The Poison Glen

By Gillian Rothwell Rose

Reaching across time, this book follows the lives of two women, their families, and their generations that followed. Mary Ann Oxley was born into poverty in the town of Wigan, England, which was permanently shrouded in a poisonous black smog, her rivers running with the ooze of industry. The booming Industrial Revolution brought wealth to some but only misery and abject poverty to others. Eliza Jane Skelton was born in the county of Yorkshire to a privileged family where the countryside was lush and green, with rolling ridges of woods dipping down to broad valleys. She was sheltered from the harsh realities of life and took for granted her place in society. This would leave her with little to combat the hardships that would come from the tragic results of wrong decisions. This story will take the reader to England, through the dreadful working conditions of child labor in the late eighteen hundreds, and on to the harsh realities of War. You will travel across India, into darkest Africa, and to the prisoner of war camps of Nazi Germany, and eventually find yourself on the shores of the United States of America
Long eBook Description
Reaching across time, this book follows the lives of two women, their families, and their generations that followed. People from entirely different walks of life, their lives are inexorably joined together by love, hate and the hand of fate. Beginning in the late 1800’s, the northern England town of Wigan, due to its industries of cotton mills and coal mines, was permanently shrouded in a cloud of poisonous black smog, her rivers running with the ooze of industry. The county of Yorkshire was just sixty miles west of Wigan, but it might have been a world away. Here the countryside was lush and green, with rolling ridges of woods dipping down to broad valleys, where farms nestled in rich fields. Even though there were coal mines in the county of Yorkshire, they had not yet scarred the landscape or polluted the sky with their great clouds of

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 7, 2014
• ISBN: 9781631924354

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

MY ENGLAND

My England, oh my England,

Why do I miss you so?

Your gently rains and breezes,

And sometimes woolly snow,

The hop fields in the heart of Kent,

White cliffs that look to sea,

All these things that I remember,

Still spell out home to me.

England is a tiny island country divided by nature into two parts: one, high hills and mountains; the other, lazy rolling plains. The country to the north are the highlands and mountain areas, while the country to the south are gentle, undulating plains with large expanses of almost level ground.

The northern mountains, throughout the ages, have been worn down by erosion and battered by storms from the cold Atlantic for so long that the western coast is ragged and irregular. Here the soil is thin and stony and the rock formation beneath very hard, so that water from the constant rain does not sink easily into the ground, but runs off in swift streams, cutting deep valleys between the high mountains and keeping the earth in a constant waterlogged condition. The wind is cold and constant and the rain never-ending, and although it is of great natural beauty, with the green of the hills running to the water’s edge, it was, in times past, most unsuitable for agriculture and uninviting for permanent settlement.

About seven thousand years before the birth of Christ, the ice age was in full retreat, and in the still bleak and uninviting season that was summer in those northern mountains small tribes of hunters eked out a precarious existence. Later, a hardy people who raised rugged mountain sheep, goats and cattle on mountain pastures would sparsely populate these high hills.

The great mountains, tall and forbidding, densely covered in timber, would eventually yield black gold deep within their core and bring industry to what are today the Lancashire coalfields.

To the south, the soil is rich and fertile and even though the rain is abundant, it is nevertheless more gentle. The sun shines more frequently and the wind is of a tamer temperament. The plains habitants of the south raised crops and were a more prosperous and progressive people. They would eventually produce the seat of government.

England is separated from Europe by the English Channel, which is some of the roughest waters in the world and has acted as a natural barrier against the marauder tribes that swept down from the upper reaches of Asia and devastated most of Europe. Separated from the rest of the world by this narrow sea, the land of mists with her high chalk cliffs and verdant forests remained remote and mysterious, a magical world apart.

But these waters did not deter the fierce seafaring Norseman who braved the tumultuous seas, coming down from the arctic and ravishing the English coastline. Those who made it to England’s shores often came to stay, as they found her lush green forests more hospitable than their own northern homeland. But fierce and warlike as they were, they were nonetheless by nature farmers. They settled in the new land, building modest farmhouses and mixing freely with the vanquished tribes, strengthening the already stoic nature of the native Britons.

The Romans conquered the island in 43 A.D. and stayed for four hundred years. But they did not mingle freely with the natives and had a great dislike for this cold inhospitable corner of their empire. Thus, the permanent effects of their invasion were quite small. A letter written by a Roman centurion all those hundreds of years ago to his wife in sunny Italy reflects the feelings of the Romans for England, when he wrote, This accursed country, where the sun never shines, where things are quick to grow but slow to ripen.

