‘The Strike’ is an original story set in the same story-world as Cottonopolis, by SF Layzell
Image: Andrew Gritt / Statue commemorating the 1842 Plug Plot riots, Preston / CC BY-SA 2.0 / via Wikimedia Commons
“Careful now lass, there might be trouble out there today,” Elsie tells me, peering out of her doorway at the unusually busy streets. She hands over a parcel of her delicious home-made buns for me to take on the train. My week off work has come to an end, and I’m heading back to Manchester on the new railway line.
“The strike?” I yawn my reply. We stayed up late last night, drinking tea from rough red cups and talking politics over the Northern Star, its soft inky pages spread out over the table. I’d rather have been studying fashion plates in the Lady’s Magazine, but I’d never tell Elsie that. Meanwhile a constant stream of neighbours popped in and out with the latest gossip.
“I heard more mills turned out while you were getting your beauty sleep this morning, Frances,” she grins. “It’s about bloody time too.”
I grimace, feeling guilty and unsure of what to say. It’s been a long time since I last came to see Elsie, once my most beloved friend, and the changes in the town have been shocking to see. Depression, joblessness and low wages have brewed up potent feelings of anger here. Workers have walked out, leaving the cotton mills silent. The bosses will have to pay a fair wage to persuade the workers back to the factories again. Or so the thinking goes.
If I’m honest, I can’t wait to leave town. I can picture my destination perfectly. I imagine an orderly queue and a neatly printed ticket.
“I’ll send Joseph with you on the walk,” Elsie continues, ignoring my silence. She steps out into the doorway with me, our skirts touching, and hollers for Joseph. He’s playing in the street with the rest of the older children on strike today.
The unofficial queen of this small Catholic neighbourhood at twenty years old, Elsie has firmly stated that she will never get married. But she is often surrounded by a gaggle of adoring children.
With a cheeky lopsided grin, Joseph comes over and receives his orders from Elsie. She embraces me quickly, and I take Joseph’s hand for the walk.
As I learned from the many gossipers, Joseph started working at the nearest mill not too long ago. His hand is still soft and small like a child’s, while five years of dressmaking have calloused my fingers and stiffened my bones.
We set off, passing posters advertising all manner of events. Peaceful processions by workers on strike. Public talks by American abolitionists and German inventors. Cheap tickets to Manchester on the railway line. And of course, the famous Mackintosh Circus.
Smashed glass beneath our shoes is one sign of the town’s latest troubles. And we soon find another.
We hear the buzz of the crowd before we see them. Elsie was right about today. Normally this would be a short walk through town. We would make our way to the top of the hill that swoops down into the railway station entrance in a matter of minutes.
But today the streets of Preston are lined with workers on strike, marching and chanting. Many are children, excited to be missing work and determined to fight together for fair pay. We gentle nudge our way round a sea of chattering faces, trying to stick to the edges of the crowd.
I can practically feel Joseph grinning. “You’ll want to be going straight home after you’ve dropped me off,” I say, trying to use the same strict tone as Elsie.
“That’s not fair,” he says. “There’s no trouble. And all my friends are here.”
I can’t help but smile. But even as I do so, the shape of the crowd starts to change around us. In the distance, I see what looks like the police and even some soldiers start to move at the crowd. People start to shout and stumble, and we’re caught like fish in a net.
Tearing through us, the line of soldiers suddenly splits the crowd. I’m hemmed in on all sides and my hands are emptied, my parcel of buns spilling out on onto the cobbles. The sound of gunfire rings out above our heads. Cries of shock follow, and the crush worsens.
I can no longer feel Joseph’s hand in mine. My mind goes blank and numb. For a moment I am here in the panicking crowd, but also somehow flying high above it. I hear my own voice cry out, for Joseph and the town and the strike. But also in a kind of petty anger, I am crying for my lost parcel of delicious buns.
“Frances! Frances, help!” I hear.
Joseph’s face appears to me like a barrel at the bottom of a well, legs and feet and skirts splashing all around him. With a strength I didn’t know I had, I pull him from the crush and back out to the edge of the crowd. A poster for the circus flaps in the breeze. We’re right back where we started.
Even as the rest of the people in the crowd are gathering their wounded and dispersing, the soldiers continue to loom and threaten. All thoughts of the train gone from our minds, we run away as fast as we can.
I can picture our destination perfectly. I imagine a table set with rough cups and ink-stained fingers linking with my own.
I might have thought I left this town behind, but when I’m here I know that somebody loves me.
All around people are making their way to safety. All around people are helping one another. We live to fight another day.
Finally we come to the safest place I know. We knock, panting and breathless, on Elsie’s door.