All the People

Jeff Kaye

Description

Thirteen years after the Peterloo Massacre in 1819, the mill owner that led the murderous Yeomanry, Hugh Hornby Birley, the most hated man in Manchester, still casts a dark shadow over the impoverished area. His workers include the nine-year-old Mary Burns, whose family relies on her wages to survive. She will mature into a radical Chartist, fighting to change her world.James Hull is sent into the midst of the deprivation as a missionary but, faced with such misery, he abandons his spiritual mission to save lives. His wife, Elizabeth, is devastated by the portentous death of their eighteen-year-old daughter, consumed by such guilt that it threatens to overcome her.When the Chartists strike across the north-west in 1842 the harsh memories of Peterloo are rekindled. James and Mary support the strikers, confronting Birley, who is determined to resist the cries of working people. Each faces their own tragedy along with all the people, searching for the means and the will to survive.

Sujets

• Historical fiction
• Manchester

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 28 février 2020
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781838597214
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Copyright © 2020 Jeff Kaye

The moral right of the author has been asserted.


Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.


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For Senal, Steven and Joanna
Acknowledgements
The spirit of Charles Darwin was there throughout. It was inside a Darwin biography by Grant Allen, published in 1887, that I chanced upon a letter from Edward Hull. His drawings and paintings (and those of his brother, William) created an interest that resulted in the extensive genealogical research that led to James Hull, the Moravian Missionary to Manchester and then to this book. To the Hull family, past and present, farmers, missionaries, artists, lawyers, scientists and all the rest, go my special thanks. It is Edward’s ‘voice’ that speaks loudest in All the People.

Thanks also to the United Brethren (The Moravians) who gave me time and access to their archives at the Moravian Church House in Muswell Hill, London (thanks to Lorraine Parsons, archivist) and at the Fairfield Settlement in Droylsden (thanks to Barbara Derbyshire). Documents at Fairfield yielded the chapter on Mary Hull’s last days and Elizabeth’s hymn that was read at her interment.

Another spirit, that of Feargus O’Connor, champion of the Chartist cause and founder of the Northern Star newspaper, infused itself within me as much as the spirit of Henry ‘Orator’ Hunt did for O’Connor. The 200th anniversary of Peterloo, that Hunt attended in 1819 as the main speaker, was commemorated in Manchester and beyond on 16 August 2019. Those like Robert Poole, Paul Fitzgerald and Eva Schlunke, whose books on the Massacre together with their efforts, with others like Manchester Histories, John Ryman Library and The People’s History Museum, to ensure that the 200th anniversary was successfully memorialised, have lit the way to the completion of All the People. I was delighted that Paul and Eva agreed to design the cover image: by Polyp www.polyp.org.uk.

My appreciation must also be given to Laurence Cockcroft, whose keen interest in O’Connor and Chartism encouraged my work throughout; to the City of Manchester, for its incredible history and remarkable present; and to Andrew Noakes (www.thehistoryquill.com) , through whose editing, thorough knowledge of historical fiction and encouragement my work has been so much improved.
Contents
Part 1
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Part II
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Part III
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Part IV
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Part V
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I write a line to say… (Historical Notes)

