Salem Street Read online

  Salem Street

  Anna Jacobs

  www.hodder.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 1994 by Hodder and Stoughton

  An Hachette UK Company

  Copyright © Anna Jacobs 1994

  The right of Anna Jacobs to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  Epub ISBN: 9781444714401

  Book ISBN: 9780340603086

  Hodder and Stoughton Ltd

  An Hachette UK company

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.hodder.co.uk

  CONTENTS

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Also by the Author

  Part One

  1 Salem Street: 1820 to 1830

  2 Brighton: 1826 to 1830

  3 Bilsden: March to May 1830

  4 Early June 1830

  5 June 1830 to 1832

  6 November 1832 to May 1834

  7 1834 to 1837

  8 June to August 1837

  9 August to September 1837

  10 September 1837 to January 1838

  11 March 1838

  12 April 1838

  13 April to May 1838

  14 May 1838

  15 May to June 1838

  16 June to July 1838

  17 July to August 1838

  18 August to September 1838

  19 Ellie: July 1838 to January 1839

  20 Annie: November to December 1838

  Part Two

  21 1839 to 1844

  22 August 1844

  23 August to October 1844

  24 October to November 1844

  25 January to March 1845

  26 March to April 1845

  27 April to May 1845

  About the Author

  With love to my parents, Lucy and Derrick Sheridan, to whom I owe a great deal.

  Also by Anna Jacobs

  Jessie

  Like No Other

  Down Weavers Lane

  The Gibson Family series

  Salem Street

  High Street

  Ridge Hill

  Hallam Square

  Spinners Lake

  The Kershaw Sisters series

  Our Lizzie

  Our Polly

  Our Eva

  Our Mary Ann

  The Settlers series

  Lancashire Lass

  Lancashire Legacy

  The Michaels Sisters series

  A Pennyworth of Sunshine

  Twopenny Rainbows

  CONTACTING ANNA JACOBS

  Anna is always delighted to hear from readers and can be contacted:

  BY MAIL

  PO Box 628

  Mandurah

  Western Australia 6210

  If you’d like a reply, please enclose a self-addressed envelope – stamped from inside Australia or with an international reply coupon from outside Australia.

  VIA THE INTERNET

  Anna Jacobs now has her own web domain, with details of her books and excerpts to read. She’d love to have you visit at http://www.annajacobs.com

  She can also be contacted by e-mail on [email protected]

  If you’d like to receive e-mail news about Anna and her books (once every few weeks only) you are cordially invited to join her announcements list. Your e-mail address will not be passed on to anyone. E-mail Anna and ask to be put on the list, or there is a link from her web page.

  Part One

  1

  Salem Street: 1820 to 1830

  The handcart creaked and groaned as it trundled slowly along Florida Terrace and the man pushing it laughed aloud as he guided it on its erratic course. “Nearly there now, love,” he said encouragingly to the woman walking by his side.

  “I’m all right, John,” she insisted, but her face was white and sweat beaded her forehead. She held one hand protectively over her belly, as if to keep her unborn child safe. As he slowed down, she added sharply, “Nay, get a move on, will you! We’ll not be there till after dark at this rate.” This was a gross exaggeration, for they were only moving a few streets, although it seemed like a different world here, away from the stinking yards and alleys of Claters End.

  John Gibson knew better than to argue with his wife. Lucy was not well, but she hated anyone to fuss over her, so she got a bit sharp occasionally. He had begged her to stop work and take things easy, for the baby’s sake, but she wouldn’t. If she went on at Hallam’s Mill, they could buy a few more things for their new home and anyway, she’d have plenty of time to rest once the baby was born.

  When he had met her after work today, he had noticed how haggard she was looking, her red hair faded and brittle, her skin sallow and her body over-thin, except for the curve of her swollen belly. Only her eyes were alive, green and alert. She had lovely eyes, did his Lucy. If anything happened to her … He banished the thought, as he banished all unpleasant thoughts. Nothing was going to happen to her. He wouldn’t allow anything to happen to her!

  As they slowed down to turn the corner into Boston Street, he let the cart run to a halt against the wall. “Heavy work,” he said. “Mind if I rest a bit?”

  Lucy looked at his face, pale from the long hours inside the mill, and thought how much she loved this rough lad of hers. When he leaned against the wall and put his arm round her, she sagged against him gratefully, feeling his bristly chin next to her cheek, for he was not much taller than she was. John had been a bit of a favourite with the women before she met him. Perhaps it was his curly brown hair and wide grin that had attracted them. He’d not looked at another woman in that way since they’d got wed, though. She wouldn’t have stood for it, any more than she’d have stood for him drinking himself stupid on Saturday nights and getting into fights, like he used to.

