Page 56 of The Armor of Light

There were two beds upstairs. Joanie and Sue slept together in the front room, and Sal and Kit had the back. Most poor people shared beds for warmth, saving the cost of firewood or coal.

The low-ceilinged attic room was occupied by Joanie’s aunt, Dottie Castle. She was elderly and in poor health, and scraped a living darning socks and patching trousers.

As soon as they got home Kit lay on the bed he shared with his mother – the large one brought from Badford. He felt Sal take off his boots and cover him with a blanket, and then he fell asleep.

She woke him a little later and he stumbled down the stairs for supper. They had bacon with onions and bread spread with dripping. They were all hungry and ate quickly. Joanie wiped the frying pan with another slice of bread and divided it between the children.

As soon as they had eaten, both children went to bed. Kit was asleep within moments.

*

Sal washed her face then brushed her hair and tied it with an old red ribbon. She climbed to the attic room and asked Aunt Dottie to keep an eye on the children for an hour or two. ‘If they wake up,give them some bread,’ she said. ‘Have some yourself, if you’re hungry.’

‘No, thank you, dear. I’m quite all right. I don’t want much, sitting here all day. You mill hands need it more.’

‘If you’re sure.’

She looked in on Kit, fast asleep. A slate and a nail were beside the bed. Every evening Sal spent time practising her writing, copying passages from the Bible, her only book. She was getting better. On Sundays she taught Kit, but every other day he was too tired.

She kissed his forehead and went to the other bedroom. Joanie was putting on a hat with flowers that she had embroidered herself. She kissed Sue, who was asleep. Then the two women went out.

They walked down Main Street. The city centre was busy as people left their homes for the evening in search of pleasure, companionship, and perhaps love. Sal had given up on love. She was pretty sure Joanie’s brother, Jarge, would have liked to marry her, but she had discouraged him. She had loved Harry and he had been killed, and she was not willing to risk that kind of pain again, not willing to put her happiness in the hands of gentry who could get away with murder.

They crossed the square. The Bell was a large establishment with a carriage entrance leading to a courtyard and stables. Hanging at the top of the entrance arch was – of course – a bell, which was rung to warn that the stagecoach was about to leave. Not long ago it had been rung to invite people to a play, but nowadays plays were put on in the theatre.

The Bell had a large tap room with a row of barrels like a barricade. It was loud with conversation and laughter, and fogged by pipe smoke. The ringers were there already, sitting around their usual table near the fireplace, battered hats on their heads and earthenware tankards in front of them. They got paid a shilling each for ringing, so they always had money for ale on Monday nights.

Sal and Joanie asked the server for a pot of ale each, and learnedthat the price had gone up from three to four pence. ‘It’s the same as bread,’ said the server. ‘And for the same reason: wheat is too dear.’

When Sal and Joanie sat down, Jarge gave them a grim look and said: ‘We been talking about Barrowfield’s new engine.’

Sal took a long draught of ale. She did not like getting drunk, and anyway she could never afford more than one tankard, but she loved the malty taste and the warm glow. ‘A scribbling machine,’ she said to Jarge.

‘A machine to starve working men, I call it,’ said Jarge. ‘In past years, when the masters tried to introduce new-fangled engines here in the west of England, there were riots, and the masters backed down. That’s what should happen now.’

Sal shook her head. ‘Say what you like, but it saved me. Amos Barrowfield was about to send half of us home, because the market price of cloth is so low, but the new machine means he can do business at the lower price, so I’m still working the jenny.’

Jarge did not like this line of argument, but he liked her, and he controlled his anger. ‘So, Sal, what do you say to the hand spinners about the new machine?’

‘I don’t know, Jarge. But I do know that I was destitute and homeless until I started operating Barrowfield’s first spinning jenny, and I might have lost that work today if he hadn’t bought a scribbling machine.’

Alf Nash spoke up. He was not a bell-ringer, but he often joined them, and Sal thought he was sweet on Joanie. He was sitting next to her now. Alf was a dairyman, and because of the milk constantly spilled on his clothes he smelled cheesy. Sal did not think Joanie would fall for him. Alf said: ‘Sal’s got a point there, Jarge.’

Sime Jackson, a weaver who worked with Spade, was one of the more thoughtful members of the group. ‘I can’t reason it out, I can’t,’ he said. ‘Machines help some and take work away from others. How can you tell what’s for the best?’

‘That’s our trouble,’ said Sal. ‘We know the questions but we don’t know the answers. We need to learn.’

‘Learning’s not for the likes of us,’ said Alf. ‘We’re not going off to Oxford University.’

Spade spoke for the first time. He was master of the bells, which meant he was the ringers’ conductor. ‘You’re wrong about that, Alf,’ he said. ‘All over this country, working people are educating themselves. They join libraries and book-sharing clubs, musical societies and choirs. They go to Bible study groups and political discussion meetings. The London Corresponding Society has hundreds of branches.’

Sal was excited by the idea. ‘We ought to be doing that – studying and learning. What’s this Corresponding thing you said?’

‘It was founded to discuss reform of Parliament. Votes for working men, and so on. It’s spread everywhere.’

Jarge said: ‘Not to Kingsbridge, it hasn’t.’

Sal said: ‘Well, it should. It’s just what we need.’