Deadlight-Hall(58)

So Salamander House was a glass manufactory, thought Michael, coming up out of the nineteenth century for a moment. Of course it was. The clue’s in the name.

He returned to Augustus Breadspear’s statement.

I am unable to give precise details of the tragedy, since I was not in the kiln room at the time it happened. I can say, though, that the Wilger boy was unsatisfactory. He was resentful of the tasks assigned to him, and during his first week was reprimanded for carelessness three times.

I am very sorry about what happened to him, but no blame or responsibility can be assigned to Salamander House or to my overseers. Douglas should have looked where he was going. An entire tray of expensive work was ruined by his clumsiness – work that had taken considerable time and skill to produce, and my customers will now be kept waiting.

I believe Douglas may have to come on to the Parish for his upkeep, which is a further burden on funds that are already sparse, although I should like it known that I subscribe generously and regularly to the Parish funds. For the moment the boy is still living at Deadlight Hall, in the good care of Mrs Maria Porringer.

It should be borne strongly in mind that any statement made by Mr John Hurst about this incident is likely to be biased and even spiteful, Hurst being a troublemaker. Since I discovered certain disreputable facts about his private life he is keen to discredit me in any way he can. A mannerly reticence as well as a gentlemanly respect for the lady in question (perhaps that should be ‘ladies’) forbids me to disclose those facts, even if this were the place to do so, which it is not.

The next statement was considerably longer, and Michael saw that it was indeed made by John Hurst of Willow Bank Farm.

Statement made by Mr John Hurst of Willow Bank Farm, in this County.

I attest that on the morning of 22nd day of October, in the year of 1882, I was making a delivery of provisions to Salamander House. As a result, I saw exactly what happened in the firing rooms, and you can take this statement as completely true, never mind the moonshine flummery that Augustus Breadspear will have spun you.

A regular order for eggs, milk and butter is placed with my farm by Mr Augustus Breadspear, who would like everyone to believe the food is for his workers. This is not true. The delivery is taken to Breadspear’s private house, which is next to the glass manufactory, although separated from it by a high wall, as you know – and if you do not know it, George Buckle, then you should, and you a Justice of the Peace.

Not a morsel of the food delivered to that house reaches the workers in the manufactory, not so much as an egg yolk or a scrape of butter. A more mean-spirited individual than Mr Breadspear I hope never to meet—

The next line had been vigorously scored through, so that it was almost impossible to read it, but Michael, tilting the paper closer to the window’s light, made out the word skinflint. He read on.

It is normally the business of my herdsman to make milk and egg deliveries to customers, but on that morning I took the Salamander House order myself. You may well ask why I should do such a thing, being so busy with the farm, but I am compiling evidence against Breadspear. It’s my firm belief that he half-starves his apprentices, works them every hour God sends, and gives not a jot of care to their safety. They labour for hours on end in the firing rooms, and constantly suffer burns and blisters. Their eyes are often affected by the constant heat of the kilns, and their lungs become dry and scorched. In extreme cases I believe there can be permanent impairment to their sight, and that damage to the lungs is often permanent, as well. If any of those wretched creatures survive much beyond thirty years of age I should regard it as a miracle.

I make no secret of my suspicions regarding Augustus Breadspear, so you may write all this down fair and true, George Buckle, and I shall look at it very sharply before I put my name to it, to be sure it is exactly as I have said. Nor I shan’t listen to any nonsense about knowing my place and respecting my betters, for I farm my own land and Willow Bank came to me fair and square by inheritance and an entail. In short, I am as good as you – in fact I am as good as any man and a sight better than most. I pay my dues and I owe no man a brass farthing, which is more than can be said for a great many folk hereabouts. As well as that, I know my rights, because I have read Magna Carta, which I’ll wager is a sight more than you have.

On the morning of 22nd October I had resolved to see the firing rooms for myself while they were in full working operation. I wanted to catch Breadspear and his overseers at their cruel ways, which would give me evidence for a formal charge. The laws are disgracefully weak when it comes to the treatment of young people in manufactories (Magna Carta did not provide for every eventuality), but I am resolved to fight for what is right and kind. If it means a change in the law, then that is what I will fight to achieve. No, I am not an anarchist. If I am anything, I am a reformer.