Open Writing

Ashley Jenkins was a hard working family man who was intelligent, cautious and could read and write moderately well. He was not the sort of person to go precipitously into any action. He thought problems through, whether they were about a piece of cloth or machinery or his fellow workers. This was why Robert had promoted him at the mill at Thonglea to be his manager and he had not been disappointed by the decision.

Robert had arranged to meet Jenkins at The Friendly Inn at Butterly, a village on the river that was halfway between Thonglea and Helston. It had been named because of the profusion of buttercups that had once lined the river banks, but that had been before it had acquired the obligatory mill, weaving shed and dyehouse. He arrived deliberately late.

He had to duck his head to go through the door and entered a small room that was unevenly flagged. The ceiling was low and crowded with beams and the air was thick with smoke. He was recognised and conversation between the four people at the bar stopped. They gazed at him over their pipes and pots, with expressions that were deliberately blank, as if he had trespassed in a place where he didn’t belong.

A murmur of voices came from a door to the right of the bar and he glanced in that direction. The landlord said, "Can I be of help, sir?"

Robert held up a sovereign.

"When the gentleman inside has finished speaking, perhaps you would be so good as to furnish my friends with ale and porter?"

The landlord's reserve was breached by the sovereign.

"Certainly, sir."

"And perhaps you and these good gentlemen, would take a drink with me?"
He smiled in the direction of the four customers, dropped the sovereign into the landlord's hand, and opened the second door. He again dipped his head beneath the low frame, and entered another small room that was overfull with men and smoke and smells.

Jenkins, who was sitting in a corner, looking distinctly uncomfortable at the arrival of his master and one or two of the others present turned enquiring looks in the mill manager's direction, as if he was to blame for the intrusion.

A small man was on his feet at the other end of the room. He had dark hair brushed close to his scalp, sharp features and an intensity that might have been mistaken for constipation. He wore a threadbare coat but carried himself with a pride that was close to arrogance and moved oddly on his feet as if contemplating a hop.

"It's all right, gentlemen," said the small man. "Mr Dyce is one of the reasons I’m here. He sponsored my visit and I believe he is to be trusted. In any case, what we do breaks no laws nor challenges legality." He looked at Robert. "Good evening, Mr Dyce. Please take a seat."

Dyce knew most of those present, at least by sight. The small man, who had been addressing the meeting, was Jeremiah Bell.

He looked for somewhere to sit and James Newton, a burly man in his 50s, nudged his son, who was also called James and therefore known as Also James, to move up on the bench they shared. Dyce joined them.

"Thank you, Mr Newton," he said.

Also James was a 20-year-old mirror image of his father. He was concentrating on carving a piece of wood with a penknife.

About a dozen working men filled the room, most with a glass of ale in front of them, some without any. As well as his manager, Jenkins, he saw John Worth, who was foreman fuller at his mill. He was an evenly featured man with thinning fair hair that he would probably lose by the time he was 40. They nodded to each other.

Worth was with his neighbour, Little Bob Ellis, who was of average size but had been so-named because the village of Hinge, where they both lived, also had a Big Bob Ellis. Little Bob had a habit of referring to his neighbour as my Worthy friend or Worthy John.

Robert was surprised to see Richard Sykes, who lived at The Narrows, another of the black pearl hamlets that stretched from the reservoir to Helston. Sykes had the reputation of being an honest but intense man. He had a furrowed brow and drooping moustache. Sykes acknowledged him when he caught his eye.

Jeremiah Bell banged his fist on the table in front of him to regain their attention.

"As I was saying, we are all interested in the improvement of our class for, as Mr Disraeli says, our Queen reigns over two nations, those of the rich and the poor. She rules an empire that has banished slavery but a nation in which slavery thrives in mills and factories and mines.” He moved from foot to foot, as if ready to dodge missiles or jump onto a stool. "Where women and children work the hours they are told because they have no choice. Where wages are so low they have to work all the hours God sends and, if they refuse, they're out the door because there are plenty who will work for a pittance, because a pittance is better than the workhouse."
Jeremiah Bell paused. When he continued, it was in a tone that was matter of fact.

"I don't think Victoria is a bad queen. But she has a government who do not let her hear what the common people have to say. Well, it’s about time she heard what we have to say."

One or two men banged their fists on the table and said here, here. Also James kept on carving.

"What we want is a living wage. What we want is for every working man to have a vote. What we want is for Members of Parliament to be paid a wage so that you or I can be elected and go to Westminster."

This idea caused a few laughs and more thumping of tables.

"Industry booms. The rich get richer and the poor ...?" The laughs were hollow. "Did you know there are 18 million people in England. Eighteen million. Did you know there are more than a million textile workers. There are 220,000 miners and 80,000 iron workers." He stared at them tight lipped. "Industry," he said. "It has brought great wealth for the few and great misery for the many.

"Just think, if all the textile workers became organised. If they formed themselves together, lawfully, in a common union. Not a secret association but in common union." He looked at them, his eyes blazing, and whispered the next words. "One million textile workers. What a force that would be."

The response was muted but excited.

"Just think, if the miners and the iron workers came together in common union. What a force. The government would have to listen then. We would have a voice so loud even the Queen would hear us."

He picked up a glass of water and sipped as the men murmured approval. He smiled.

