Amanda Ford

Befallen

46, Plymouth Grove,

Manchester,

June 1859.

Dear Harriet,

I first met this child in a cell in New Bayley Prison, Manchester in the summer of 1857. Although, peering closer I saw I was mistaken. She was in fact a young girl but not one you and I would recognise. A waif, all skin and bone with distrusting eyes, paced that cell. The walls were streaked with blood where she scoured her wrists.

But, as you know, at an easy distance from this prison are pleasant highways, cotton mills like mighty cathedrals and shops that spill out their abundance. These same streets harboured this girl’s wretched story.

While others may wring their hands, sneer, or pass on by, I know you will not. Nor will you be judgemental. Merely, I ask you, read her pitiful plight and know she is one of many.

Yours very truly,

E C Gaskell

Manchester 1858

“And why should I help you? After all you’ve done?”

“Listen to me … I know I’ve done bad…” The tall red-haired girl reached out her hand.

“Bad! You don’t know the meaning of the word.” The other girl in the park turned her back and began walking along the darkened line of shrubbery.

“Wait, Paisley, please! I went to her. She told me to tell it to you straight.”

“Her?” The retreating girl called Paisley didn’t bother to turn around.

“Mrs Gaskell.”

Paisley stopped, steadying herself against a wrought iron bench. Looking up at forlorn star, it seemed to her that for once in her life, Betty might be telling the truth.

Chapter One

Manchester 1856

Despite all Matron had said, she woke that morning sick at heart. Her hands shook when she drew back the curtains. This was to be the last time. Her fingers lingered on the darns and worn threads. Smoothing the bulky hem, she knew each knot and stitch. She and Clarrie had sewn the curtains together, struggling with the thick checked calico. Under the glare of Matron’s gimlet eyes, the task had been endless. But every threaded needle and stabbed finger had brought her closer to her new friend. Now, Clarrie was more than a friend; she was the family she never had. They would never be parted. Whatever might happen today, they had vowed to stick together.

Peering out, she saw that the day was murky and misty. It had rained overnight. Huge puddles congealed like black molasses on the unmade road. In front of her, Clayton’s cotton mill loomed like a great tower of Babel. Five stories high, she cricked her neck to see its clock steeple, starkly lit, like a one-eyed monster against the lead-grey sky. In just six hours’, her fate would be known.

“Why you up so early, Paisley?” It was Betty Slinger’s peeved voice. “Might be our last lie in ever.”

“Shush!” Paisley glared at her and pointing to her sleeping friend, spun back to the window. She bristled, remembering her lost crucifix. Of course, Betty had always denied taking it, but who believed her.

“Suit yourself.” Betty belched. “You, molly-coddle that bit of fluff.”

“And you should pick on people your own size.” Betty had only been at the orphanage two years, but every day had been a trial, a running sore of lewdness and unprovoked slaps. In a few hours, though, she would be free of Betty.

She rubbed the misted glass. She hoped that the inferno opposite would not be her first place of work. All day long the leviathan belched out acrid smoke and the air shook with the clatter of one hundred spinning mules. She’d been inside only the once. Clarrie and she had stuffed their fingers into their ears as the machines roared and screamed. Then, like a scene from a Christmas card, lint from the spun cotton, drifted like snowflakes and fell onto their hair and shawls. The saw-dusted floor was carpeted in white cotton fluff.

Then there was the scream; it had frozen her marrow. The machines were stopped, and they were bustled away.

Later they heard that a young boy had been careless. He hadn’t listened to the overseer’s instructions. His right arm had to be amputated.

She shuddered, if it meant being with Clarrie, she would bear mill work, although matron had assured them that their sewing skills should secure them apprenticeships in a millinery. If there were no positions available, it would have to be domestic work. She grimaced and dug her fingernails into her palms. How could she be at the beck and call of an uppity mill-owner’s wife scarce older than herself?

Matron said that they tried to place girls together but what if she was paired with Betty instead? Dear Lord, please not Betty. She drew her plaid shawl round her shoulders. A hand clasped hers. It was Clarrie. They stared out at the charcoal-smudged street for the last time.