But the country would eventually know greatness and, even though very small, would rule the greatest Empire in the history of the world. Her people would stay united and repel invasion throughout her modern history. Her northern mountains of unbound wealth would become the hub of the industrial revolution and the south, rich in timber and fertile soil, would remain the center of government.

CHAPTER TWO

MOON RIVER

Moon river, wider than a mile,

I’m crossing you in style some day.

Oh dream maker, you heart breaker,

Wherever you’re going, I’m going your way.

Two drifters, off to see the world,

There’s such a lot of world to see.

We’re after the same rainbow’s end, waiting ‘round the bend,

My huckleberry friend, Moon River, and me.

Words by Johnny Mercer,

Sung by Andy Williams

I always thought that hearing my father had passed away would be the saddest day of my life, but it wasn’t. That was reserved for the day of his funeral.

I had seen very little of him in the past forty years, so why was I so sad? He was eighty-eight years old and he’d had a good life. He had been living for the past few months in Saint George’s nursing home in my home town of Wigan, and failing fast, so we were expecting it. So why was I so sad? I think maybe I suddenly realized that time had run out, that there were things that I still needed to say to him, things I should have said years ago.

Another emotion that plagued me on that March day was guilt. I felt guilty that I had not attended his funeral. Neither did any of my children. No one was there to speak on my behalf. No one to say how sorry I was that he was gone, to say I wish I had spent more time with him, spoken with him on the phone more often.

But when all is said and done, it doesn’t really matter anymore. I can only hope that he knew these things, that he knew that my absence was at the request of my mother and not my choice, that she had wrenched a promise from me years ago. She said that when he died the grief would be hers and she did not want to share it with anyone, not even her daughters. She told me that her years of dedication and sacrifice earned her that right.

Well, I stayed home. I kept my promise.

My sisters did not attend his funeral either. Stella, also living in America, is suffering from multiple sclerosis and was unable to make the journey. And Laura, wishing to get away for a while, had gone on vacation to India and could not get back in time.

Laura, although she lived near to them, had only in the last few months been allowed to get close to him. But in his dying moments she too had been excluded, for at the end mother pulled him back into her world and would not give up one tiny portion of him to share with any of his daughters. Laura, who had stuck by her through those final days before his death, was ultimately shut out at the end.

I received a letter from her not long after his death that summed up how she felt. She wrote:

Dear Gillian,

This letter is just to let you know that I’m ok and that my every-day life is finally getting back to normal.

So far this has been a horrendous year. I feel like we have been living on a roller coaster that has left Aidan and I physically and emotionally drained. As you know we tried to escape to India for a couple of weeks but things caught up with us. I tried to get back for the funeral but in India they move at their own pace and as you know I was not able to make it back in time. But on looking back I’m glad that I was away when Dad died for I could not bear the thought of being pushed out again in his final moments. You must think that that is terribly wrong of me to say, as I know both you and Stella wanted to be here. But I would have only fallen out with our mother over the funeral. Alas, as Dad lived so he died, completely over-shadowed by his wife. Cut off from his daughters, cut off from the world around him, alienated from all those that would love him. But I don’t miss him. For how can you miss someone you never had?

Although I did meet a very nice old gentleman in Saint George’s nursing home. He was a little confused but a very kind and gentle person, very ordinary. Oh how he liked his comforts and his favorite foods. He hated being fussed over; all he wanted was peace and quiet. Ten minutes is all he gave me each time I visited, ten minutes and that was my lot, then he’d just say ta ta. But that was ok with me, I could live with that.

I don’t know about you and Stella, but for me the chains are finally off, and they are staying off. I will do what I can for Mother but now that Dad is gone she has nothing left to blackmail me with. I know she will not change but if she wants to have me around then she will have to put up with being polite to me and mine. But somehow I don’t think that will happen.

No keepsakes of Dad’s have been offered. I was not even allowed to accompany her when she scattered his ashes, nor allowed to know where she laid him to rest. It was none of my business I was told. She might tell you Gillian, but I doubt it. I think she will take his final resting place to her grave.

I suppose this letter sounds bitter, well I guess it is. As you know, Edip, my ex-husband also died this week in Turkey. In just a few days of each other I lost the two men who shaped me. But through it all I found that I had a loving husband, two caring sisters and children and friends who love me. I can live with that...