"Did you know, there are a million domestic servants in this country. Just think, if they joined together, what a force they would be, if they all decided to stay in bed one day. No tea and toast. No newspaper freshly ironed. No bath water. What would the toffs do? Starve and die of shame at not having a clean collar?"

This caused a roar of laughter and James Newton banged his son Also James so heavily on the shoulder that the bench rocked and Dyce was almost deposited on the floor.

"We don’t want revolution," said Bell, as the noise abated. "We want lawful and orderly change. We must organise and come together in lawful associations and common union. Only then will we be heard. Only then will our demands be met. All we want is a living wage. All we want is for every man to have a vote. We’re not asking for jam on our bread, brothers. We’re asking for bread."

Jeremiah Bell sat down. Someone began to applaud and the other men joined in, some stamping their feet. Robert clapped his hands with the rest before stepping to the door and opening it to pass on the information that the speaker had finished, but the landlord had anticipated the fact and was carrying in a tray of drinks.

"More where this came from," he said, to the queries. "Courtesy of Mr Dyce."

The men hesitated only briefly and followed the lead of James Newton who picked up a pot of porter and toasted Robert.

"Best of health, sir," he said.

"And to you, Mr Newton," said Robert, raising a tankard.

Conversation was animated as the men discussed what they had heard and Robert congratulated Jeremiah Bell on his eloquence.

"I think it went well," said Bell. "But it takes some agitation to get people organised. You need leaders." He stared meaningfully at Robert who shook his head.

"Not me. I’ll give what support I can, but I’m no leader. Have words with my mill manager, Mr Jenkins. He's a steady man and if he approves and you can persuade him, he could start a union in my mill, at least."

"A start indeed," said Bell. "Unfortunately, you are unique among your kind, Mr Dyce. There are few industrialists willing to embrace the idea of organised labour."

"Attitudes have to change, Mr Bell. There’ll come a time when your million workers do organise and I’d rather be with them than against them."

Bell smiled ruefully.

"Times are changing, but I fear that when the time of which you speak arrives, my time will already be gone."

Robert waved Ashley Jenkins across and introduced the two men before he edged away and joined the group around the table where he’d been sitting. Also James moved for him and Robert admired the carving of a small wooden pig that he held.

"I'm an uncle," Also James said, by way of explanation.

"You're a son and a brother, an 'all," said his father.

"I'm still an uncle," he said defensively. To Robert, he added, "I'm doing a farmyard for our Abel. He's only three."

John Worth, Little Bob Ellis and Richard Sykes were also sitting around the table and in dispute as to the feasibility of a union of workers.

"It's been tried before," said Sykes, and he licked the foam of ale from his severe moustache. Robert knew he’d been a mill engineer until he’d been sacked in a disagreement. Now he worked as a hand in another mill. "The Grand National Consolidated Trade Union didn't last long, did it?"

"It provided a base for the Chartists," said Robert.

John Worth said, "But the Chartists haven't done much, either."

"Now come on, John," said James Newton. "They've done a lot more than has ever been done before, for the likes of you and me. Yon Bell bloke is right. If you don't try, you get nowt. If you don't feight, you get shit on. Begging your pardon, Mr Dyce."

"Pardon granted, Mr Newton."

Worth ran a hand through his thinning hair and said, "Pardon me asking, Mr Dyce, but what's your interest?"

"Changes are happening, Mr Worth. New forms of partnership. Have you heard of Titus Salt?"

"He's over the other side of Bradfield, isn't he?"

"That's right. He's building houses for his workers, and shops and schools and churches. A whole new town."

"Why?"

"He thinks it's good business to treat his workers right."

"Do they have a union?"

"No. It's a bit like how the Colonel used to run things."

James Newton drained his pot and looked for more and said, "There's a lot worse than the Colonel."

John Worth laughed and said, "I wouldn't mind working for this chap Salt, if I got a new house. The one I'm in is so close to the river, I can wash me feet without getting out of bed."

"When was the last time you washed your feet, my Worthy friend?" mocked Little Bob Ellis, and punched him on the shoulder.

"By the smell of it," said Also James, grinning because he had finally found a way into the conversation, "a week last Michaelmas."

"Manners," said his father, and cuffed him on the ear so hard he fell backwards off the bench to everyone's amusement, including his own.
Richard Sykes looked at Robert intently. "Is that your intention, Mr Dyce? To run things like the Colonel?"

"Not totally, Mr Sykes. I admired what he did but I think there could be improvements."

"Such as what?" he said.

"I think it's necessary for working men to form together in associations, as Mr Bell said, so their voices can be heard. I think the time has come for England to abolish the slavery of Englishmen."

His words caused a momentary silence and he was embarrassed because, perhaps, he had said too much and it had sounded pompous.

"Are you serious in these beliefs, Mr Dyce?" persisted Sykes, in a neutral voice.

"I am." He glanced around the group. "I can understand your suspicions but you weren't suspicious of the Colonel. What he did was accepted. Why not accept what I do? If I do wrong, tell me."

Richard Sykes stroked his moustache and looked as if he might be about to say more but John Worth said, "One thing about the Colonel. He never came down here."

Little Bob Ellis added, "Nor organised a meeting with old Frogtoe."

The group chuckled and Worth looked around for Jeremiah Bell and whispered, "Careful, he might hear you."

James Newton banged his pot thoughtfully and stared into its empty bottom.

"Nor bought ale," he said, pointedly, and even Richard Sykes joined in the laughter and Robert waved at the landlord for another tray.

**

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