The Ribbon Weaver

Chapter Eight



1848

‘Will you be late home, lass?’ Molly asked as she walked Amy to the door.

‘No, Gran, I should be home for about six tonight.’ Amy planted a warm kiss on her cheek as the old woman nodded.

‘Good, just see as yer get straight back, mind, and don’t get talkin’ to none of them damn weird folk that’s hangin’ about.’

Amy chuckled happily. The coming of the railway the year before had caused great excitement in the town. She had taken Molly to see the first steam engine chug into the newly built Trent Valley railway station, but Molly was not as impressed with the new form of transport as Amy was.

‘Newfangled dirty things,’ she had said scornfully. ‘Chuckin’ all that muck an’ smoke out. Can’t see what’s wrong wi’ a horse an’ cart meself. They’ve always been good enough before but then happen this is progress.’

Amy had found her gran’s attitude highly amusing. She was very set in her ways was Molly Ernshaw, and not one for change.

The weird folk her gran referred to were actually a small group of people called Mormons who had travelled from America to preach their religion and eventually arrived by train in Nuneaton.

From the little she had seen of them, Amy found them to be extremely polite but she was in a minority and on the whole, the townfolk were not accepting the strangers at all. When it was discovered that the Mormons could and often did have more than one wife, the menfolk became angry and convinced that they had come to take their women. This was a view that was shared by Molly.

‘It ain’t natural,’ she had spluttered. ‘A man should keep ’imself to one woman. Why, it’s immoral, so it is.’

Her indignation had caused Amy and Toby to fall about laughing. But nothing they said in the Mormons’ defence would cause Molly to change her mind and eventually they stopped trying.

In truth, the Mormons were leaving the town already. Only last week two of them had been dragged from the Temperance Hotel whilst still in their beds by irate menfolk, claiming that the Americans had come to steal their daughters. The poor men had been severely beaten in full view in the marketplace, then tarred and feathered and donkeyed from the town.

Amy felt deeply sorry for them, but Molly was in full agreement of their treatment.

‘Serves ’em bloody well right,’ she had stated. ‘Decent women won’t rest easy in their beds till every last one of ’em is gone.’

Sighing deeply, Amy had let her rant on, knowing only too well that once Molly had made her mind up about something, nothing and no one would change it. Stubborn as a mule she was, but Amy loved her nonetheless.

As she set off for work there was a spring in her step. It was a beautiful March morning and from beneath the hedgerows the early flowering primroses peeped out at her. The birds were awakening and chirping their dawn chorus to the sun that was just beginning to rise from the gently moving clouds. It was the sort of morning that made her glad to be alive; the sort of morning when the problems of the past year slipped into the back of her mind, and she found herself humming as she hurried along.

It was over a year now since she had started work in the design department following her first eventful visit to Forrester’s Folly, and what a year it had turned out to be.

It had been a long hard slog to become accepted in her new role. Not just by the other designers but by the people on the shop floor too. Her sudden promotion had caused a stir to say the very least, for after all, who had ever heard of a menial cleaner suddenly becoming a designer? It was a position that took most designers years to achieve and here was Amy, a humble cottage-dweller, suddenly promoted overnight.

Sometimes as she passed the workers on the shop floor a snide comment would reach her ears. ‘Huh, look at little Miss High an’ Mighty, thinks she’s a cut above us now she does,’ they would mutter, or, ‘It’ll all end in tears, you’ll see. Yer can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.’

But she bore the whispers without complaint, her head held high, although inside her heart would be aching.

Sometimes at night when she arrived home, she would collapse into Molly’s arms and sob inconsolably and Molly’s heart would go out to her beloved girl’s plight.

‘They’ll never accept me, Gran, never,’ Amy would cry, and Molly would hold her close, stroking the auburn curls and muttering words of comfort.

‘Oh yes they will lass. Rome weren’t built in a day. You’ll see! Things will get easier; just bide yer time and remember that everythin’ comes to those that wait.’

And sure enough, by the time November came round, things had eased a little. It had long been a tradition in the factories to celebrate St Clement’s Day on 23 November. Clement had been adopted as the Patron Saint of Hatters. Legend had it that in the first century, a foot-sore St Clement had placed a pad of wool in his sandal and found that it had turned to felt during his pilgrimages. The special day was celebrated at the factory with a tea-party in the workrooms. Great jugs of ale would be brought in and Mr Forrester and his son would always call in and supply the food. It was during the festivities that the older Mr Forrester noticed Amy sitting slightly apart from the rest of the workers, seemingly no part of the labourers nor yet the designers, and he had a hasty word with Adam, who had been an invaluable help to Amy during the preceding months, always at hand to offer help and encouragement.

When the party was over, Mr Forrester mounted the staircase to his office and standing halfway up, he addressed the workforce from there as he usually did when giving his annual speech.

Everyone was in fine spirits, chatting and laughing in small groups. However, as they noticed him the laughter and the chatter died away and within seconds silence reigned as the workers stared up at their master.

