Chapter five: Tired of sewing waistcoats are you?

Trigger warnings for those who need them

Child labour and child neglect

I toss another half-finished waistcoat onto the pile for buttons and hooks.
Then pick up the next bundle of parts and match the little notches and marks before sending them through the machine.
Then pick up the next bundle of parts and match the little notches and marks before sending them through the machine.
My foot taps the pedal and the machine whirls with a monotone drone.
The bell rings.
We get up. head out for tea.
I sit off to the side as the chatter and laugh over stuff I do not understand.
The other ladies still don’t like me.
I’m still a quarter their age and I’m still the foreman’s daughter.
They wouldn’t be rude to my face, that’d be asking for trouble. But they won’t talk to me either unless absolutely necessary opting to just chat among themselves.
It’s fine by me.
I don’t even want to fit in.
I want to leave, want to become something more, something worthwhile. I want a job where the money I earn is my own so I can save it up and leave home.
Find a place for myself and contact George again and then we can be happy ever after.
Unfortunately finding a job while you work from eight in the morning to eight in the evening doesn’t leave much time for job hunting, doubly so if your father is the one bringing you to work.
And keeping an eye on you to check if you’re not slacking off.
And bringing you home afterwards.
The bell rings again.
We set down our cups and head back to the sewing hall.
“Hello?” The man standing in the doorway looks to be in his forties and quite the eccentric. He wears a purple tophat indoors and a jacket made up of diamond shapes, cut from all sorts of fabrics. He looks wealthy, not just by the cut of his clothes but people without money just don’t have large round bellies like that. He holds a cane in his hand but he doesn’t look to me like he needs it.
“’Ow can I ‘elp you, sur?” Sharan asks. She’s the oldest among us and that makes her the leader.

“I’m looking for the sales department but I’m afraid I got myself lost.” He laughs sheepishly at this.
“Go back down ‘ats and take a left.”
He tips his hat “Much obliged.” Before leaving us to out work again.
The moment the door closes with a click, gossip breaks loose among the ladies.
“Who was that?”
“You mean you don’t know?”
“Never saw him before so no.”
“He’s Barnaby Craig, he’s got that theatre in the small square down the south district with the little fountain in the middle of it.”
“The small square has a theatre?”
“Yeah, it’s the one with the white facade.”
“I always thought that was a bank.”
“I saw the honey badger there with my husband, it was a laugh but the seats were kinda shitty.”
“Did you have a seat in the front?”
“On this salary? I was sitting at the very back squeezed against the wing. I could see about half of it. But the players talked nice and loud and the music was catchy.”
Another old lady speaks up “I wanted to be in the theatre when I was a girl.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Can’t sing, can’t dance so no house would take me.”
There’s uproarious laughter from the ladies but all I can think is ‘This is my shot!’.
I have to talk to this man.
I look at my supplies, hide two spools of thread down the back of the machine and sew like my life depends on it.
It sort of does.
Waistcoat after waistcoat after waistcoat after-
The upper thread fails to connect.
My spool is empty.
I get up.
“Wer you off to lil’ miss?” Sharan asksas I make my way to the door.
“I’m grabbing a new spool.”
“You ran ou’ alredy?” she asks as she looks over her machine at my table.
“I made a lot of waistcoats.”
She huffs “Right then, make it fast.”
I walk out of the room.
Then start to run.
I rush through the hats department, take a left and there he is. Sitting with two men with suits and ties negotiating something I can’t make out through the glass window in the door.
In my head, I had to stop him from leaving the factory but now I have to wait till he’s done talking.
And I have no idea how long that’s going to take.
I check the clock in the office and duck just in time to not get spotted by the men in suits. I wait.
Then wait some more as five minutes turn to ten and then on to fifteen.
That’s a whole break’s worth I’m just wasting over here.
I’m gonna be in so much trouble when I get back.
But then the man gets up, shakes the others’ hand and makes for the door.
I jump aside and walk back a couple of metres pretending I’ve been running up to catch him.
Just the way I imagined in my mind.
“Mister Craig?” I exclaim, putting some extra emphasis on my breath.
The man looks at me with confusion “Can I help you, little miss?”
“I- uhm. I’d like to audition as a singer in your theatre please.”
“Oh.” A knowing smile pulls over his face “Tired of sewing waistcoats are you?”
“Yes, very much.”
“How old are you?”
“Fourteen, but I’ll be fifteen in three months.” I add in case that helps.
“And your parents don’t mind you asking me?”
“Yeah they’re fine with it.” I lie as in my head the same phrase loops on repeat. Please don’t ask who my parents are, please don’t ask who-
He picks his wallet from his jacket and opening it up slips out a business card for me.
“Just show this card to the doorman, he’ll know what to do with it.”
I look at it, it’s dark purple with golden letters printed upon it and it just says ‘Barnaby Craig’ in a flowing script.
I flip it over, there’s the address of the theatre taking up the entire back half of the card and…that’s it.
I can’t believe it, all this time and all I needed was this tiny piece of cardboard.
I feel like I could cry. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
He tips his hat and walks out, his cane tapping happily along the wooden boards.
I slip the card into my dress, pick up some spools and mentally prepare to get yelled at.
I was hoping it’d be Sharan to chew me out, at the very least she’d just tell me to hurry up and ‘earn my place at the sewing station’.
But I feel my blood chill as father is standing by my empty machine, foot tapping.
Around him the seamstresses keep their eyes on their work religiously.
I take a deep breath, collect myself and walk in.
“Where did you go?” He asks, his voice is cold and businesslike.
“I needed a spool.” I show the bundles of wound thread.
“I was in supplies five minutes ago, you weren’t there.”
“I needed to go to the bathroom as well.”
“You go to the bathroom on your breaks.”
“I had to go really badly.” I try desperately.
“Donna you-”
“Let ‘er off!-Sur” Sharan adds quickly “unless you wanna explain to yer supervisor why there’s blod on one of your chairs Sur.”
His eyes grow wide, colour draining from his face as the other seamstresses start looking up at him.
Judging him.
Is he really going to scold his own daughter for having her period?
Would he stoop that low?
He looks me in the eye, I look back, not quite sure what he’s looking for but intrigued about how this will end.
“We’ll talk about this at home.” He settles on, then strides out of the room without a word. relief washes over me.
I look at Sharan, wanting to thank her but her eyes are already glued to the next job.
Looks like she still doesn’t like me.
She just hates my father more.
That’s fine by me.
I sit back in my chair and install the spool into the cast iron machine.
If things go the way they’re supposed to then I won’t be in here for much longer after all.

It’s five to eight and I’m anxious.
Dad will take me home again, will he be mad at me again for today?
Will he yell at me?
Will he hurt me?
I made a lot of waistcoats, almost double the usual amount. Maybe that will appease him?
He walks into the sewing hall. chatter and laughter dying instantly.
“We’re going,” he tells me.
I nod obediently, turn off my machine and pick up the massive pile of waistcoats to bring to the front.
“How many did you make?”
“Twenty-four”
He nods approvingly as I put them on the pile.
We walk home in silence.
Maybe he doesn’t want to fight in public?

Back home he makes me a bowl of porridge.
“I’m going out again, see you tomorrow.”
I’m stunned.
Flabbergasted.
“Oh, have fun,” I tell him quickly.
He grunts and climbs out of the room again.
I listen carefully for the sound of his feet fading as they climb down the rungs.
Then eat my porridge as quickly as I can.
I stuff my clothes underneath my blanket so dad will think I’m asleep. I collect my hairbrush, toothbrush and all-important notebook.
And face my destiny.