#

The air of excitement and anticipation grew as the hour approached. Under matron’s stern gaze, the girls, who had reached their fourteenth year, folded their small pile of clothes into grey-calico bundles. Paisley’s fumbling fingers helped Clarrie tie her knot. They washed and dressed, as if attending church, then waited in the dining room. Paisley sniffed the rancid aroma of the earlier mutton stew, her belly churning.

She repositioned her schoolwork on the table in front of her, the labours of seven years in the orphanage. A neat workbook showed her struggles with arithmetic and writing. Although Matron said, this wouldn’t matter anymore. She would be judged on her sewing alone now. She smoothed an imaginary crease on her needlework, proud that only she and Clarrie were exhibiting their lace-embroidered collar. Scrutinising her neat stitching, she hoped that this was enough to get her the coveted apprenticeship. So much rested on today. In years to come she might even have her own millinery, or perhaps a select boutique in London dressing the elite ladies of the city.

Clarrie nudged her. “Look at Betty’s display. Oh my.”

Paisley’s eyes flickered over to Betty’s table. As she surveyed the heap of unfinished sewing samples, she saw Betty’s back stiffen. Then, with the alacrity of a ginnel rat, Betty leapt forward and yanked Clarrie’s plait, wrenching her head back like a broken doll.

Clarrie screamed. Paisley balled her fists and lunged at Betty.

“Get back into line, Slinger and Pocket, or you’ll both feel the weight of my rod,” Matron barked. The room vibrated as she banged the floor with her stick.

Betty retreated and Paisley glowered at her.

“Fighting at such a time. You should be ashamed,” matron stormed. She went along the line of twelve, inspecting fingernails, adjusting caps, and straightening aprons. She stopped in front of Betty. “Stand up straight, arms to your side. And for heaven’s sake, no cursing.”

Betty tossed her head.

Matron eyes glittered but she moved on to the double doors. She hammered the floor with her rod. “This is your life to come, girls. Be a credit to this venerable institution.”

“Yes matron.”

Matron heaved the big oak double doors open, and a bevy of people thronged the room. They were escorted by the granite-like figure of Mrs Brooks, superintendent of the Orphanage for Destitute Girls.

A tall lady, her widow’s weeds sweeping the floor, appeared before Paisley’s display. She peered at Paisley’s work fingering the collar. “Very fine stitching.” She looked her up and down, but Paisley could not read the expression beneath her laced veil. “Present your nails, girl.” Paisley did as instructed. “Now show me your teeth.”

Like an automaton, Paisley obeyed. She recalled the calves she had seen prodded at the cattle auction.

“Do you ail much?”

Paisley remembered to bob a curtsey. “No ma’am. I am strong and eager to work hard.”

The lady nodded. “Good.” She turned and Paisley’s shoulders sagged as the figure retreated. She cursed, feeling she had been a disappointment to the lady. Remembering Betty’s violent attack, she turned towards Clarrie. “Does it still hurt.”

Clarrie rubbed her neck and sighed. “No, not really. But that lady - she didn’t even look at my work.”

Paisley reached out for her hand. “But what a tartar. Makes matron look like a saint.”

Like a mind reader, Matron appeared. “What on earth did you say to Mrs Wright, Paisley?”

“Nothing, ma’am.”

“Who is she?” Clarrie asked.

“Only the owner of Wright’s millinery. She dresses the crème of Manchester ladies.”

Paisley felt her knees buckle. Why hadn’t she shown her the underside of the collar, just as neat as the front, and told her of her ambitions. She searched for her in the crowd, but she was no more.

A fustian-besuited man with a florid face loomed over them then. His ginger whiskered hands rifled through their display, upturning the collar. He winked at their clasped hands. “Friends eh…Expect you want to work together?”

“Oh yes please, Sir.” Paisley’s fingers dug deeper into Clarrie’s.

“I’m the foreman at Clayton’s spinning mill. We pay well, provide good lodgings.”

Paisley’s heart danced. She forgot about the maimed boy and the fluff-filled air that had made Clarrie cough and choke. She and Clarrie would be together.