Bitter? Yes, I guess all three of us are bitter. We loved him too, but when he died it was as if she was the only one to suffer any loss. She never offered us any words of consolation. But even so I worry about her, worry how she will handle him being gone. He was her whole life, and with his dying she lost everything she held dear. We three have loving husbands to comfort us, but she unfortunately now has no one.

I worry too about Laura, that the guilt of not being there when he died and not being at the funeral will weigh her down. And I cringe at the thought that sometime in the future Mother will use it against her.

It’s so ironic that in the end my mother got her wish and that was not to have to share his death. That none of his daughters would be there at the end. I’m afraid that I feel a little resentful that our absence was probably her answered prayer. Did God take sides?

Looking back, I don’t think I really knew my father, due to the fact that my mother kept him virtually to herself. But the man I have come to know has opened the door a little into what he was really like.

To me my father was an enigma, quiet and unemotional, yet he was the reluctant participant in a great romance, one that rivaled those of Anthony and Cleopatra and Romeo and Juliet. He was reserved and quiet, yet managed to produce three very headstrong daughters. He was a homebody, while we all traveled far away from home.

To help me through the dreadful day of his funeral, I sat alone with my thoughts and reminisced about my family. My mind traveled back to England and that day in April 1962, when I left home for America. I thought I would forget a lot of the details about that day, but as my mind drifted back, I remembered it as though it were just yesterday. I recall it had been a day just like every other day. No fanfare, no tears, no long speeches, just another day. Life had gone on as usual, my leaving just a break in the routine...

England, 1962. Everyone was waiting longingly for spring, but the last days of winter were reluctant to leave, and for days a cold hard rain had been unrelentingly drenching an already saturated earth.

The morning prior to my leaving, I woke early with the day looming before me and wondered how I would spend my time. The house was quiet. Even at that early hour, everyone had already left for work. The only sound was the incessant beating of the rain against the bedroom window.

I went downstairs, picking my way over my suitcases that littered the floor at the bottom of the steps, waiting patiently for me by the front door. Famished as usual, I made myself a huge breakfast, which was my habit, and with my book open before me I sat at the kitchen table with a hearty appetite. But I soon found my mind wandering and was unable to concentrate on the words before me; even my appetite deserted me. Closing the book, I decided to go into Wigan and say a few last good-byes and so kill the day.

By the time I reached the bus stop my feet were soaking wet and I was chilled to the bone, which only served to reinforce my conviction that I was doing the right thing by leaving this cold wet country. The double-decker bus was crowded and had a strong smell of cigarettes and damp clothing. I sat in an empty seat by the window but was soon joined by an elderly woman who was loaded with shopping bags and a big umbrella that dripped rainwater all over me. I instantly regretted not standing.

Wiping the condensation from the rain-splattered window, I could see scores of busy people hurrying by, strangers whose faces were hidden by large umbrellas, a necessary part of an English wardrobe. I felt sorry for them, sorry that they had to stay in such a cold, wet country. I felt lucky again to be finally leaving. But the leaving was bittersweet; I had been happy in England and felt sorrow at seeing things for the last time.

A twinge of fearful excitement rippled through me each time I realized that the next day I would be on board a great ship heading for America, leaving behind everything I had ever known and everyone I ever loved.

The rain was still coming down in sheets when I’d got off the bus at the town center, and I was glad I had my umbrella. Rain, how fitting it should rain on my last day in England. Since I had all afternoon to kill, I took my time. I walked through the shopping arcade, going into all the shops, then wandered through the open market. I drank it all in one last time. I had hoped to run into someone I knew, but saw no familiar faces. I just wanted to tell someone that I was leaving. But I saw only strangers.

I left the market place and went back up to the town center, taking a short cut through the old churchyard. I have always loved that old church, a piece of the past still sitting right there in the middle of town. At one time it had dwarfed the surrounding buildings but now it stood in the shadow of modern structures, cloistered in seclusion.

The church never ceased to fascinate me. Although I had seen it a hundred times before, it always invoked in me my passion for the past. That old church was so steeped in history, and even though the high sandstone walls were all black and pockmarked from pollution, there was still an air of grace about it. You could still see the old scrollwork and the large stone gargoyles that kept guard after all those years; not even the years of decay could take away from its beauty.

