THE BEST THAT EVER WAS

Chapter Three

Once her husband had entwined his hand in hers, Margaret gently tugged him to his feet, and without saying another word, she helped him put on his jacket, adjust his cravat, tidy his hair, and then led the way to from his office and towards one of the warehouses.

At first, John's strides were brisk, just as they always were. He was not a man for dawdling, just as he was not one for dabbling. However, as they drew nearer, Margaret sensed him slow down, and as the sun came out from behind a cloud to watch them, she saw his shadow take shorter, more hesitant steps.

When they reached the door, they peered inside to see what was happening, not that they needed to, of course, because the hubbub within could be heard from the other side of the yard. The large shed, which was usually unused, was anything but empty today, its every square inch teaming with men and women, all milling about as they chattered to one another, some eagerly, some earnestly, some both.

However, when they heard the sound of footsteps approaching, they all looked up in unison and fixed their stares on the two newcomers to their midst: the Master and Mistress of Marlborough Mills. Even in the murky dimness of the poorly lit room, their expressions were clear to read. Many glanced at them in welcome, much of them in scepticism, but as for most of them, they sat on the fence of indecision and inspected the couple with narrowed eyes honed with curiosity.

Standing side-by-side, Margaret could feel her husband falter, the vibrations from his powerful frame hard to miss. Deftly, she slid her hand behind him and pressed it against the small of his back, partly to encourage him, and partly to urge him forwards.

'Trust me,' she whispered in a voice so small only he could hear.

John was still unsure, but if there was one thing he was sure of, that was that he trusted his wife unequivocally, so why should he doubt her wisdom now?

Nodding, John stepped into the room, filling it as he did with his impressive presence, and on he marched decisively towards an erected podium where he stood and looked out at the crowd, suddenly aware that he was taller than ever, like a towering statue that could be seen for miles around. John grumbled. How he hated being the centre of attention. Clearing his throat, and letting out a gruff bark as he did, he lifted up his chin so that he might adopt an air of confidence, even if his legs were shaking like two wobbling stilts.

All at once, the room fell into silence, and a sea of eyes regarded him from beneath the brims of well-worn caps that were as grey as the Milton skyline.

Well, he was here now. Best get on with it.

'Thank you for coming here today,' he began hoarsely, a frog caught in his throat. 'Some of you might be wondering why I called this meeting, and here, of all places,' he said, gesturing to the space around him. 'But I assure you, there is some method to my madness,' he said, allowing himself a playful grin to mask his discomfort.

'As you know, there has long been an imbalance of power between masters and men for…well, for as long as time itself, I should imagine,' he went on, his audience responding with vigorous nods of their heads and a chorus of jeers and hoots.

Still, John would not let this discourage him. 'It has led to resentment, disillusionment, strikes, and even…violence,' he trailed off, his skin paling to remember that day, one which seemed so very long ago, when someone had thrown a stone at an innocent woman who had stood only a few yards from where he now addressed her attackers. She had shielded him from harm, and for the most horrifying of moments, as she lay before him cold and still, he had feared that she would never wake again.

With his gaze inevitably drawn to his wife, John could not help but cast a protective eye over her, and smiling back, she understood, but running a hand over her forehead, Margaret showed him that there was no scar to be seen anymore. She was well. She was his wife. Time had healed the wounds of both body and feelings.

'But I want to try and do my part in bleeding us of our bitterness, so that is why we are here today,' he explained. 'I want to invite you to share your ideas on how we can improve the safe and proficient running of this mill so that we might benefit all parties. I cannot make any promises, mind. I am not made of money,' he scoffed, and much to his surprise, he was greeted with sympathetic titters.

The workers of Milton may not have been comfortable with the power and the privilege its masters wielded, but there was one thing they could permit, and that was that Thornton was one of the decent ones. The only honourable one, if truth be told, and it was largely down to his wife. Since he had married and the southern lass' money had been used to reopen the mill, their wages had increased more than once, and so while they may never have enough to hold fancy dinners or wear fancy clothes as he did, they did not gripe when Thornton handed them their earnings every week. After all, he worked as hard as any of them, harder, to be fair, so they had no right and no reason to begrudge him his good fortune.