“Excuse me, sir. You have no right to intercede in my earlier business arrangement.”

Paisley’s hand gripped Clarrie’s. “It’s that lady.”

The foreman swung around. At the sight of the crape-draped figure, he tugged his cap. “Ma’am, condolences for your loss, but these two girls are mine for Clayton Mill.”

“This girl is mine for Wright’s milliner.” The veiled lady pointed at Paisley. “Her sewing and embroidery skills should not be lost to that heathen mill - that place of vice and corruption.”

The foreman’s face grew redder. “Now look ‘ere. We run a respectable factory - inspected regularly, and -”

“Gather up your things.” The lady squinted at the label tied to Paisley’s apron. “Paisley Pocket, you are my apprentice.”

Paisley’s eyes darted to Matron who was smoothing her apron.

Matron nodded. “It’s a fine position, Paisley. You’ll do well there.”

Paisley shot a glance at Clarrie’s pinched face and squeezed her hand. “But Clarrie’s my friend. Can’t she come too?” She felt her eyes filling with tears.

“I’m sorry, but I run a very small establishment.” The milliner’s voice was softer.

“Oh, please, Mrs Wright, I will work for nothing. Clarrie’s sewing is just like mine.” She pushed her friend’s fancy work forwards.

The Milliner shook her head. “Unfortunately, your friend lacks your lightness of touch. This work is rushed and the stitches uneven…”

In her peripheral vision she saw Clarrie nod, her eyes red and moist.

As the lady turned, Paisley darted forward and tugged her veil. “Please ma’am. She is a fast learner. And she can draw - beautiful pictures of the fine ladies’ dresses like we see in church.”

Mrs Wright paused, then turned to matron. “Where is this girl’s drawing book? You are underselling her skills.”

Matron gave an emollient smile. “We’ve never had cause before, Ma’am.” She bobbed a curtsey.

“Now look ‘ere. I haven’t got all day,” the foreman interjected. “Time’s money. I’ll take that Betty girl yonder and this ‘ere Clarissa.”

Matron sighed and nodded to the foreman.

Quickly, Paisley rummaged in the pockets tied under her waist, pulling out a worn and much folded piece of paper. “Ma’am, Clarrie drew this for my birthday. She dressed me in a fancy Sunday gown. See here, the detail to the sleeve and bodice.”

The pince-nez was directed to the crumpled sketch. “A fine sketch indeed - a coral silk dress with a tight bodice in what appears to be lace.” Mrs Wright nodded. “I like the drooping shoulder neckline. All my ladies are clamouring for it.”

Paisley crossed her fingers – time seemed to stop. The clamour of voices receded and the clanking of machinery from the street was muted. A white pall had settled on Clarrie’s face.

“Clarissa Blackwell, you are indeed talented, but…” the milliner paused, “business is difficult. There is so much competition… the mill-owners’ wives…” She shook her head.

Dear Lord. Paisley made a silent prayer to the God that she had been remiss about recently.

“I will take you both.”

Paisley’s mind burst into shooting stars and pulling Clarrie into her they waltzed around their display. Even matron managed a smile. Not so the foreman. Shaking his head, he marched off muttering under his breath. He seized Betty, speaking curt words that Paisley couldn’t quite catch.

Betty gathered up her bundle but before following the foreman she passed Paisley’s table. Her fist swept the embroidered collar onto the floor. Paisley flinched and stopped dancing as spittle hit her cheek. She surged forward but felt Clarrie’s restraining arm. They watched Betty scurry after her new employer.

“She’s out of our lives,” Clarrie said.

Paisley picked up the collar and blew off the dust. She frowned as a sooty smudge remained. She would sponge it off later. She carefully placed the collar into her calico bag, pulling the strings tightly together. Clarrie was right. She need never see Betty again. She was on her way, on that first rung of the ladder, and that was all that mattered.

Chapter Two

Out of the orphanage gates, she and Clarrie raced to keep up with Mrs Wright’s quick pace. They seemed to walk for miles and the streets were unfamiliar, but Paisley was airless as a soaring starling, sharing beams of delight with Clarrie. She thought no more about Betty or indeed the nine other girls from the orphanage.