I walked around the ancient church, following the old worn flagstone pathway that surrounds it. I looked again at the numerous inscriptions written beneath my feet and wondered, as I always did, who was buried beneath. Many people cut through there, never giving the old church a second glance, so long had it been part of their lives. I had often done the same in the past. But on that day I lingered, for it was a leave-taking, a saying goodbye to all things familiar.

I walked up the front steps, craning my neck to see the detail of the stonework on the turret above, then opened the large heavy doors and went into the dark, gloomy interior. I walked in silence among the stone coffins where the likenesses of proud knights in full armor lay at rest. Tall stained glass windows cast an eerie light across the nave as they recounted tales of war, great feats of bravery and chivalrous deeds from long ago. I thought about the great country I was leaving behind: England, where the past walks hand in hand with the present.

I left the church reluctantly and continued on my way, down Wallgate Street, past the train station and under the old railway bridge. I stopped at the gates of the Trencherfield cotton mill, looked up at the dirty, grimy windows, and thought about the many dreary months I had worked there not so long before. Several young women came out of the large front door for a breath of fresh air and a cigarette. They had on their aprons and headscarves, with their hair done up in curlers. I felt so relieved that I was leaving.

I knew that if I remained in Wigan my lot would be the same as those girls. Yet all my life I always felt myself to be different. Something in my nature that I had not always understood, something that I could not always control, had driven me to move away from the world in which I lived. I was on the whole a happy person, but the desire for more had always been a yearning in me that frequently left me confused and moody. I had always dreamed of a life far different than the one that I had been born into.

Most of the girls I grew up with had accepted this life that the hand of fate had dealt them. Most of them never looked any further than a marriage to one of the local lads, to living in a small terraced house and raising a brood of children. Most of them would remain in and around the town of Wigan, destined to live out their lives in this poison glen, in the shadows of the cotton mills and coal mines. Most would remain relatively under-Educated and after years of child bearing would suddenly find themselves old women. But I always knew that was not for me.

At first I had decided I would go to Australia, but then I received a letter from my Aunt Lucy in America. Poor Lucy, so lonely for anything English. When she heard I wanted to leave England she had written to me saying, Gillian, put away all your woolgathering. Just come to America.

I left the mill, crossing the street to the Wigan pier. The old docks and warehouses had survived for more than half a century. For years, the sooty, black buildings sat perched on the banks of the polluted Leeds-Liverpool canal. Every nook and cranny of their dim interiors was filled with stories of dreadful working conditions, hard times and child labor. I went inside one of the buildings where there still remained a motley collection of goods stored in dark corners, where spiders wove webs and rats scuttled. Strange whispery echoes floated along the maze of narrow corridors and I could smell the musty odor that pervaded the old building.

I had at that time heard rumors that the warehouses were going to be demolished. I hoped not, it would have been such a pity to pull down those ramshackle old buildings. They had been a part of Wigan for so long, a landmark.

I was not to know then, but the town of Wigan would eventually reclaim the docks and old warehouses. The waterways are all cleaned up now. Barges once loaded with cotton and coal are now painted in bright colors. They motor along the canal loaded with tourists, stopping at the Old Mill Pub for lunch and a pint of ale. There’s a gift shop now where once small children had toiled away for long hours in appalling conditions, a place where you can now buy mementos of that bygone era. Young, hopeless faces, drab and dirty, are immortalized forever on mugs, tee shirts and picture postcards.

Coming out of the old warehouse, I felt strangely depressed and was relieved to find that it had finally stopped raining. Hurrying over to the bus stop, I caught the next bus for home.

On my way back, I stopped off in the town of Pemberton to see my Grandma Rothwell. She had lived in the same house with her daughter, my Auntie Edith, ever since I could remember. I let myself in the front door and went down the dark hallway to the back room where they spent most of their time. My Grandma sat dozing in front of a blazing fire, a blanket wrapped around her legs, a shawl around her shoulders. A myriad of small sounds filled the room, the crackling of the fire, the ticking of a clock and the tinkling of dishes from the kitchen.

I went over to her and kissed her gently on the cheek; she awoke and patted my hand. I told her I just popped in to say goodbye. Auntie Edith came out of the kitchen wiping her hands on her apron and, coming over to me with outstretched arms, enfolded me in her ample bosom, then turned to my Grandma and said,

It’s our Gillian, she’s come by to see ya afore she leaves, she’s off to America in’t mornin’. She spoke loudly in the old woman’s ear, shattering the silence.