'I know it may be hard to see at times, but there are difficulties beyond my control. There is the price of cotton. Supplies from America. Shipping costs. Machine repair and replacement. The list goes on,' he said, rubbing at his forehead resignedly, thinking about all the sleepless nights he had lain awake worrying about these matters.

'And while I wish I were able to predict and regulate these for my sake as well as yours, I am only human. I can only do my best, and that is what I try to do, every day,' he confessed.

It was as he said this, that many of those who stood before him looked John Thornton up and down.

Properly. Painstakingly.

They had all met him before, many times, they knew the sight of him better than they knew their own kin, given that they spent more hours of the day here than at home, and yet, today, they were seeing him in a new light. It occurred to them that he was, after all, human. While he may be a prominent figure hereabouts, when stripped down, when all his status was taken away, when all was said and done, and when he was no more than the flesh and bone that Adam had bequeathed him, Thornton was just a man, just like those who worked for him. So it was then that they realised that, for all the fine things he had that they themselves lacked, he was not unaffected by the skirmishes of life. He grew hungry. He fell sick. He bled, he sweated, he cried, and one day, he would die. He was not immune to any of it. His status and his wealth could not save him from the fates they too braved. But, even in the face of this shared battle, their leader had never once relented. He was, without fail, resilient and consistent. He was a bulldog with a bit between his teeth, that bone that he refused to drop being the welfare of the mill and the men, women and children who earned their crust by it. So, if he had more than they did, at least he had earned his keep. He had worked for it. Struggled for it. Fought tooth and nail for it. And by God! – he deserved it!

Whether it was lucky or luckless, John could not read their minds, for if he had, he would have been thrown by their esteem of him, a respect his own flimsy self-regard did not allow him to suspect, and then he may never have finished his speech, one that was drawing to a close.

'But I promise you this: if you are willing to put aside our differences and work with me, I will work with you and for you. That is why I wanted to hold this meeting here. Not out there in some neutral building, but here, at the heart of it, where we all toil together as one. And these doors will be open every Thursday evening between seven and nine, starting from tonight, and anyone who wants to bring forward ideas about how we can improve the running of this mill may do so, without fear of judgement from their fellow workers, the union, or me.'

John smiled at this. This particular point had been Margaret's idea. He had been remarking, only a few short weeks ago, how sorely he missed his Thursday evenings with her father, and even now, while he was busier than ever with his family, the mill and the court, he still felt a loss between the hours of seven and nine each day-fourth of the week, a void that he since struggled to fill. After thinking about it, Margaret had suggested that maybe he should use that time to do something her father would have been proud of, something that showed all their discussions together about politics, principles and philosophy had meant something. And so, that is exactly what John had done.

'For you see, I make my pledge to you here, that I, the Master of Marlborough Mills will strive every day for the rest of my working life to better your conditions and make this a place you are proud to work. And that is why we are in this warehouse,' he revealed, and all eyes glanced about the room. 'It was here, ten years ago today, that I started at this mill as a supervisor. I was right for the job. I was ready for the job. Still, I was nervous, nonetheless, and so I came in here to give myself a talking to, to remind myself of how far I had come, and how far I still had to go. I thought I would be alone, but I was wrong. In the corner, there was a man, attending to some work, and that man did not greet me with mistrust or menace, but with tolerance. His name was Boucher.'

All the men bowed their heads and muttered beneath their breaths, some of with bitterness, others with regret. In contrast, John held his head high. The time had come to put the mistakes of dead days behind them.

'I let Boucher down,' he stated solemnly. 'And while I cannot bring him back, nor the others who lost their lives to the unrest of six years ago, I can use this place to try and ensure nothing like that ever happens in Milton again. I have appointed Tom Boucher as your chairman, and I am sure he will do his father proud and do justice to our cause.'

John was about to finish there, his dispatch a concise one, but as he made to move, he glimpsed in the doorway a row of eyes watching him intently, some higher up or lower down than others, some blue, some brown, some green, but all eyes he knew well, for they resembled the ones he saw in the mirror every day or the ones he woke up next to every morn.