Part 1
1.
Mary was startled from her sleep by the frenzied buzzing of a wasp that had squeezed through a gap in the broken window. Her gaze was fixed as it fruitlessly attempted to regain its freedom, repetitively thudding against the glass. Then, with a sudden change of direction, it flew close to the straw mattress on which her parents slept. The insect hovered threateningly, captivating the child’s attention as it drifted above her parents who were lying unconscious and unmoved.
Deaf to its sound and blind to its malevolence, her sleeping father appeared unusually vulnerable, his body half-covered by a ragged sheet partially hiding the clothes he had worn the previous day. If his eyes had been open, he would have seen black and yellow stripes circling above, homing in on its prey. Michael’s mouth was open, and a jarring sound like a rock roughly scraping against a stone slab escaped from it each time he breathed. Perhaps the wasp would do her job for her, Mary hoped, watching intently.
“Sting him! Do my work!” she whispered waspishly as the object of her fascination buzzed close to an ear and then hovered over the gaping cavity.
A loud rasping noise issued forth, the target’s head jerked sideways as if he had been struck, but Michael remained unscathed and asleep. The discord had erupted from his throat while the repelled wasp flew back to the window to resume its quest for freedom.
The nine-year-old cursed, jerking herself upright on the mix of straw and animal hair that separated her from the floor on which she had slept alongside her sister Lizzie. As she strove for wakefulness, Mary ignored the strange noises emanating from the nearby Manchester streets. She thought these must be the sounds of people running and shouting, late for their early morning mass at the local church, St Austin’s, half a mile away in Granby Row. Since its consecration just twelve years before, in 1820, it held the daily ceremony at five o’clock, early enough for worshippers to begin work an hour later. Save Mary, no one in the dwelling had stirred, their visits to church sacrificed on the altars of fatigue, despair or intemperance.
She crawled across the filthy, uneven, splintered floorboards to an unsteady table, overladen with empty bottles. Deep amongst them was an earthenware bowl containing tepid water on which drowned flies floated. She heard another shout from outside that caused her to shift her head towards the dirt-covered window as she cupped her hands into the infested liquid and rinsed her face. Still too tired to look beyond the room for the origin of the groaning sounds that she could now clearly hear, she placed a threadbare shirt over her drowsy head and stepped across Lizzie’s sleeping body. Her mother and father were still encased within their alcohol-induced slumber.
Mary sighed deeply and inhaled the humid air. It had been heated by an August night in a stifling room where almost every space was filled by a sleeping man, woman or child temporarily evading the harshness of the waking world. The groans from the nearby streets, that she knew as Little Ireland in Chorlton-upon-Medlock, grew louder. Mary glanced towards the window, but she could not be deflected from her duties and cautiously approached her father. Her mother snorted loudly, causing the child to jump and her knees to scrape along the rough, splintered floor as she neared the place where her father lay with his large head pointed towards the ceiling. Michael was snoring heavily, but it was a working day and his slumber had to be cut short.
Mary edged closer, willing herself not to be diverted from her cause by the distractions just beyond the window. She was determined to discharge her responsibility, to accomplish her first obligation of the day. With increasing trepidation, a sense that never lessened with time, she tugged at the shoulder of his shirt. A gentle tinkle of glass on glass sounded as Mary’s knees collided with the empty bottles that lay on the floor beside her parents. Her eyes were now on her father’s left arm, which was positioned above his head and poised to defend himself from any assault.
Mary tugged harder, but there was still no response. In fear of his reaction to her next attempt, she closed one eye and half-shut the other. She inhaled deeply before she slapped his face and, as if through a mist, glimpsed his eyes moving erratically beneath closed lids. She slapped again, her small, delicate hand scraping over his rough, unshaven cheek. His eyelids flickered like doors forced open, and a startled gaze was directed at her. His puzzled expression lasted only a moment before he grabbed his daughter’s arm with his left hand and hit her hard across the shoulder with the other, just missing his target, her face. Another bruise would soon appear to join the rest, but this time it would be hidden beneath her clothing.
Mary sighed again, relieved that one half of her mission had been fulfilled without excessive pain. Michael launched himself into a seated position and dismissed Mary with a grunt and a push before reaching over and loudly gulping from the bowl where she had just washed her face. Hearing the shouts from the street outside, he stood gruffly, inhaled deeply and kicked at the bottles underfoot, crashing them underneath the table while he sought his shoes. He placed them on his feet then flattened his hair with more water from the bowl and stared outside. He had fallen asleep fully clothed and was ready to leave the house but hesitated, glaring at the street.
Michael swore at whatever had gripped his attention and only moved when his daughter tugged at his shirt. He tore himself from the window as Mary, her ragged shoes quickly slipped on to her feet, followed him out of the door to fulfil her next task. That morning, as on all mornings, once she had woken her father from his drink-induced dormancy, she would follow him to his destination, ensuring he found his place of work. It