‘Well!’ His voice echoed across the factory. ‘I think we’ll all agree that all in all it’s been a good year.’ A ripple of agreement flowed through his audience. ‘As you know, the coming of the railway has allowed much faster communication between here and London, hence the growing orders and the rise in your pay packets.’ Again the workforce nodded and Mr Forrester went on, ‘Now that we are able to transport the hats more quickly I envisage another good year ahead. Down at our hat shop in London, the gentry there are showing great interest in our designs.’ He stared about the upturned faces before continuing, ‘Which brings me to the next thing I wish to speak to you all about. As I am sure you are now all aware, some time ago I moved Miss Amy Ernshaw into the design department as an apprentice designer. It is some of her designs that my London connections are showing great interest in. However, we all know that there is much more to hatting than just designing them.’

Amy squirmed uncomfortably as sullen eyes glared her way, but the moment Mr Forrester continued, all eyes returned to him.

‘Miss Ernshaw has expressed a wish to learn everything there is to know about our business, from the raw products that are used to the finished products – and that is where you can all help her. Each and every one of you does an invaluable job. We work as a team, each reliant on the other, and I would like all of you to show her the part you play. The more she knows of hatting, the better her designs will become. And the better the designs we produce, the more hats we will sell, so we will all benefit from her talent.’

He paused to smile at some of the guilty, uncomfortable faces that were watching him. They had never looked at it this way before and they were now seeing Amy in a slightly different light.

Mr Forrester then continued with more mundane matters that needed to be addressed and finally bade them all farewell. The following day, as was usual, he was going to his townhouse in London where he would spend Christmas and the New Year with his wife as he did each year.

As he and Adam left the factory Mr Forrester happened to catch Amy’s eye and to her amazement he gave her a crafty wink. There was something about this young woman that he had taken to. Like him she had come from humble beginnings but he truly believed that she had a genuine talent and he had every intention of giving her the chance to develop it. He sincerely hoped that his talk this afternoon would make things easier for her, and to Amy’s relief it did. From then on the workers slowly began to accept her in her new role and she became a regular sight bent over some machine or other having the different jobs explained to her.

As Amy had learned at a very early age, Warwickshire was nothing short of a hatter’s paradise. It boasted everything it needed to meet a hatter’s demand in abundance. Blocks to shape the hats were fashioned from the leafy trees of the Warwickshire forests and woods. On the hillsides, outcrops of coal were easily accessible and used to fuel the felt-makers’ kettles, and all along the banks of the River Anker, the sheep that would provide the wool for the hats grazed peacefully. Numerous streams, mostly of which poured into the River Anker, fed Nuneaton and this gave the hatters the supply of water that was so important to their trade.

On top of all this, Samuel Forrester was fortunate enough to have in his employ an excellent ‘journeyman’ who ruled his apprentices with a rod of iron. Richard Paggett was a very accomplished craftsman at his trade and he would accept nothing less than perfection from those he taught, which was why Samuel Forrester’s hats were so highly regarded. It was this gentleman who was one of the first to accept Amy, following her promotion. She would often take one of her designs to him and ask his opinion on the way to shape it, discussing sizes and weights, and he soon recognised that she did indeed have an eye for design and respected her for it.

Things were looking up, Amy decided. It had been a difficult year in some ways, yet wonderful in others. Through it all, Molly remained Amy’s mainstay, the port in the storm where she could take shelter. And on this wonderful early-spring morning, as she hurried along the leafy Warwickshire lanes, Amy’s hopes were high. Mr Forrester and his wife had returned from their London townhouse almost three weeks before, and today he would be visiting the factory.

Amy had worked hard whilst the master had been gone and was looking forward to showing him some of the designs she had created while he had been away. She didn’t have to wait too long, for at ten o’clock Samuel Forrester strode into the factory, and after spending some time in his office, he then made his way to the design room. After speaking for some time to the other women present, he eventually went over to Amy and gave her a friendly smile. Amy thought he looked tired. His hair was peppered with grey and his face lined; yet for all that Samuel Forrester was still a fine-looking man.

Amy smiled back at him as he bent his head to look at the drawing board. His eyes also took in the pile of sketches on her desk.

‘It looks like you’ve been busy.’

Amy nodded. ‘I have, sir, though I must admit I’ve been spending quite some time on designs for gentlemen, and I have one that I’d particularly like you and Master Adam to look at.’

As she spoke she drew a sketch from the bottom of the pile and placed it before him. She had drawn three different sketches of this particular hat, all from different angles, and Samuel Forrester stroked his chin thoughtfully as he studied it.

She then ventured, ‘As you know, the menfolk – that is, the working class – tend to wear Billycocks for work and flat caps for high days and holidays. I thought this might be a nice alternative – you know, for them to wear for church and suchlike?’

He gazed at the hat intently. It was a jaunty little creation and it appealed to him. It wasn’t quite as dressy as the bowler hats and top hats favoured by the gentry, but eyecatching all the same. It had a narrow brim, a deeply indented crown and a pinch at the front.

