‘I hear the bastards are looking for a new manager at your place.’
Jack is familiar with Harry’s habit of referring to the mill owners as bastards and, under normal circumstances, barely bats an eyelid. But Ruth is easily offended and has a bee in her bonnet about bad language, especially in front of the girls. Jack looks pointedly at his daughters before giving Harry a warning glance and saying, ‘Aye. Tom Brierley finished last Friday.’
‘Irreplaceable, that one,’ Harry mutters, ‘they’ll not find another crawler that fast.’
Jack sighs and shakes his head. It was Brierley who refused to have Harry back as foreman after the war, so the company shifted Sykes to Alexandria Mill. Harry took it badly. Alexandria still has the old looms and as a result weaves tea towels rather than the fancy work that’s done in the weaving shed where Jack works. Even promotion to head foreman at Alexandria Mill failed to sweeten the pill where Harry was concerned – he was, as he was always at pains to point out, still being paid less than what he would have got if he’d stayed put. Worse, Jack replaced him as foreman at Prospect. All this has resulted in the relationship between Jack and Harry Sykes being strained, to say the least. If there’s a smile on Harry’s face at the moment it’s because he’s after something. ‘Any idea who’s taking over?’ he asks.
‘No idea,’ Jack replies, squinting at the sea and opening his paper.
‘I suppose we’ll find out when the bosses are good and ready.’
‘Aye.’
‘It’s a puzzle, though,’ Harry persists. ‘I’ve been keeping my eyes open ever since I heard Brierley was finishing, but there’s been nothing in the paper. I asked that Union bloke… what’s his name? Tom Bell. I asked him, but he’s keeping his mouth shut. Claims he’s no idea who’ll get the job. I wouldn’t mind a shot at it myself. A damn sight more money than Alexandria. Bastards must have it sewn up. I reckon one of the family will take over, what do you think? There must be a useless uncle or idiot cousin somewhere who’s after a slice of the cake.’ Harry throws the question casually, but he’s watching for Jack’s reaction.
‘Aye, probably you’re right.’
‘They’ve always kept management in the family. Up until Brierley. And Brierley wouldn’t have got the job if both Foster brothers hadn’t jumped ship when war was declared. They viewed World War II from the comfort of their London club along with the rest of the fireside fusiliers. And Brierley wasn’t slow to cash in. God knows how much he made in bribes from cowards keen to be designated “reserved occupation”.’
Jack has heard all this before. Some people haven’t moved on since the war – instead of looking ahead to the sixties they seem to be still stuck in the forties. Jack is usually optimistic, always looking to the future but things have changed. The letter in his back pocket has drawn him back into the past so effectively that he struggles even to remain in the present moment, let alone consider the future. Jack suppresses a sigh and says, ‘Weather’s not bad, is it?’
‘Looks to me as if it’s spoiling for rain later. I hear you had a rough do last week. Little bird told me that you very nearly had a walk-out.’
‘It was nothing. Just a few troublemakers.’
‘Well, you can’t say you weren’t warned. You were bound to get trouble the minute you brought those Pakis in.’
‘The Pakistanis are doing the jobs that no one else wants, so they’re not taking anyone’s job. They’re working the night shift because no one else will.’
‘Well, I warned you. I said you’d regret the day you let foreigners in. They don’t know the first thing about weaving. You’ve got your regular weavers coming in of a morning and not able to do a decent day’s work. Those Pakis on night shift leave their looms in a right state. They’re either broken or choked with muck. How are the day shift ever going to make a decent wage if half their looms are out of action? They’re standing around waiting for a tackler to fix the mess. It’s why I won’t take on Pakis, I wouldn’t even let them sweep the mill yard. They’re all the same. More trouble than they’re worth.’
‘They’re not all the same.’
‘Well, they look it. Can you tell the difference between one Paki and another? It’s beyond me.’
‘They’re not all Pakistanis. Some of them are Sikhs from the Punjab or Muslims from Bangladesh.’
‘There’s no difference. They were all swinging in trees before they came here and made a beeline for the National Assistance. Fuckin’ Fosters – they draft in all these wogs and expect the British workers to lay out the welcoming mat. Buggers that were happy to work all hours for a bowl of rice back in India – no wonder they think they’re well off when they get here. And once they are here, this bloody country will keep them for the rest of their lives, one way or another. No wonder the minute they get here they’re filling in the forms to bring across their whole bloody tribe.’
Jack has heard this argument countless times and it never fails to annoy him. ‘There’s nothing wrong with the Pakistanis. I’ve not had any bother with them. They’re quiet, they work hard and keep themselves to themselves. Our weavers aren’t beyond sabotaging their looms before the night shift comes on and they don’t complain. And I’ve yet to see a Pakistani turn up to work still drunk from the night before.’
‘But that’s just it. They don’t kick up. Management can do anything it likes, and that bunch will roll over and ask for more. Seven quid nine and ten a week and they aren’t complaining. It’s a fortune to them.’
‘Aye, and how long does it last when landlords are charging them the earth just for a roof over their heads? And any money they do manage to save is sent back abroad to feed their families. They’re no different from you and me – they’re trying to do their best for their families just like us.’
Jack has first-hand experience of the sort of squalor that immigrants have to cope with. There’s so much prejudice locally that the only accommodation they can find is in houses that should have been pulled down years ago in the worst part of town. Last month there’d been a mix-up with the wages and Jack had ended up going round to drop off Ahmed Khan’s overtime money. He’d found Ahmed along with a dozen fellow Pakistanis sharing the same house. No furniture – just mattresses on the floor of every room. No curtains, just blankets flapping with the draught. They’d had a bunch of local lads round a couple of nights before shouting abuse and smashing the windows. The landlord was charging them twenty-five bob each a week. Despite this he refused to get the windows repaired. Claimed it was a waste of time – they’d just get broken again. No heating whatsoever and the back gate had been kicked in. Jack has read about the West Indian riots in London a year ago and he reckons that Lancashire’s Asian community won’t be far behind.
‘I blame the government,’ Harry says. ‘They’re saying there’ll be another election before the end of the year. The Tories have been a bloody waste of time. They behave as if we still had an empire. It’s not two minutes since they were showing bloody Gandhi around the Lancashire mill towns. They should have kicked his chocolate arse and sent him home. No sooner have we given these darkies their independence than the buggers are getting on the nearest banana boat and coming here. And it’s not just these wogs turning up on our doorstep; there are thousands of them brown bastards back in India flooding our markets