Then, after some time, she noticed a change. They were breathing in clean, smokeless air and she could hear birdsong. The thump of heavy machinery was gone. Pausing and turning, she saw the pall of smoke squatting over the industrial skyline. “Look, Clarrie.”

“It looks alive, like a rook’s wings,” Clarrie said.

“Lucifer’s bellows.” Mrs Wright shuddered.

“Where are we ma’am?” Paisley asked.

“Ardwick Green, southeast of the city. Pleasant, isn’t it?” Mrs Wright sighed. “Although Lord knows how much longer it’ll last, before we’re subsumed by that mighty inferno along with the rest of the city… But come along girls, no dawdling.”

They followed her instruction. They walked along a road of neat, terraced houses, recently built. There was even a pavement, so there was no need to tread warily. Paisley was used to sidestepping puddles of ordure, trying not to gag.

Round the corner and into a side street shaped like a crescent, Mrs Wright stopped in front of shiny door. The highly polished brass plate read:

Mrs Wrights Millinery.

Seamstresses of Excellence and Distinction.

Paisley clapped her hands. “Oh, Mrs Wright, it looks so fine and proper.”

Pushing open the door, Mrs Wright ushered them in. “Welcome, girls to my workplace. Mind you, it will be long, arduous work, sometimes late at night.”

“We’re young and strong, and eager to learn, aren’t we Clarrie?” Paisley nudged her friend.

“Yes Ma’am, we are.”

Mrs Wright began peeling off her black kid gloves. “Good, for I do pride myself on being a good employer, running a respectable establishment, unlike many other places.” She gave a sigh of relief as she lifted off her glue-stiffened, black veil. “So heavy and the smell gives me a headache. What purgatory women endure.”

Unveiled, Mrs Wright looked younger and less forbidding. Paisley bobbed a curtsey. “Sorry for your husband’s passing, ma’am.”

“And my daughter… darling Effie, scarce five years old.”

Paisley and Clarrie bowed their heads.

“She had the face of an angel, but that’s what all mothers say…” Mrs Wright gave a thin smile, “but let us not be wretched, girls. Life goes on. And…much as I hate my mourning – it’s the bread and butter of my trade.”

She led them into a grand room, called the drawing room she said, where clients and their family and friends were received. On the polished wooden floor was a deep-piled rug, decorated with overblown pink roses. They were not to step on it on peril of dismissal. In front was the largest mirror Paisley had ever seen. It was taller than the milliner. With its elaborate gold frame, it stood as a dignified observer, resplendent on its lion’s paws. It showed them their likeness - two pale girls in indigo dresses and plaid shawls.

Paisley glanced away eager to take in the rest of the elegant room. It was grander than even the superintendent’s study at the orphanage. Two chintz-covered sofas were placed adjacent to each other, and there were several side tables displaying neat piles of leather-bound novels. Her fingers itched to pick up the Lady periodical. It was nestled alongside other high society magazines.

“Our clients want the latest fashions from London and also Paris.” Mrs Wright straightened the display.

“It’s beautiful, Mrs Wright. Oh, to be a fine young lady, to sit on this sofa and know you are going to make her dreams come true.” Paisley blushed. She bent down and sniffed at a vase of yellow roses.

Mrs Wright smiled. “We hope so, but then they change their mind or rather Papa changes his mind when he sees the bill.”

Paisley nodded. She barely remembered her own pa but hoped that he was looking down on her, proud of her new position. She drifted away, entranced by the studied simplicity of her surroundings. Everything had been carefully planned and positioned for the clients’ comfort and ease. She picked up a slim book. Her fingers traced the embossed gilt letters, “Cranford by Elizabeth Gaskell.”

“Put that down, filthy wench.”

Paisley froze. Blood rushing to her cheeks, she turned around. She was met by the sight of a tall woman, taller than Mrs Wright. Wintry eyes bored into hers. Mutely, Paisley handed her the book.