Down Weaver's Lane by Anna Jacobs Page A

his mother that at fifteen she was too young to get wed. But Sam had gone to live with the uncle, not returning to Northby when released from jail. Well, there wouldn’t have been a job here for him any more, would there? The uncle had a farm, it seemed, with work for his nephew. But if he’d really cared about her, Sam should have come and said goodbye to Meg, or at least sent her a farewell note. She had wept over him several times, Jack had heard her in the night.
    He sighed as he went about his work. He seemed to be beset by worries on all sides since his father’s death.
     
    As the months passed Jack continued to act as head of the household and to work at the mill, doing all sorts of odd jobs in the evenings and on Saturday afternoons as well to earn extra pennies. Mr Samuel occasionally stopped to speak to him in the mill yard and would then walk off looking smug, as if it pleased him to see Jack bobbing his head and saying, ‘Yes, sir. We’re all grateful for your help, sir.’
    Charity was a heavy burden to bear, though, and if Jack ever could he’d leave Northby and find a job where you didn’t have to kow-tow to anyone, a job where there wasn’t all that noise beating at your ears from dawn till dusk from those metal monsters which wove the cloth better and faster than men ever could.
    He thought it must be wonderful to have a little shop and that became the dream into which he escaped sometimes. Life would never get boring, there’d be so many different things to do, and you’d be in charge of how you worked, which must be wonderful. They had shopped in the town centre before his father’s death, but things were cheaper down at the far end of Weavers Lane, so they walked the extra distance now. He would watch Grandma Hickley serving the customers in her little shop when he bought things for his mother. The old woman was slow and clumsy, and didn’t keep things as clean as he’d have done. Eh, he could have done everything so much better.
    He mocked himself. Fine dreams these were! He was stuck in that bloody weaving shed for life, he reckoned. And that was if he was one of the lucky fellows who were kept on.
    The only good thing about going to Grandma Hickley’s shop was that he sometimes saw Emmy Carter on his way back. She’d be working in the garden of the cottage or helping her mistress take a short stroll in the evening. The sight of her always brightened his day. She was so pretty and her smile was warm and friendly.
    He didn’t attend the Bible reading classes any more, because he had grown too skilled to need them, but he was still in the church choir and that was his only real escape from his mother and her never-ending complaints. It was hard going out to rehearsals after work, because he didn’t finish till eight o‘clock at night and had to be in the mill at six o’clock sharp the next morning. But he looked forward to the singing, which seemed to lift his heart.
    One Sunday Mr Bradley took him aside after church.
    ‘Do you think you could help out at the Sunday reading classes, Jack? We’re to have several classes now and we need another teacher for the beginners. Mr Samuel himself suggested you for the boys. He’s very keen for the young people of the town to learn their letters and wants my wife to start a girls’ class now as well.’
    Jack sighed. This would eat further into his precious spare time. He had been thinking maybe on fine Sundays he could get out on the moors after church. That surely wouldn’t be considered breaking the Sabbath?
    ‘We can pay you two shillings a week if you do, Mr Rishmore says.’
    Jack looked down at his wrists, caught by a sudden fancy. They wore shackles in prison, but he had shackles, too, invisible ones that kept him dancing to a rich man’s wishes. That made him wonder whether Tom had arrived in Australia yet. He didn’t even know how long it took to get there. ‘Yes, I’ll do it, sir. It’ll mean I’ll be able to pay you back