Ya look like you could use a good cuppa tea, Grandma said, raising her head to me. Go fix us a cup, Edith. Auntie Edith went back into the kitchen grumbling.

So, you’re off to America, Grandma repeated.

We sat awhile and talked of nothing important, Grandma occasionally drifting off, but I was restless, eager to be off, and left as soon as I could. Auntie Edith walked to the front door with me to see me out, wiping her hands on her apron, a habit I recall to this day.

I’ll see ya when ya get back, luv, my Grandma called.

Auntie Edith complained about Grandma being cantankerous and hard to live with.

Won’t do a flaming thing for ‘erself, she said, but just you wait ‘til six o’clock, then she’ll be off ta’ pub, she’ll be okay then. Ee well, never mind, luv, you have a good time in America and I’ll see ya when ya get back.

I left her standing there on the doorstep. It was just too difficult to try and explain to them that I wasn’t coming back any time soon, that I probably wouldn’t be seeing them for a long time to come.

That evening, my parents and I sat in silence in front of a warm fire. My father was reading his newspaper, whistling softly to himself, my mother as usual lost in a book. No sort of intimacy seemed possible. I spoke occasionally of my upcoming journey, trying to arouse in them the bonds of affection. I just wanted them to recognize me, give me a glimmer of something, anything, but it was as though I wasn’t really leaving.

The talk was small and sensible and the words they spoke seemed detached from all emotions. But they had never shown any other face to me. In that quiet room the old antique grandfather clock ticked rhythmically, and I glanced over at my Mother. I saw that her hands were calm and I knew that she would not try to make me stay. At that moment I realized that she didn’t really mind me going.

So I made promises that were not asked of me. Promises that I would be careful and that I would take care of myself and they need not worry. Then I went to bed, because I was impatient for the hours to pass quickly, to get this leave-taking over with. I was afraid there would be tears and sorrow, but more afraid that there would be none.

At that time, I was sharing a bedroom with my older sister Laura. I had until recently shared the room with my younger sister Stella, but Laura was out of favor with our parents and had just been ousted from the single bedroom. Because we were never rewarded for our good behavior, being given the single bedroom was not so much a reward for Stella, but rather a punishment for Laura. Laura had, in an open act of defiance, continued to see a Turkish university student named Edip against our parent’s wishes. They viewed this as a blatant act of rebellion.

It wasn’t that my parents were prejudiced, far from it. It was just that they saw the consequences of a relationship with someone from a foreign country whose customs and beliefs were so different from ours, and who would ultimately return there. But once their disapproval was voiced, it had been an open invitation for Laura. She had gone off to Manchester to meet him in spite of their objections, and I knew she would probably not be home till late.

Stella had gone to bed early. She alone seemed moved by my leaving. I popped my head into her room to say goodnight but she was sleeping, so I closed the door quietly. Dear Stella, she had never enjoyed sleeping alone and was the reluctant recipient of the single bedroom, knowing full well that she was being used as a tool to punish Laura. But she was timid and gentle and incapable of voicing her objections to this latest bout of favoritism that she felt would only serve to alienate her from her sisters.

Laura returned home late, as I had suspected, and she talked endlessly of her Turkish student Edip and how she was going to marry him and go live in Turkey—which, incidentally, she eventually did. I listened, and all the while dreamt of America. Finally, we turned off the light, and as darkness embraced me my nerves wound tighter and tighter. I found myself unable to sleep.

Slipping from the room as soundlessly as I could, I went downstairs to wait for the dawn. It came creeping over the horizon, and only then did I return to my bed and fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

I was awakened a few hours later with a start as my mother shook me, telling me it was time to get up. Morning had finally arrived; my big day had come at last. It was a day like every other day. The weather was damp and foggy, but I didn’t care. Nothing in that cold country mattered anymore.

When we arrived at the Liverpool docks, the damp gray fog hid the huge black ship in its midst. I peered longingly through the haze, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. But by mid-morning the damp April winds chased away the gray clouds. The sun peeked through and was full of warmth. It shimmered off the oily black water of Liverpool Harbor, revealing a filthy collection of garbage and dead fish floating on the surface. Seagulls screamed in noisy circles overhead and squabbled over the spoils. Ships from all over the world sat at berth there; it was a busy port.

