was women who backed up the men that
fought in the Land League to get a decent life for those who worked the land as tenants and labourers. Surely
you
are not going to let those women down, women that fought for their families, for a decent living, for a future for their children. Are
you
just going to pass by on the other side, or are you going to stand shoulder to shoulder with your menfolk and win this battle against those who would exploit and oppress us?’

Michael threw out his arms in another all-embracing gesture. There was a spatter of applause from the ranks of seated women and cheers from some groups of men who had chosen to stand in the side aisles and at the back of the large hall.

Before the applause had died down, Sarah left her seat, slipped quietly across the front of the platform and ran lightly up the steps to stand beside him.

‘How do you do, Michael,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘I’m Sarah Sinton. I work at all four mills,’ she said in a normal voice, just loud enough to carry to the front rows. ‘I’d like to add a word or two, if I may,’ she said, smiling, as he took her hand.

The look of amazement on his face as he shook her hand was almost enough to encourage her, but not quite. She knew perfectly well she was taking a desperate risk, but as there was no one else to speak she would simply have to do her best.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ she began, before anyone could object. ‘I’ve listened very carefully to what our friends have had to say and most of what they’ve said I agree with. The rates of pay in the textile trade are far too low. I would also add they are
grossly
unfair to women. We are entirely in agreement about that,’ she added, glancing behind her at the three men, now seated and watching her carefully.

‘In many cases also, the working conditions in mills are both dangerous and damaging to health as two of our speakers have pointed out. I hope you would agree with me that this isn’t the case here,’ she went on, as she looked around the audience for the first time.

There was a murmur of assent, particularly from the women. The men sat or stood in silence. Some of them had begun to look a little uncomfortable.

‘What Michael and I might disagree about,’ she went on, raising her voice to reach the back of the hall, ‘is how best to put this situation right without causing unnecessary hardship. Sometimes it’s very hard to see a problem from a different side. I learnt that when I was still a schoolgirl and I had my first disagreement with the man who became my husband.’

She knew there was a slight catch in her voice when she referred to Hugh, but she also knew that
the silence in the hall had grown deeper and that everyone was listening to her. She felt sure the audience were wondering what was coming next, even if it was only from curiosity.

‘One bitter winter’s day with snow falling, a woman came to the door of my home at Ballydown. She was carrying a baby and she was exhausted. She was on her way to the top of the hill to Hugh Sinton’s house, Rathdrum, to get a ticket for the dispensary. Some of you will remember the old ticket system before there was a dispensary in each village,’ she added, as an aside.

‘While my mother gave her tea, I ran up the hill, asked Hugh Sinton to get the brougham out and we took her to the doctor.’

She paused and took a deep breath. The heat of the hall and the tension she was feeling was making her chest painfully tight.

‘By the time we got there, the child was dead,’ she went on steadily. ‘I was so angry, I blamed Hugh personally and wouldn’t speak to him for months. When finally I did, I demanded to know why he didn’t pay his workers properly, so they could afford doctors when they needed them without a silly ticket.’

‘The answer was quite different from what I might have imagined. He agreed with me about rates of pay. Then he asked me if I knew what would happen were he to pay workers more, so
that he would have to charge more for his cloth.’

Sarah paused and shook her head.

‘It never occurred to me the mills would close if Sintons put up their prices and lost their orders. There would be
nothing
then for the people who had worked there. There would be no money
at all
to buy food. And very little prospect of finding any other work. If the mills had closed, back in the nineties, there wouldn’t even have been a handful of public works to help out, as there had been during the time of the famine. There would be
nothing
.’

She paused and looked around her. Many of the women were nodding.

‘I don’t disagree with your analysis of the situation in the textile industry,’ she went on, turning to the three men who sat behind her. ‘I only disagree about how we go about changing it without putting hundreds of families at risk.’

‘And what would you suggest?’ Michael asked courteously enough, as he stood up and came to stand opposite her.

‘I suggest that we continue to press for government legislation to shorten hours and increase earnings. Progress
has
been slow. It doesn’t please me, or you, but it’s better than risking the well-being of whole communities.’

There was applause from the crowded hall, but Sarah felt no easement in the tension that
surrounded her. The two other Trade Unionists where whispering together behind where she and Michael Donaghy stood facing each other.

‘Comrades,’ shouted the man from Belfast, jumping to his feet. ‘You have heard what Missus Sinton has to say. And she puts it very nicely too,’ he said, nodding his head in her direction. ‘Do nothing. Go back to work. Continue to make money for me and my family. That’s what she’s saying.’