‘I’ve already spoken to Mr Paggett and the dyers,’ she hurried on, her eyes brimming with excitement, ‘and they’ve both assured me that it would not be difficult or too expensive to produce. Oh! And I’ve got some samples of material that I thought might be suitable for the hat coverings. Rabbit-hair felt would be perfect, but we could also make them in tweed or wool.’

Quickly withdrawing the materials from a drawer, she laid them out side by side next to the sketch. Samuel nodded slowly, his mind racing. The lass had a very valid point. The working-class men of the town were very restricted as to their choice of headgear and it would be nice to offer them an inexpensive option to the customary flat caps, particularly as hats were luckily becoming more and more of a status symbol.

Amy held her breath as she waited for his reaction and when it finally came she let out a sigh of relief.

‘I like it.’ He turned his head this way and that as he studied the sketches from different angles. ‘In fact, I think you may have come up with an excellent idea. As you know, Adam tends to deal with the men’s design side of the business but I’m sure he would be interested in this.’

She blushed at his praise, delighted.

‘I’d like you to bring this sketch and the samples of material to Forrester’s Folly to show to Adam and Mrs Forrester senior, and of course bring the other sketches you’ve done whilst I’ve been away and we’ll spend some time looking at those too. Be there in the morning at, say … eleven o’clock?’

Amy beamed, and nodding, Samuel Forrester turned on his heel and strode from the room.

Before leaving the factory he spent a further half-hour closeted in his office with Mrs Barradell, the head of the design department. Mrs Barradell had been in his employ for many, many years now. She herself was responsible for most of their more popular designs and he valued her opinion highly. She, like him, knew everything there was to know about their trade and now he asked her bluntly, ‘So – how is Amy doing?’

Without hesitation she answered, ‘She’s doing extremely well. To tell you the truth, sir, some of her designs far outshine the other designers’. She’s young and not afraid to try out different styles. On top of that, she seems to have a flair for choosing the right material for the right design. I’ve trained many a designer in my time, as well you know, but I’ll tell you now I would have to say that Amy is better than the lot of ’em. She soaks up everything you tell her like a sponge, and added to that she’s a hard worker. She often stays behind unasked, long after I’ve gone home, not content to finish a piece of work until she feels it’s just right.’

Samuel nodded. The woman before him, now beginning to stoop with age, had become almost his right hand over the years, and he was pleased that she felt about Amy as he did.

‘Thank you, Meg.’

She smiled and left him and Samuel sat for some time longer at his desk, quietly contemplating an idea that was forming in his mind.

That evening, Amy paced restlessly up and down the stone-flagged kitchen floor as Molly grinned at Toby who was seated at the table.

‘Will yer please sit down an’ take the weight off yer legs, lass?’ she implored. ‘You’re struttin’ up an’ down like a caged animal an’ wearin’ out me good floor.’

Amy’s face was animated. ‘I can’t help it, Gran, I’m just so excited! Mr Forrester really liked my new design, I’m sure he did. I’m going to talk to Adam about it tomorrow because he has more to do with the men’s designs than Mr Forrester.’

Toby looked at her fondly. She had grown into a beautiful young woman and he knew that she could have had her pick of almost any young man she wanted from the cottages hereabouts. But luckily up to now, Amy seemed totally disinterested in anything but her career.

It was getting harder lately to keep the love he felt for her from showing in his eyes when he looked at her. Unknown to him though, both Molly and Bessie were more than aware of his feelings and had been for some time.

Often, her tired old bones aching, Molly would lie in bed at night praying that Amy would open her eyes and see him for the fine young man he had become. But up until now her prayers had gone unanswered and more and more, Molly worried about what would become of her precious girl, should anything happen to her.

As the night wore on, Molly rose and stretched stiffly. Amy and Toby were sitting together now, their heads bent across a book. Amy was reading to him and Molly’s heart swelled with pride. Many of the young people from the town could neither read nor write. Instead they would sign their name with a cross, but Amy could read and write as good as the next. Molly knew that a lot of that was due to Toby. Amy had also attended Sunday school for years as a child. That was the only form of education that was open to the children hereabouts unless they were lucky enough to have parents who could afford to pay for a tutor or for them to attend the tiny village school for a paltry few hours a week. That, plus Toby’s many patient hours of coaxing, had made Amy into the learned young lady she was today.

‘I’m off to me bed, it’s callin’ me.’ Molly yawned as Amy hurried over to plant a kiss on her cheek.

‘Night, Gran,’ she smiled, and Toby yawned and rose too.

‘Happen it’s time I should be away as well,’ he grinned, but Amy made to stop him.

‘Oh, don’t go yet, Toby, stay a while longer. I’m so excited about tomorrow; I’ll never sleep if I go to bed just yet. Let’s just read a bit more, eh?’ she implored.

Willingly, Toby sank back into his seat and as Molly slowly climbed the stairs she sighed. Why couldn’t Amy see that he loved her? And the answer came. There are none so blind as those who do not wish to see.