  “Eh, what a day this is!” he said and gave her a hug, his pulse quickening as always at the touch of her body. It was worth working hard for a wife like her and he was proud of his record as a provider. He was always one of the last to be put on to short time in the mill nowadays and he reckoned he’d be in line for the chargehand’s job in a year or two, when old Ben got past it. All they needed now to complete their happiness was a live baby, not a limp little corpse like the last one. He pushed that sad memory away quickly.

  After a few moments, Lucy nudged him. “Come on, my lazy lad! I shan’t feel right till we’re settled in.”

  By the time they were halfway along Boston Street, Lucy was panting again from her exertions. She forgot her tiredness, however, as she looked at the houses they were passing. How envious she used to feel of the lucky people who lived here, for they not only had whole houses of their own, but private back yards behind them! Well, there was no longer any need to feel envious, for soon she too would have a house and yard of her own – and not just any house, either. She and John had been lucky enough to get one of the brand new houses in Salem Street. It was kind of young Mr Frederick to speak up for them, though he wouldn’t have done so if John hadn’t been such a good worker. He was sharp as they came, Mr Frederick, for all he was only seventeen, and would make a hard mas
ter for the mill when old Mr Hallam died. They were all hard, were the cotton masters, and didn’t she know it, for she’d been working in the spinning mills herself for over eleven years now, ever since she was a child of ten.

  They passed the water tap, with its little queue of women and children. The water was turned on all the time in Boston Street. That’d be grand, that would. No need to skimp when you could get a clean bucketful at any time of the day or night. Lucy smiled at John, a radiant smile, weary as she was, for they were almost there. Salem Street was just around the corner.

  It had been touch and go whether the new row of eight houses would be finished in time for Lucy Gibson to have her child there, or whether she’d have to bear it in the damp room where she had already lost one baby. But the builder was more interested in making money than in doing a good job, and Thomas Hallam was desperate for more accommodation for his operatives, so work on the little terrace went on apace. And if the timber could have been more carefully jointed or the bricks more evenly laid, who was going to complain? Certainly not the lucky families waiting to move in! Specially chosen, they were, for it was one of the best terraces in the Rows, a single-sided street facing the mill wall, with a good big private yard behind each house and a shared patch of dirt in front.

  As they turned the corner into her new street, Lucy let out a long exhalation of pure happiness. “We’ll do better here, love, I know we will.” She paused for a moment to look possessively at the houses and to enjoy the feel of the weak April sunlight on her face after working in the noise and clatter of the mill.

  “We’ve not done that badly so far, lass,” said John, surprised.

  “Aye, I know, but I want us to do better still,” Lucy insisted, both hands on her belly, because the baby had started kicking vigorously. “Eh, but he’s lively today! Takes after his father, he does.” She threw John a look of complicity.

  He grinned back at her. “His mother can be a bit lively at times, too!”

  The cart was a tight fit at the corner, where the two privies barred part of the entrance to Salem Street, for its wheels pulled to the right and it wasn’t easy to manoeuvre, but a bit of tugging and they were through.

  “I wouldn’t like to live in this end house,” commented Lucy, “right next door to the privies like that. Still, it’ll be nice to have two privies, won’t it? Not so much queuin’ up, eh?” Without waiting for John, she hurried towards Number Three, her weariness forgotten in her pleasure at taking possession of their new home.

  The door was slightly ajar and she stopped to take a deep breath before pushing it open and stepping inside reverently, as if she were treading on holy ground. It was a good house, all of twelve feet wide with bigger windows than usual. The front door opened straight into the largest of the four rooms, which had a nice level floor paved with two-foot-square flagstones. “I’ll soon have that floor clean and my rag mats down,” she said aloud.

  John followed her in, carrying one of their bundles and she turned towards him, her eyes filled with tears. “Eh, John!” she said huskily.

  He put the bundle down and held out his hand. “Come on, my lass, let’s ’ave a good look round before we start. There’s no rent agent breathin’ over our shoulders this time.”

  Between the front room and the kitchen at the rear a flight of steep wooden steps led up to the two bedrooms. The stairwell was cramped and dark, but the house seemed the height of luxury to two people who were more used to sharing a room with several others than having four rooms all to themselves. After they’d walked proudly round their new domain, Lucy left John to bring the rest of the things in and stood gloating over the kitchen. The fire grate was nice and wide, with a brick ledge at each side to stand things on and a good strong metal bar across the middle, about two feet above the hearthstone, to hang the pot hooks on. The triangular space under the stairs would make a fine cupboard to keep her things in. It was a good job John had some tools and knew how to use them. He’d soon build her a set of shelves.

  Hearing voices outside, Lucy went to see who John was talking to and found him with another young couple whose children were rushing up and down the narrow front yard, shrieking and tumbling around like a litter of puppies. The mill wall had already cast its shadow over the sour earth and the broken glass in the top of it was glinting in the late sunlight.

  “This is Mick and Bridie O’Connor, love, who’re movin’ into Number Five.”