He paused and drew himself to his full height, ignoring some hostile murmurs from the body of the hall.

‘Then let me tell you good people just how much money is stacked up in the Sinton Mills account in Banbridge and let you judge for yourselves whether this family could meet your legitimate demands for a minimum rate of thrippence an hour.’

To Sarah’s amazement and horror, he named an extraordinarily high figure which made his audience gasp. She saw Tom shake his head and drop his face in his hands.

‘Maybe Missus Sinton would like to tell us what
her
plans are for
your
money,’ he said with an unpleasant sneer as he sat down again.

As there were only three chairs on the platform, Sarah had remained standing. She was beginning to feel quite faint, what with the heat and tension, and the need to look calm when her chest felt tight and her stomach grumbled uncomfortably. She nodded
to him as he sat back in his seat with a show of preparing himself to listen. Michael glanced at her with a look she could not read, turned his back on her and went and sat beside him.

‘I am not sure the sum you mention is quite accurate,’ she began coolly, ‘but for the sake of argument we will assume it is. I should be delighted to find that it is the case,’ she said, turning back to her audience.

‘There are three reasons why this sum is so high. Firstly, we have had two very good years of trading. Secondly, unlike other companies, the directors do not share out the profits among themselves, build grand houses, take themselves off to live in London or Bath, or give substantial gifts to the right people so as to end up with titles,’ she said firmly. ‘The directors are paid a salary which you can look at in the annual report.

‘Until recently,
all
profits have been redeployed within the company,’ she went on. ‘They’ve been used for new machinery and equipment, so that our technology doesn’t fall behind. They’ve also been used for housing, for the co-operative shops, the dispensaries and the holiday homes at the seaside. And this recreation hall,’ she added easily, as she looked around the sea of faces.

‘Two years ago a decision was made to accumulate profits where possible and to launch a public company.’

There were jeers from the back and sides of the hall and remarks from the three men seated behind her.

‘Ohhh … that’s great news for the workers.’

‘Going public are we?’

‘Give the money to the shareholders.’

‘I haven’t finished,’ said Sarah, more sharply than she intended, as she turned to look at them.

‘The plans to go public have been delayed by the loss of a director,’ she explained. ‘But what is underway is a scheme whereby all the workers with more than two years service in any of the mills will become shareholders. If we cannot pay threepence an hour without putting the company at risk, we intend to compensate the workforce by returning to them the profits they have helped to accumulate. Perhaps the person who investigated the company’s bank account could also consult our legal advisers to ensure that what I am saying is true.’

Sarah stopped speaking, knowing that she could do little more. Her mouth was dry, her back ached and she was longing to sit down. What happened next took her completely by surprise.

A small figure wearing the white apron of a doffer, erupted from the steps at the side of the platform and advanced furiously on the three men who were once again whispering together.

‘Get up,’ she said, her hands on her hips as she
stood over them. ‘Have ye no manners at all? Give Missus Sinton a chair.’

Michael Donaghy got up sheepishly and amid laughter walked across to Sarah and placed his chair behind her. She sank down gratefully amidst a round of applause.

But the newcomer on the platform had only just begun. She came forward to the edge of the platform and addressed herself to the great block of seats occupied by the spinners of Millbrook.

‘Have you people all lost leave o’ your senses?’ she demanded. ‘Can ye not mind who helped you out in the bad times? Have any of you iver been in trouble that ye diden find help here at work? You’d only to go to Doctor Stewart or Missus Sinton or Mister Hugh, God rest him. They’ve done their best for us, and most of us wou’d do our best for them. I’d be up there workin’ my frames if it weren’t for a handful o’ men who turned the power off. They ought to be ashamed of themselves. Did they ask us for our opinion? No, they didn’t,’ she said, her eyes blazing.

‘Well, I’m goin’ to ask ye now in a minit,’ she said, pausing to catch her breath.

‘That wuman,’ she said, pointing unexpectedly to Sarah, ‘carried me on her back out of this mill when it was on fire eleven year ago. I had a bad leg an’ coulden run when the fire took hold and I took fright. An’ what none of ye’s knows was who it was
that started that fire, the lad that told me to go up an’ watch the fun when I was a wee girl wi’ no wit at all.’

She glared round the groups of men and boys now being scrutinised by the women sitting nearest them.