The sight of the sea and the warmth of the sun fired my senses with exhilaration and I looked impatiently out across the heaving waters. The H.M.S. Sylvania, an ocean-going vessel of the Cunard line, sat proudly in her moorings; that great ship had been waiting for me all my life. In my heart there was a strange, joyous feeling. I had no regrets; I was happy and proud...yes, proud.

Laura hugged me goodbye and I felt uncomfortable but happy with her sadness. My father, embarrassed with any show of affection, nodded his head in farewell, not quite sure what he should do. I leaned over and hugged him and then he turned and walked away and I wondered, even hoped, that he was crying. I was glad that Stella hadn’t come, that we had said our good-byes at the house. Stella alone would have cried. Dear Stella was never afraid to show her true feelings.

Then I was left alone with my mother on that great sweeping stairway. I thought I saw a tear. At last, a show of emotion! Dear God, how I hoped it was real. And I suddenly felt guilty for feeling so happy that I was leaving, so I dropped a shadow over my face and buried my dreams and excitement, fearing that they lay bare and naked on my face, that somehow she would take offense at my eagerness. But my mother made it easy for me: no long speeches, still no asked-for promises, just a quick hug and then she too was gone.

I went over to the rail, looked down, and saw them standing on the docks. They seemed small and far away. I could not see their faces. I looked up at the skyline of Liverpool. A pall of dirty poisonous smog hung in the air, obliterating the tops of the buildings. The ship sounded a loud blast of farewell and slipped her moorings, moving silently away from the wharf, pulled by two tugboats that were dwarfed by her hugeness. A cheer went up from the crowd below.

Many people were leaning over the rails waving goodbye. Some, like me, were leaving for good and I could see the emotions on their faces. Others were going home to America after perhaps a holiday or a visit with family. They were happy and carefree, and soon drifted away from the rail.

I remember the acrid smell of the tugboats, the dank smell of the River Mersey, the way the skyline of huge buildings moved slowly past, how the sun struck them and made the windows glitter. As the ship moved silently away from the shore, a lone Scotsman in full regalia walked smartly to the end of the pier and struck a mournful tune on his bagpipes. Strains of "Will Ye No Come Back Agin’?" drifted across the water towards me and finally melted my cold, cold heart. I suddenly felt a sorrow grip my soul, and felt the cold chill of the tears that for the first time coursed down my face.

I stayed glued to the rail, watching as my country faded slowly into the past, and I thought of the people I was leaving behind. They too were now a part of the past. I turned and went to the opposite side and stared out to the open sea.

A bright full moon had risen, hovering low over the water, casting a bright yellow glow on the shimmering surface of the ocean: a moon river lighting a pathway to my future.

CHAPTER THREE

THE POISON GLEN

Way down there in the poison glen,

The sun’s going down on the misty mountain.

And I’m watching, and wondering,

Feeling something from long ago.

Haunted echoes that surround the glen,

Ivy creeping through the burned out ruin,

And I’m watching, and wondering,

Feeling spirits from long ago.

May this valley be my silver lining,

Pleasing nature with my heart’s desire,

And I’m watching, and wondering,

Feeling everything from long ago.

Clannad

Mary Anne Rothwell, born Mary Anne Oxley on the twentieth day of November, 1879, to Thomas & Mavis Oxley, came crying into a harsh world. She was the first born of five children and lived in the town of Wigan in the north of England, not far from the Scottish border.

Wigan in the early eighteen hundreds had marched proudly into the industrial revolution. Coal and cotton provided the impetus of her economic prosperity and the population grew rapidly. Great locomotives pulling huge coal-filled cars left the Wigan train station daily, distributing coal all over the country, coining the phrase, "England’s warmed by Lancashire’s coal." Barges laden with goods rode the Leeds-Liverpool canal from the Wigan pier to the docks at Liverpool Harbor. There they would be shipped all over the world, making England a leader in the world’s industrial market.

Now in the year of Mary Anne’s birth, the industrial boom was taking its toll on the town of Wigan. Although the trade development brought wealth to some, it brought only misery and abject poverty to others. There were now numerous cotton mills and coal mines operating in and around the town of Wigan, many of the mines having the deepest shafts and worst safety records in the country. Her rivers were polluted and she was shrouded in a permanent cloud of poisonous black smog that belched from homes and factory chimneys. It choked the breath of men already suffering the ill effects of a lifetime working in cotton mills and coal mines. Wigan was now a town where, if a man didn’t die in a mining disaster, he was destined to live out his life either underground, choking on lungs filled with coal dust and skin permanently stained as black as the coal he pulled from the earth, or wasting away, suffocating from lungs laced with cotton fiber. In this age of indifference, small children were put to work to supply the demands of a fast-growing nation beset with yet another foreign war.

