Chapter Seven
I'm back :/ And I'm so sorry for the wait. This is a bit of a filler, but things will be happening next chapter. This kind of... leads onto it This chapter refers to a lot of Victorian factory stuff... I did a massive project on this sort of thing last year, so I'm pretty sure I've got everything right, but if I haven't, please tell me!
"'Ello Jack!"
Art appeared at Jack's elbow, and grinned broadly – displaying a gap-toothed mouth.
"I lost 'nother tooth last night."
"Lucky," Jack said, enviously.
"Yeah – " Art interrupted himself with a hacking cough that had him doubled up, clutching his stomach. When he straightened up again, his eyes were watering. "Yeah..." he continued, his voice weak. "But you'll catch up."
He grinned again, and pushed his tongue through the gap. Jack glowered at him. It was a long standing competition between the boys – who could lose all their milk teeth first. Art was steaming ahead. Jack consoled himself with the fact that he was a few good inches taller than his friend. At home however, this was rapidly becoming another reason for Nora and John to fight. John insisted that Nora was feeding their son too much – and if he kept growing at the rate he was, he wouldn't be able to do his job as a piecer anymore.
The foreman seemed to agree. He had taken to standing behind Jack as he worked, as if measuring him.
Jack couldn't see the problem with him not working. He was eight by now, and there had been a flurry of boys and girls his age coming to work. Only last week, one of them – a tall, lanky boy called James – had broken his leg when a table and the sewing machine on top of it collapsed on him. According to Art's sister, one of the girls in another room had died from fume inhalation. Jack and Art had had a long conversation after finding this out, and both decided to wear their neckerchiefs around their mouths whenever they went to mop up beneath the dye vats.
Jack had told his mother this when he went home that evening.
"A girl died last night. Did you know that?" he had begun. Nora – cutting the remains of a stone hard loaf into pieces – stiffened.
"In your father's factory?"
"Yeah. In the factory. She died of fume exhilaration. I think that's the word."
"Oh dear."
Nora turned, and kissed her son's forehead.
"So Art an' me said we'd wear our neckerchiefs round our mouths whenever we went beneath the dye vats.
"Very clever," Nora smiled. "Art would be Mrs Taylor's youngest?"
"Well... yeah, I s'pose. Mmm..."
Nora had set the plate down in front of him, and Jack dug in eagerly.
"Poor thing," Nora said, sadly. "You keep on wearin' that neckerchief."
"Why is Art a poor thin'?" Jack said, through a mouthful of bread and cheese.
Nora hesitated for a fraction of a second.
"You boys are all poor thins, for 'avin' to work for so long. I barely see you anymore!"
She kissed him on the nose, and the subject was dropped.
Review? (Next one will be up soon, I promise. I know where it's going )