‘No, I’m not goin’ to shame him, for Mr Hugh told me I was niver to say. I’ll not break my word,’ she went on more quietly. ‘But what about youse’ns?’ she demanded in her former tone. ‘He forgave one of you for a fire that cost him dear an’ might have cost me my life. D’ye not think you’d be better to trust the likes of him and Missus Sinton here, than these men that wou’d have us out on the street. Has any of them said one word about strike pay? Do they think because we’re not up in Belfast we’re stupid? Do they not know that we can go to classes in the evenin’ an’ read the same books as them and make up our own minds?’

There were cheers and cries and loud applause.

For the first time since she’d burst onto the platform, Sarah saw the young woman take breath. Momentarily, it seemed she was taken aback by the storm she had called up, but it was only a moment.

‘C’mon then,’ she called, shooting one arm vigorously in the air and staring at the assembled company. ‘I’m goin’ back to work. Whose comin’ with me?’

A forest of arms shot into the air as every single woman registered her vote. Only among a cluster of men by the door was there no show of hands. They simply moved silently out into the bright light. A round of applause marked their going. Everyone in the hall knew they were the engine men going to switch on the power.

It was only as Sarah settled herself by Rose’s fireside and began to tell her why she’d gone over to Millbrook that the full magnitude of what had really happened slowly dawned upon her.

‘And the men simply turned off the power?’ Rose asked, her eyes wide with amazement, the tone of her voice giving away her growing anxiety. ‘What about your father?’

‘He was badly upset,’ Sarah said flatly. ‘He made no bones about it. He didn’t know what to do. To be honest, Ma, I’d no more idea then he had. Da’s never been one for public speaking, but I think he felt it so badly because he’s so sure Hugh would have known what to say and he never wants to let Hugh down.’

Sarah shook her head sadly.

‘To be honest, Ma, I’m not so sure he could have done any better than Da. It was the men
who were so hostile and if it hadn’t been for the women and wee Daisy, I mightn’t have got far either. The two men from Belfast and Lancashire were trying to make out the spinners were cowards for not supporting their menfolk like the women did in the Land League. The spinners didn’t like that, but most of them didn’t know what to do until Daisy said her piece. Another time it might not go the same way,’ she ended sharply.

Rose looked at her daughter. No, she was taking no joy in her success. Before she could think of anything to say, however, Sarah went on.

‘Here am I, Ma, working as best I can for women’s rights, for better conditions in the mills, shorter hours and better pay, and along come these men with their great ideas.
Bring the employers to their knees. Strike for better pay
,’ she said angrily. ‘Have they no sense at all? It’s not as simple as that. Don’t they ever look and see where that road leads?

She stood up abruptly and paced back and forth across the room.

‘Sometimes I think Hugh was right,’ she said, pausing and looking down at Rose. ‘He used to say the worst thing that ever happened to him was inheriting four mills.’

Rose remembered an autumn morning long ago when Elizabeth told her how hard Hugh had struggled with the work in the mill office when
his father had sent him to learn the business. Before he’d discovered his talent for repairing and inventing machinery, the mills and everything about them had been nothing to him but a constant source of anxiety and misery. That Hugh had gone on feeling the burden even after he and Sarah were married had never entered her head.

‘You worked so well together, Sarah, I don’t think I realised how hard it was for you both.’

‘No, I don’t think I did either.’

Sarah came and dropped down wearily in her father’s chair.

‘And now the burden is falling on Da,’ she said, looking her mother straight in the face. ‘I think he feels just like I do, that he has to keep things going for Hugh’s sake. But I’m not so sure that’s what Hugh would want. So many things have changed, Ma. And they’ll go on changing and not for the better. Today is only the beginning.’

‘Oh Sarah, do you really think it’s as bad as that?’ Rose asked gently. ‘You’re very tired and it must have been quite dreadful standing up there in front of all those people. I think
you
were very brave.’

‘Thanks, Ma,’ she said, smiling suddenly. ‘Who was it said that the only really brave people are those who are scared but still do it?’

‘I don’t know, love, but I’m sure it’s true. Do you think Daisy was scared?’

To Rose’s surprise, Sarah laughed.

‘No, I think she was so furious with those men behaving as if the women needed jollying along that she just flew in and said her bit,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Do you know, she doesn’t even limp now? That was Richard’s doing.’

‘And Hugh’s,’ Rose added gently.

‘Yes, I didn’t know about Hugh’s part till today,’ said Sarah leaning back in her chair and glancing away towards the open door. ‘He must have taken her to see Richard himself. That’s probably when she told him who started the fire,’ she added, as she picked up her cup and drained it.

‘And she’s known all this time who started the fire back in ’01?’ asked Rose shaking her head in amazement.

