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 and make their lives good. I doubt it will be easy, considering how long it is since I last saw them. And, as you know, Danny and your son Willie have been friends since their early school days.’
He pricked up his ears, frowning in concentration. ‘I’d forgotten that. It’s good to hear about the friendship of our sons and weren’t you and I friends once too?’
A wrench of memory cringed within her as Evie recalled having a date with this difficult man when she’d been barely sixteen. He’d tried to attract her in such an obsessive way, it had completely killed their so-called friendship, so far as she was concerned. Thankfully, he’d had no objection when she’d refused his next offer of a date and started courting her friend Jane instead. Since being the tackler in charge of their part of the mill, and she needed his help to retain her job, this was a reality she had to face. ‘We were friends once,’ she blithely admitted, giving him a polite smile.
‘So what could you offer exactly, in order to keep this job?’
Taking a breath, Evie said, ‘I’m aware that the owner fears the mill is going downhill now that we’re post war and in danger of closing. It’s been embroiled in weaving parachutes but it could move on to make good quality shirts to supply to large stores like Kendal Milne, or perhaps lace for pretty dresses and curtains.’
Harold showed little interest in these suggestions.