Shining Threads by Audrey Howard Page A

their heads bent industriously over their tall desks. Satisfied that he could not be overheard he beckoned to the large man who blocked the doorway and automatically the man bent
his head to listen.
    ‘She’ll not be told, you know, and her no more than sixteen,’ he continued importantly, implying that he was privy to the Greenwood’s most private family business,
indeed, his manner seemed to say, had been asked on more than one occasion for his advice. Will Broadbent straightened up distastefully, unwilling to listen to gossip.
    ‘Have you no idea when Mr Greenwood will be here?’ he asked curtly, letting the clerk know he was not concerned with tittle-tattle about the girl of whom, he had heard, the whole
valley gossiped, nor indeed of the family who owned the mill. He was aware, as who was not, of the tales of the wild Greenwoods: the woman who had begun the legend over thirty years ago, the man
she had married and whose involvement with the outlawed radicals, as they had been then, was still spoken of with some awe by those he had fought for, and now their sons who were if anything, it
was rumoured, more rebellious than both of their parents put together.
    ‘No, and if you ask me . . .’
    ‘Yes, yes,’ Will interrupted him brusquely, then looked about him as though searching for someone to tell him what to do next.
    ‘You had an appointment with Mr Greenwood then?’
    ‘Aye, at eight thirty sharp.’
    ‘Well, I can’t help you and if that will be all I’ll get back to me work,’ the clerk said, implying that if this chap had nothing better to do with his time than hang
about gossiping, he had.
    ‘Thanks.’
    Will turned away and walked down the steep flight of steps, hesitating on the bottom tread to gaze out into the yard. It was bustling with activity. There were enormous waggons pulled by
enormous horses, all loaded with Chapman goods ready to be taken to the new railway station in Crossfold. Men grunted as they shifted huge sacking – wrapped bales of the finest fustians,
velveteens, sateens and muslins, all to be despatched to the warehouses of Piccadilly and Portland Street in Manchester where they would be stored awaiting shipment to every corner of the known
world.
    Against a building at the far side of the yard other men unloaded bales of raw cotton each weighing 500 pounds, just come from the southern states of America by way of Liverpool. The Chapman
enterprises were situated in five mills in different parts of the town, two concerned only with spinning, two with weaving and this one which combined the two processes and all the other processes
connected with the manufacture of cotton cloth. It was huge, six storeys high and covering many acres. On the ground floor, where the humidity was the highest, were power looms since the weaving
process must be done in a damp atmosphere to prevent breakage of thread, and the heavy beams on which the warp thread was wound were of too great a weight for the upper floors. Here also, and on
the first floor, were carding, drawing and roving rooms and above them spinning was done on the top four floors.
    The men were hot and sweating from their exertions and their brawny muscled arms rippled in the smoke-hazed sunshine. There was a clatter of horse’s hooves on the cobbles and a chestnut
mare galloped dashingly into the yard, scattering the men and boys who were about to address themselves to the task of moving the bales of cotton to the blow room where they would be opened and the
raw cotton cleaned and blended.
    The men might have been a pack of dogs for all the notice the rider took of them. They were useful, naturally, for the work they did, but not to be spoken to, nor any particular care taken to
avoid them since they were expected to get out of his way. He threw his leg over the horse’s back and leaped lightly from the stirrup to the ground and with a shock Will realised that
this was no arrogant lad, but a girl, a girl like none he