‘What’s funny, Ma?’ Sarah demanded, as Rose suddenly began to smile.

‘Oh dear, the things that come into one’s mind. I had a sudden memory of you standing at that door, looking like a well-dressed tramp, great dark circles under your eyes, your hair grey with ash. Do you remember you were so exhausted I had to wash your face for you?’

Sarah smiled herself and then laughed wryly.

‘And wasn’t Martha Loney sitting by the fire and Sam not able to take his eyes off her?’

They were both silent for a few moments.

‘An awful lot has happened in eleven years,
Sarah dear,’ said Rose slowly. ‘I often wonder where another decade will take us.
If
we’re here to see it, that is.’

‘Of course you will, Ma,’ Sarah protested. ‘In 1922, you’ll only be sixty-nine.’

Rose smiled and shook her head.

‘There’s no decade of my life, Sarah, where I could have guessed what was going to happen, good or bad. When we were put out of Ardtur, did we ever think of Kerry, or Annacramp, or Salter’s Grange, or Ballydown? Did I ever think I’d marry a man from the north and have two fine sons and two beautiful daughters?’

‘And lose one son to pride and the other to a self-centred woman?’ Sarah retorted.

‘No, I never imagined that,’ Rose said steadily. ‘Perhaps it’s as well we don’t know what lies ahead of us. Often we can find courage, when things jump up and hit us, like you did this morning, but sometimes if we
think
too much about what
might
happen, it undermines our good spirits and disables us. I think it’s better to travel hopefully even if one is upset or disappointed, rather than always looking over your shoulder.’

‘Yes. In principle, I agree, but there are times I just can’t manage it,’ Sarah admitted. ‘I worry about the children, about the world we live in, about the poor, the hungry and the exploited,’ she went on sadly, a look of real dejection taking the
light from her eyes and the animation from her face.

Rose stood up, came over and kissed her.

‘So do I, love,’ she said reassuringly. ‘We wouldn’t be much good to each other if we didn’t, now would we?’

Beyond asking if Sarah had called, John said little that evening when he came in, late and tired and Rose did not press him. In the days that followed, however, she became increasingly anxious about him. He seemed abstracted, almost unaware of her gentle enquiries and certainly more tired than usual, whether the day had been spent in the workshop or the boardroom.

‘What about the big order, love? Did it go out on time all right?’ she asked one humid, July evening some three weeks after the stoppage.

‘Aye, it did,’ he said, nodding.

She watched as he took off the jacket of his suit, hung it over the back of a chair and came to the table for his supper. She served up their meal and waited, hoping he might volunteer some comment about the day, but he didn’t. He just began to eat slowly and automatically.

Her mother-in-law, Sarah, had once said that all the Hamiltons had good appetites and indeed there was a time when both Sam and John had never failed to look hopefully for a second helping. But
not tonight. She knew even before she offered that John would just shake his head and say, ‘That was very nice.’

She tried changing the subject, passing on scraps of local news brought by Emily Jackson, the lively young niece of their closest neighbours who worked the farm at the foot of the hill, but there was no response beyond a nod or a raise of the eyebrows.

‘Are you
very
tired, love?’ she asked as they sat down by the fireside after their meal.

‘Ach no, no.’

He seemed about to say something, but no word emerged. Preoccupied with the way he looked, his face grey and immobile, she handed him a mug of tea instead of setting it on the edge of the stove as she usually did. He put out a hand to grasp it, but it slipped from his fingers and smashed on the stone floor. As he bent towards the broken pieces, she saw a look of pain cross his face.

‘Dear, dear,’ he said breathlessly, as he bent to pick up the fragments, but the pain caught him again and he had to lean back in his chair.

‘John love, what’s wrong?’ she asked, as calmly as she could manage.

‘Ach it’s nothing. Ah must have done something awkward in the workshop. It gives me this pain across m’ chest.’

‘And when did it start?’

‘A while back.’

‘And you didn’t tell me?’ she said softly.

‘Sure we all get pains and aches, Rose, at our age. It goes away in a while,’ he said, sitting back awkwardly in his chair.

‘Are you telling me the half of it, John Hamilton?’ she said, managing a smile.

‘Ach, maybe I’m not, but sure I didn’t mean to keep anythin’ from ye,’ he said sheepishly. ‘You have your worries too. I know yer not happy about Sam and Martha and those wee childer, and sure Sarah’s not her old self at all.’

‘And are you going to add to my worries or will you go over and see Richard tomorrow?’

‘D’ you think I should?’

‘I do.’