Staring into the distance, one that was faint, not yet having been determined by providence, John thought not of the past or the present, but the future. How long would this factory stand? How long would it manufacture cotton? How long would it provide work for the men and women of this town? And how many Thorntons would be part of its story over the years?

He would never know. He hoped its legacy, its life, would endure long after he was gone. But there was one thing he could do, and that was to make a start and set an example for others to follow.

'So, if you are with me, then let us put an end to strikes and bring forth solidarity instead. Let us create a future for masters and men. A future not just for them, or you, or me, but us. After all, Marlborough Mills is a family, and I believe a man should look after his family, and that is what I intend to do…if you will let me,' he concluded, with more emotion than he had intended, but as always, he hid it well.

Trundling down from the podium, John was greeted by a round of applause, and glancing up, he saw Higgins standing at the back, his hands coming together in a strident clap. Well, that was a good sign, at least. If Higgins approved, then he must have done something right. Where Higgins led, others would follow and others would listen. That gave him hope.

John was relieved that it was over now, and he could go back to doing what he did best, being buried behind his desk, and attending to business on his own, and on his own terms. However, it was as John made ready to leave that he was stopped in his tracks by a hand slapping his arm in an over-familiar fashion. Twisting his head around, John saw that the offender was a small, stout man with an enormous monocle that must have taken up a good quarter of his face. The man grinned up at Jon through yellow teeth as he put on a ludicrously lofty top hat, one that was almost as big as he was himself.

'Well-well, Thornton, that was quite a speech,' the mouse of a man squeaked, his attempt at a boom deflating in the air like a hot-air balloon with no puff.

'Mr Tubbs,' John replied with a raised eyebrow. 'I had no idea you would be joining us today.'

John had certainly not been expecting the mayor to be present and was now feeling more self-conscious than ever, but his anxieties were soon calmed by the firm, albeit clammy handshake he received.

'I would not have missed it for the world, my good man,' Mr Tubbs countered. 'You know how seriously I take the advancement of the working man, having come from nothing myself,' he said smugly, his chest thrust out, his red vest making him look rather like a round Robin that had certainly not starved over winter. Mr Tubbs never missed an opportunity to remind everyone who would listen (and even those who would rather not), that he had been born as poor as the proverbial church mouse, but through nothing other than sheer determination (and a legacy left by a wealthy widow), he had dragged himself up from the mire by the scuff of his neck, and here he was, the Mayor of Milton.

'Yes, like you, Thornton, I know what it's like to build yourself up from nothing ─'

'Mr Thornton,' interrupted another voice, one that was unmistakable in its gravelly northern burr.

John did not need to look to ascertain who this might be.

'Mr Gregory,' said he, uttering the name before he even looked.

His guess was correct. Before him stood a tall man, one who was nearly as tall as John himself. He was a striking sort of fellow, the sort who boasts notably defined and well-proportioned features, including a chiselled jaw; a youthful, unwearied brow; and a set of keen eyes that saw right through you. Samuel Gregory was, to John's mind, shrewdness personified. The two men had not crossed paths often, and John was not one to judge people on the basis of their reputation alone, he liked to figure them out for himself, but even he could tell that their Member of Parliament appeared to be as impressive as folks foretold.

'I did not think you would be here either,' John admitted, feeling somewhat glad that he had not known of his presence before he started talking, or else, he was not sure he would have made it through to the end.

The gentleman inclined his head. 'Ah, well, you have my good lady to thank for that,' he professed. 'My wife has been talking of nothing other than the estimable Mrs John Thornton for weeks, she simply insisted on coming here today to make her acquaintance,' he explained with a good-natured glint in those same eyes.

It was at this that Mr Gregory looked about him, and after a wave of his hand, a handsome woman materialised by his side, one who could not have been more than six and twenty. Standing several inches shorter than her spouse, she was dressed in a comely pink gown that was mercifully free from garish trimmings. John smirked to himself. She obviously did not haunt the same shops as Fanny.

'This is the better half of my heart, Louise,' Mr Gregory introduced, and she extended out a gloved hand to meet John's without hesitation, telling him that she was either local or, like his own wife, had grown comfortably accustomed to the convention of men and women shaking hands in the north.