  Irish, thought Lucy, as she nodded at the couple. How had they got a house? She looked at them searchingly, for the Irish were not well thought of and what your neighbours were like could make a huge difference to your life, when walls were thin and houses small. She liked what she saw, however.

  Bridie O’Connor was a short, stocky woman, with dark hair and a broad smile. As she got to know her, Lucy was often to marvel at Bridie’s energy, for nothing seemed to get her down. Mick was tall, with a ruddy complexion and bright blue eyes. It soon became obvious that for all his great size, his wife ruled him with a rod of iron and her children, too, though Danny, the eldest, was a handful, always into mischief.

  It was not long before Lucy learned their story. The O’Connors had been brought over from Ireland a few years previously, when the owners of the new mills were so short of operatives that they were bringing in workers from anywhere they could find them. That made a bond between them, for Lucy herself had been brought in as a terrified child of ten, when her parents died and she was left on the parish in a distant village. She would rarely discuss that time, even with John, for the mill-owners had been far less tender with their child apprentices in the early days than they were now. She had survived, she said, and that was enough. But she would never, she always added, let her own children go into the mill.

  “Let my Mick give you a hand with those things, Mr Gibson. You’ll not want your wife doin’ any heavy liftin’ in her condition.” Bridie smiled at Lucy, for she too was expecting a child, though she did not look to be very far on yet. “Is it your first?” she asked, more to make conversation than anything else.

  “Sort of. We lost one last year,” said Lucy.

  Bridie squeezed her hand in quick sympathy. “Ah, ’tis hard on a woman. I lost one meself three years back. She only lived a few hours, God rest her poor little soul!”

  They turned in common accord to watch the men carry the Gibsons’ few bits and pieces of furniture inside, and Bridie shooed away her children when they tried to follow. “Little devils!” she said fondly. “We’ll be movin’ in ourselves later today. Charlie’s lendin’ us his handcart. We’ve just come over to pick it up.”

  “Charlie?”

  “Aye, Charlie Ashworth, him as was injured in that accident afore Easter, God bless him. The poor fellow’s been given the end house, Number Eight. They didn’t think he’d survive, but he’s comin’ along nicely now. A doctor came and sewed up his wounds with a needle and thread, just think of that, will ye! D’ye know Charlie?”

  “No, but I heard about the accident.” Lucy shuddered. There were dreadful accidents sometimes in the mills. A girl had been killed right next to Lucy, years ago, caught by her hair in the machinery and scalped within seconds. Lucy had had nightmares about it for months. Charlie Ashworth’s accident had also been horrendous, but it was the men who shuddered as they spoke of it, for it was every man’s worst nightmare. It was a miracle he was still alive. If anything ever happened to her John … She banished the thought quickly.

  Over the next day or two the other houses were taken possession of, the last people arriving on the Tuesday, when Lucy was at work. She was too tired when she got home that night to do more than nod at them and exchange a few words with Bridie, standing on her doorstep watching the children play and waiting for Mick to come home.

  By the end of the following week, Lucy could no longer work with her usual efficiency, and the chargehand sent her home. Her wages were paid meticulously, right up to the hour she’d been summoned to the office, and she was told she’d
be welcome back when she’d weaned the child, for old Tom Hallam knew the worth of all his workers.

  When John came hurrying home that night, worried because she’d had no one to look after her, his meal of cabbage and potatoes with a little fat bacon was bubbling in a pan and Lucy was sitting with her feet up in front of the fire. The most she would admit to was that she did feel ‘a bit peaky-like’ and was glad to stop work. During the next few days she pottered about the house, trying to get everything straight before the baby arrived. She found it comforting to have Bridie only two doors away and they soon became firm friends.

  Bridie, never one to be reticent about herself, told Lucy all the details of how she and Mick had left their village in Ireland, because the new owner wanted the land for other uses and his agent was starting to evict people. It was Bridie who had forced Mick to look further afield than the next village for a job, and the big, gentle chap, who loved to feel the sun and wind on his face, found himself putting his cross on an agreement to go and work in a cotton mill in Lancashire. All they knew was that this place was across the sea in England and that the mills spun cotton wool into thread and yarn. At that time they’d not been long married and had only the one child. They’d thought they were living in luxury in Bilsden, what with the regular work, always something to eat and a clean room to themselves.

  Mick had gradually grown used to the work and found himself a niche tending the dray horses and doing odd jobs round the mill, but he never grew used to living in a town or working indoors. He tried to take his pleasure from seeing how well his Bridie was and how his children were thriving on the regular wages. “Sure, we’d have lost more of ’em if we’d stayed there,” Bridie would say, crossing herself, and he would nod. But just occasionally Mick would turn gloomy and bad-tempered for no obvious reason, and then he would vanish without a word for the whole of the next Sunday, to tramp the moors and “breathe in some daicent air that don’t choke a man”.