‘Well …’

‘Good, then that’s settled,’ said Rose briskly. ‘Now take off that shirt and I’ll rub your shoulders with Elizabeth’s oil. Then I’ll make another pot of tea and you can tell me what’s been happening that has you holding one shoulder higher than the other.’

Rose knew she could rely on Richard to be honest with them and he was. He took them into his surgery, settled Rose in a comfortable armchair and then spent a long time examining John’s chest, making him move in various directions and breathe to a particular rhythm.

‘There’s a great deal of tension in the muscles, John. What I can’t tell for sure is what’s causing it. It could be anxiety in itself, but it could be something more serious,’ he said coolly.

‘
Angina pectoris
is only the Latin name for a pain in the chest,’ he said, as John put his shirt back on. ‘But it can be a symptom of heart trouble. What is somewhat comforting about angina is that the pain is a warning and if properly heeded, it is not a threat in itself. I’ve known patients with angina live to a ripe old age, but they do have to take care and rest when the pain tells them they’ve done enough. They also have to avoid anxiety,’ he ended more firmly.

‘Aye, well,’ said John wryly.

‘Yes, John, I know you well enough by now,’ said Richard, eyeing him as he reached for his jacket. ‘There’s no patent medicine for your problem, or if there is, I wouldn’t prescribe it anyway, but there is something we can do. We’ll summon Elizabeth and Sarah to join you and Rose and we’ll have a
family
board meeting. Whatever’s causing this pain, John, part of it is the weight of Sinton’s Mills. I’ve never operated on a mill before, but there’s always a first time,’ he said grinning. ‘And I’ll have three great nurses to help me.’

The family board meeting did a great deal to comfort John. Both Elizabeth and Sarah, the other
major owners of Sintons, were quite clear that the changes they’d planned before Hugh’s death would have to be advanced more quickly. At least two more working directors were needed to help, or replace, the directors who were simply consultants. The plan to go public had to be speeded up. With two more directors to handle the day to day overseeing of the mills, John could return to his major role, the responsibility for keeping the current machinery working and buying the new machinery that would keep all four mills properly up to date.

The decisions made in Elizabeth and Richard’s comfortable sitting room did bring some relief, both to John, who now admitted how anxious he’d been feeling, and to Rose, who noticed within days that John was looking better and had started talking to her again. But it was not until the beginning of September, on a warm, sunlit afternoon, that something happened which changed the whole situation in a way the family board meeting could never have imagined.

Rose had been gardening and had just washed her hands in the dairy when she caught the vibration of a vehicle on the hill. Assuming it was Sarah, she went to the door to wave to her as she passed or greet her if she slowed down and stopped. To her surprise, the motor which appeared, its bodywork gleaming, its lamps polished till they flashed in the sun, was much larger and far grander than Sarah’s.
She reached the front door just as it drew up beside the garden wall and first one young man, stepped down, then another and made their way round the vehicle towards the garden gate.

‘Good day,’ she greeted them, as they strode up the narrow path one behind the other.

‘Missus Hamilton?’ said the first, a small, robust young fellow with clear blue eyes that looked straight at her.

‘Yes, the very person,’ she said easily.

There was something familiar about his face. She felt sure she ought to know him, but she couldn’t place him. For a moment, she wondered if he might be a friend of Sam’s from the days when he worked down at Tullyconnaught, before his move to Richhill, but she doubted if a friend of Sam’s was likely to arrive in such state.

‘Ned Wylie,’ the young man said cheerfully. ‘You’ll not remember me.’

Rose laughed.

‘I
would
have known you, Ned, if I’d thought a bit longer. You’ve got your mother’s eyes. Come in, come in,’ she said warmly, her smile including the stranger who stood patiently watching them.

Ned followed her into the house, then turned to his companion, a tall, sombre-faced man of about his own age with dark hair and eyes and noticeably broad shoulders.

‘This here is Alexander Hamilton,’ he said,
introducing him to Rose with a brief nod. ‘He wanted to meet you, so I said I’d bring him over on my day off. He’s got somethin’ to ask you,’ he went on cheerfully, ‘Aye, an’ indeed, so have I.’

‘Hamilton?’ said Rose, turning to the young man whose dark eyes were fixed firmly upon her. She shook his hand, beaming at him. ‘Are you one of our long-lost relatives?’

‘Well,’ he began awkwardly, his eyes flickering away from her face for the first time. ‘I think it’s just possible, ma’am, but I’ve such a bad memory I’m not sure myself,’ he said, his soft Canadian accent a marked contrast with the strong lines of his face and the obvious strength of his body.