'Mrs Gregory,' he said pleasantly, welcoming her, 'your name is almost as well-known in these parts as your husband's. The way you have sought to improve the life of children in this county is beyond admirable. Your school in Englefield, I know, does sterling work to give young girls a trade so that they do not fall into…less reputable means of supporting themselves,' John advocated, reddening rather as he spoke, only too aware as a magistrate of the dreadful fate of so many women of all ages in this city who were without family and friends to care for them.

'Thank you, Mr Thornton,' she responded with sincere gratitude, and he detected a distinctive Newcastle accent. He could tell at once she was a woman of confidence, her manners forthright and polite in effortless concord.

'Your kind words are appreciated. That is why we are here, you understand, your new initiative sounds simply marvellous, and I am, as Samuel says, itching to meet your dear wife,' she confirmed, 'for you see, I could not have done any of it without her.'

'Is that so?' John asked with curiosity as he folded his arms, always ready and willing to hear his Meg praised.

'Oh, yes!' she near enough cried, her face pink with excitement. 'Surely you must know that charitable endeavours were few and far between in Darkshire before she arrived, practically non-existent. And yet, within a few years of living here, she has opened a school and a hospital, and when nobody said she would manage it, I always knew she would. She has made it all possible, she has paved the way for the rest of us who wish to do good in this town,' Mrs Gregory beamed. 'So I simply must thank her, and I do so hope she and I can be friends.'

Needless to say, if John had been the tallest man in the room when he had first entered it, he was now ten times taller, proud as punch of his darling Margaret. What was more, he was grateful to Mrs Gregory. It niggled him to concede that Margaret had few friends in Milton of her own circle. This was partly because she was a quiet person who preferred her own company or that of her family, but more than that, she was not at all like the other master's wives. They were a different ilk to her altogether. They were catty, pretentious and often unfeeling, so it pleased John that she might, at last, find a woman with whom she could truly relate and be herself without reserve.

John wasted no time in searching for his wife, and on spying her standing by the door with their children, thanking people for coming as they swarmed to leave, shaking hands with each and every one of them and asking attentively after their health and happiness, generous soul that she was, he beckoned for the Gregorys and Mr Tubbs to follow him, suggesting that they should join the family for dinner.

Making his way to her, John was met by Higgins who offered him a fraternal pat on the back.

'I couldn't have said it better myself,' Higgins grinned, dipping his cap and pinching it.

The motion was copied by a string of men who walked behind him, each muttering their own brand of appreciation.

'Well, Thornton, I must say, you certainly seem to have gained their approbation,' Mr Tubbs commended.

'Indeed, I have never seen such warmth between a master and his men,' Mr Gregory agreed.

'And that they trust your word. They seem to believe in you wholeheartedly,' Mrs Gregory added. 'You are quite the captain of this cotton ship.'

'Auch, well, we have a long way to go,' John replied humbly. 'Reconciliation can only begin with true respect. And words must be followed by actions, so I do not make these vows lightly, I fully intend to do my bit and do my best. And besides, it is a business, it is in our interests to do well, and our workers are our greatest asset. I need them more than they need me.'

'Still, it is quite remarkable,' Mr Gregory recognised. 'I do not know how you do it.'

'Ah, now, that is very simple,' Margaret joined in, lacing her arm around her husband's and gently squeezing there, resisting the urge to lay her head against his shoulder. 'It is because he is a good master.'

'Naw!' came a sudden voice behind them, and they all turned to gape in the direction of this unexpected contention.

There were three people still idling in the shed. Two men and a woman. Andrew King, Deborah Underwood and Craw Hayden, all three of them employed by Hale and Thornton's.

'No,' one repeated insistently. 'You're wrong there.'

'He's not a good master,' another corrected.

John's heart began to sink, and as for Margaret, she held her breath, but their fears were soon set free when they saw the mischievous smiles on their worker's faces.

Then, with a grin and a wink, the last one declared: 'He's the best that ever was.'

The End

Thank you very much to those of you who let me use your names for characters.