has received no offer anywhere. I can but hope that if we look hard enough we will succeed, bearing in mind we too have considerable experience after all these years of hard work we’ve done.’
‘I do hope so,’ Lizzie agreed. ‘I’ve lost my husband but not my childer, so need to keep earning a living.’
‘Me too,’ Evie said. ‘Although my husband will be home soon, he won’t be at all well.’
‘We should have seen this coming as many of those brave soldiers do deserve their jobs back,’ Enid muttered. ‘I’d never got around to thinking how that might affect us. Nor did I expect it to happen so quickly.’
Listening to her two friends, Evie felt a sickness soak within her, not convinced she would succeed in finding employment. She felt entirely numb and stormed back to her one-bedroomed flat in a fine old temper. She slammed the door closed, flung her coat on the floor in a veritable rage. Clenching her fists, she drummed them against the kitchen wall, feeling absolute despair. One minute she’d been celebrating the end of this war, now she felt apprehension ricocheting through her at the prospect of a woeful future.
Over the next few days, whenever Evie’s shift was over she went in search of employment, initially striving to find work in another factory, warehouse or mill, which she would prefer. No one was interested in taking her on, being a mere woman, even though Evie had worked hard all her life in various cotton mills. She’d always started at seven each morning, involved with Egyptian cotton and testing it with her thumb. Some of it was often a bit rough and invested with fleas. After being spun and woven they’d be washed out in the bleaching process. Now the textile industry was in a slump. Knitting, sewing and lacemaking were also hobbies she enjoyed doing, having been taught by her mother when she was a young girl. It crossed Evie’s mind that working for herself might prove to be less of a hassle. But would it earn her sufficient money? Probably not. With a sigh, she went on to search for alternative jobs in shops and department stores, including Kendal Milne, Lipton’s and Maypole grocers, as had Cathie and Brenda. She failed to receive an offer from any of them. Even young men returning from the war were struggling to find employment, the state of the country not being in a good condition. Post-war life seemed to be falling apart.
As well as searching for a job, she was also desperately in need of a home suitable for her family. Not that finding a property here in war-torn Manchester would be easy either. An absolute nightmare. As a consequence of the 1940 Christmas Blitz and enemy bombers coming night after night, Hardman Street, Lower Byrom Street, a part of Duke Street, Piccadilly and many others had been attacked and were now pretty derelict, houses burned out by incendiary bombs. There was little sign of much in the way of repairs being done yet, let alone any new builds.
It came to Evie one day that the solution could be to ask the tackler in charge of the looms in her part of the mill if he could help to get her old job back. Harold Mullins was not an easy man but would surely understand the difficulties she was facing. Tragically his wife Jane, once a friend of hers, had been killed early in the war, no doubt as a result of the bombing. His son Willie had been evacuated with Danny, since they’d both attended the same school when they were young. Surely Harold Mullins was a great believer in the cotton industry, as was she, despite the hard times they were facing? Calling to see him back at the mill, Evie asked if they could have a word. ‘I’m sorely in a quandary over how to resolve my problem of finding a new job, so wondered if you could help me get this one back or offer me some advice.’
Giving her a blink of interest, he agreed. ‘Aye, we could ’appen meet up at the Dog and Duck at seven this evening. I’m not against that.’
This was not at all what she’d expected, assuming they could just talk here at the mill, but it didn’t seem appropriate to refuse to meet him there.
Evie arrived early and, sitting in this public house near Potato Wharf, ordered herself a glass of shandy, all too aware of the disapproving glances from the men standing at the bar. Women were not supposed to attend pubs on their own so would Mullins, the gaffer, actually arrive and be willing to help her? He hadn’t sounded too convincing but then he never did, always a man more obsessed with himself. Gazing out of the window, she saw a bustle of people hurrying along the street, rain splashing over their unwary legs, car horns hooting at them if they attempted to rush across the road. The weather seemed to suit the bad news she’d received in losing her job and the brickwork looked battered and black with smoke, as a result of the dreadful bombing that Manchester had suffered over these last six years.
She recalled how much lovelier the Dog and Duck had been when she was a young girl and used to come here with Donald. Being her boyfriend, they’d sit, cuddled together, to enjoy a drink or a little snack. In those days she’d had clear skin, honey-gold hair, brown eyes as rich and dark as velvet with long, curling lashes. Now she felt wrinkled and worn out, with a core of anxiety she was doing her utmost to hide. What state would Donald be in when he finally came home? Would he still be the gentle, quiet man she’d fallen in love with and happily married, or listless and with health difficulties as a consequence of the anguish of war and his years held as a prisoner? He certainly wouldn’t be well enough to work – a fact she must make clear to Mullins.
She was aware that in addition to the war issue of employing ex-soldiers, the mill owner was concerned that the textile industry could be going downhill because of foreign competition. Generally, yarn or cotton was sold through merchants who visited Manchester for that specific purpose. They’d as soon go to Liverpool or India for their product, with not a jot of commitment or loyalty in their bones, their task being to get the best deal they could for their clients. Having failed to find any other job, Evie had done quite a bit of thinking, attempting to pay attention to how well other mills operated, compared to this one. Did it need to update its looms, or increase and strengthen its markets by selling more products abroad than in England? And maybe change what they produced, now that the war was over.
Whether any of this would be the right thing for her to say to Harold Mullins was very difficult to decide. His temperament was indeed self-obsessed. He used to storm through the mill finding fault with everything women did and then return later all syrup and smiles, probably because he’d gone off to get himself a glass of whisky. He would then call them ‘dear gels’, his tone attempting to be complimentary. But not an easy man. Were it not for the difficulty she was in, she wouldn’t attempt to seek his assistance.
‘So you’ve getten problems. It don’t surprise me in the least.’ She heard him snort as he sat down beside her nursing a glass of beer, which made her jerk with shock, not having seen him enter the pub. ‘Ye can’t trust a woman as far as you can throw her.’
Evie stared at the fleshiness that sagged his jawline, the dark receding hair, his eyes slightly bloodshot, indicating a liking of far too much alcohol. She noticed a harshness and an arrogance in the twisted smile he gave her. Gathering her courage, she quickly explained her situation and failure to find the employment she was in desperate need of. She’d brought a list of all the factories, shops and offices, etc. that she’d called upon and explained how she’d failed to receive a single offer from any of them.
Giving a snort of laughter, he told her how he’d once changed jobs, not having seen eye to eye with his previous employer and had ended up with this lucrative post as a foreman. ‘I can quite see you’ll have problems with your husband and childer when they finally return home. My son Willie should be arriving soon. No doubt he’ll miss his mum, but can’t say I’m broken-hearted over losing my wife.’ He moved on to speak of how she’d been prone to hysterics and unnatural jealousy, calling her a slut of a wife who had found herself a fancy man. ‘The bloody pair of ’em med a fool of me.’
Poor Jane, once such a good friend of hers, had claimed her husband had never been faithful to her so she had indeed found herself a new man. How could he blame her for that? Evie began to feel slightly uncomfortable, this not at all being a subject she wished to discuss. ‘I’m so sorry she died in the war, despite whatever problems you had. My issue, however, is that I must be the breadwinner, at least until my husband fully recovers from having been a PoW. So I desperately feel I should be allowed to continue working at the mill. You must appreciate my concern to care for my son and daughters