“ I must inform you of something, not entirely pleasant, but which I feel duty bound to relay

F riday, January 9 1880

Ann got down from the carriage at her husband’s jute mill and spoke to the driver. “Wait here. I’ll only be a half hour, no more.”

Heading through the wrought iron gates at the entrance, she passed the night watchman’s dingy office where Alec Smith used to sit, in a room the size of a cupboard with nothing but a candle for company.

That was before he managed to get a job as station porter then soon became promoted through the ranks to manager. He worked so hard; he didn’t deserve the tragedy he was having to deal with right now.

She creaked open the heavy wooden door of the mill. The sound inside was deafening. As she walked towards the production area, she heard the whirring of the spindles and the clatter of the looms; it was little wonder many workers went deaf.

Above the noise of the machinery, she could discern the clamour of shouting and yelling. The women in Dundee’s jute mills had their own dialect, developed over the decades to counteract the roar and clunking of the spinning frames and carding machines.

Ann smiled as she heard the flat vowels, the only ones to carry across the cacophony. The memories came flooding back to Ann as she noticed the rags and tatters of the women’s dresses, their bare feet, while she stood incongruously in her black silk gown and tall black velvet hat.

Nauseous

As she looked over to the receiving area where the jute was batched, the smell of whale oil carried over the air and she began to feel nauseous. What used to be an everyday smell now made her gag.

A young girl, about 12 years old, came up to her and bobbed. “You lookin’ for someone, missus?”

“Thank you, child. I came to see Mr Johnston the manager.”

The girl looked over towards the roving machines. “Over there last time I saw him.” The child ran away and Ann watched her stop at a carding machine where a woman skelped her across the head.

Ann sighed as she looked around at the many children the same age as her own, working as “pickers”, cleaning dust from the machines.

She lifted up her skirts a little and headed towards the roving machines. A man, dressed in dark brown, was pointing to something in the machine.

Perhaps there was a problem with the twisting of the fibre, Ann thought, watching him lift a thick strand and wind it around a bobbin.

“Mr Johnston,” she shouted above the clamour. “Excuse me, Mr Johnston!”

One of the workmen beside him pointed in Ann’s direction and he turned round. “Wait a minute please,” he shouted.

She watched him give instructions to the men at the machine then headed towards her. He was smiling.

“Mrs Craig, what a pleasure to see you here. Have you news?”

“Nothing specific but I should like a word. Please.” He gestured to her to follow and together they walked up rickety wooden steps to his office above the mill. They walked inside and he shut the door and at once the babble and clatter below ceased.

She sat down at the chair he indicated and watched him go behind his desk. He took his seat slowly, all the while gazing at her.

She had taken some time to do her hair and knew that it was attractive in this new bun, tucked neatly under her hat. The nape of her neck was shown to best effect.

She knew that Johnston, with his piggy features and ruddy complexion, was taking her in, so she did not rush to speak.

“Mr Johnston, or might I call you Alfred?”

Flushed

He flushed a little and picked up a pencil, which he began to tap rhythmically on his desk.

“You always used to call me that, Mrs Craig. Or shall I call you Annie?”

Ann took a deep breath and suppressed the urge to put him in his place. “Alfred, you and I go back a long way, meeting at the Alyth mill when we were 12.

“And I have forever been grateful that you have been so loyal both to me and to my husband.” She smiled at him.

“My husband is, we now are sure, dead. Hence my mourning attire.” She swept her hand slowly down her legs to her dainty black boots. She knew he was watching every movement.

“And so I feel, even before we have had a funeral or spoken to the lawyers, that I must inform you of something. Something that is not entirely pleasant, but which I feel duty bound to relay.”

Alfred Johnston held up his hand. “I just realised I don’t have any refreshment up here to offer you, Annie.”

Ann smiled graciously and shook her head. “This will not take long, Alfred.”

He sat back in his chair and gazed once more at her. “I believe you’re happy being manager of the mill and that your family is doing extremely well.

“I hear you have moved out of the tenement in Lochee and now live in a fine house in Mains Road. Your children will do well at the new school nearby.”

“Aye, the wee one’s just five and he’ll be going next year. The other bairns all started last year.” “How many children do you have?”

“Five and Bettie’s having another one next month.” “What wonderful news.” Ann twiddled with a jet earring. “I am sure you should want to continue in this prestigious job for some time in order to support this growing family.”

Alfred Johnston grinned then stopped tapping his pencil. He moved forward on his chair.

“Why? Why are you asking all this?”

Ann thrust her hand in her pocket. “Alfred, I’m so sorry, I seem to have misplaced my handkerchief. Could I bother you please?”

“Of course,” he said, thrusting his hand into his pocket. He passed her a freshly pressed handkerchief, which she used to dab her nose.

She pocketed it and continued.

Reconciled

“Before my husband took the ill-fated train journey that led to his untimely death, he had been explaining some affairs of work to me.

“He told me there was a document to be drawn up by his lawyer that, in the case of his death, the mill would be taken over by Mr Clegg at Clegg Mills.” “What would he do that for?” Alfred snapped. “My husband and Mr Clegg never saw eye to eye on many matters, as you know.

“There was that dreadful issue of the whale-oil shipment.

“But they had become reconciled in friendship of late and that was the plan.

“My husband had been so distressed when his colleague Mr Grieg had died intestate aged only 35, leaving his family destitute.”

“Well, I don’t see how letting Clegg take us over would help any of us.”

“That is exactly why I am here today, Alfred. And I am sorry to say it is worse.”

She bit her lip.

“He also stipulated that Clegg’s manager, Bert Lawson would take over as manager running both mills.”

More on Monday.