The old shafts and their subterranean passages, many of which had gone unrecorded, would eventually be sealed off forever, but they would leave behind a legacy of cave-ins and subsidences for generations to come. Gone too would be the old back-to-back terraced slums and the dismal slag heaps.

Big business, in a wave of ecological responsibility, would eventually reclaim the land their predecessors had raped and plundered with such reckless abandon. They would build high rises and motorways, and the earth would once again be alive with lush green marshes, verdant forests. The air would be fresh and clean, the countryside restored to the pastoral beauty that is England today.

CHAPTER FOUR

IN FORTUNE’S HANDS

He finds himself in the gutter,

In a lonely part of town,

Where death waits in the darkness,

Despair to cut him down.

Sleeping in his apathy,

He’s a sad and empty man,

All he needs is a job,

So he can get out while he can.

Clannad

Thomas Oxley woke early, as usual. A cold dread, as cold as the night, gripped his stomach. He didn’t have to wait for the knocker up to know what time it was. His body, through years of habit, knew, and three weeks of idleness could not set that aside. He lay under a pile of coarse blankets, pulled tight under his chin to keep out the cold. His wife Mavis huddled close to him for warmth, her huge belly, swollen with their fifth child, a mountain on the landscape of the covers.

Daylight was knocking on the window and already he could see the outline of the furniture in the cold room. He lay there watching the pale light of dawn come slowly creeping in, revealing a curtain of thick frost on the tiny window. He could see icicles sparkling under the eaves, and when the pale morning sun hit them just right they cast a rainbow across the bed. But he saw no beauty in the spectrum of colors, only a deep depression at the sight of his breath that hung in a cloud before him in the cold morning air. He shivered, reluctant to leave the warmth of the sheets. There would be no work again today, he thought miserably. For he was a plasterer, and in the severe weather, the building trade had been the first to be brought to its knees.

He heard the sounds of hobnailed boots on the street outside as scores of miners headed for the pit. This weather wouldn’t affect the miners, he thought bitterly. Down in the pits it didn’t rain, shine or freeze. He had vowed from the beginning that he would never work down the pit. But today he envied them, for at the end of the week they at least would have a few pennies to put food into the mouths of their hungry children.

He’d have to find work soon. Their precious savings was almost gone, their supply of coal dangerously low. He was already rationing it, lighting a fire only on wash days, which he thought with shame were getting more and more frequent as his wife took in other folks’ washing to try and supplement their declining funds.

Thomas recalled the days when he had first started in the building trade. He had been a strapping young lad then. He had carried hods full of bricks and mortar to supply the brick layers, and great boards of plaster for the plasterers, until his ability to leave a wall smooth and ready to paint had earned him an apprenticeship into the plasterers union. Now he had his own apprentice to do his carrying for him. But even being a master craftsman did him no good when there was no work to be had.

It was the winter of 1885. Mary Anne, his oldest daughter, was just six years old. Cold weather gripped the north of England in an icy fist. It was the worst that had been seen for many years, and the likes of which would not be seen for years to come.

The deep snow blanketed the frozen earth, severely hampering the building trade. Large numbers of workers were laid off, creating severe hardships amongst many of Wigan’s building laborers. Skilled and un-skilled alike roamed the streets in search of work. Jobs, when they could be found, were often back-breaking and menial, and offered very little pay.

The town suffered. Now, well into December, with six weeks into the hard frost and no end in sight, the children and the elderly began to starve in earnest. The young and the old are always the first to suffer.

Silent and deserted were the streets where they lived side by side. As food and coal became scarcer, and life savings dwindled, families huddled close over dead fires or bedded together for warmth. Men, women and children alike looked into the face of hunger. Long lines waited hours in front of the soup kitchens, and whole families went to the slag heaps in search of any sizable piece of coal that could be used to cook a meager meal or take the chill off a cold house.

Mavis, heavy in her eighth month of pregnancy, bent over a large tub of soapy water in which she scrubbed clothes by rubbing them up and down on a well-used scrub board. A pile of dirty clothes at her feet reminded her of the work yet to be done. In these hard times, most of her day was spent bent over the large washtub