For Sue Vincent’s Thursday Photo Prompt. This would have fitted in nicely with my last WIP but one. Thanks Sue. Atmospheric photo.
They used to meet at Weatherall’s where there was no one to bother, his wife being dead and his children grown and moved on. It was a corner house, neighbour on one side, an old lass whose wits had flown away years. They weren’t all union men; many of them didn’t dare. If Taylor or Holdsworth or Sheard had known about it they’d have been given their cards straight away. But they still gathered round on a Sunday evening to listen to George Hewitt explaining where they all fitted into the gaffers’ scheme of things. He wouldn’t stand for them bringing the minister into it either. He scoffed.
“Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and to God the things that are God’s.
That’s what Minister tells you when you say you can’t live on what Jeremiah Taylor pays you, isn’t it? When you’ve nowt to pay a doctor with when one of the bairns is sick, isn’t it? He says it’s the way of the world, your labour belongs to Caesar and the rest of your time belongs to God. But what belongs to you? Between Caesar and God, what do they leave for you? Neither Samuel Sheard nor Alfred Holdsworth, nor the God Almighty’ll listen when your bairns are crying with hunger, will they? No matter how much you render them!”
George Hewitt worked in the carding shed at Samuel Sheard’s mill. He never married because he wouldn’t be responsible for bringing more bairns into the world to be eaten alive by the looms. He left no weeping wife and children when the Peelers rounded him up and the men who sat with him on Weatherall’s step on a Sunday evening. His ‘disciples’, as the presiding judge called them, got five years hard labour, but George was deported for life for sedition.
The steps where the men sat were smashed as a symbol of the might of the law, as if any were needed, and it wasn’t until a hundred years later, when George Hewitt and the Peelers were forgotten, and the mills themselves were silent, that the owner of the house that had been John Weatherall’s made up two neat concrete steps. Children walk carefully up the worn upper steps now, pausing sometimes to wonder why they are hollowed like the bed of a river, listening to the ring of the stone and trying to catch the words. But the new steps are dull and silent. They do not stir beneath the feet and have no story to tell. And if the children were to ask why the steps were dumb, who would be able to answer them?
A piece that echoes in meanings past and present.
A great picture, indeed. And an astute seeing of it.
One of your best
Thank you! I enjoyed creating a meaning for those replaced steps.
Those two steps are very much out of place, aren’t they?
A superb piece, Jane, capturing something of northern history.
Yes, I was struck by the oddity of those newish steps and wondered what could have prompted them.
Thank you, I’m pleased you like it 🙂
Health amd safety, I imagine.
If it’s a place of work, yes, it could well be that.
Just a home, this one.
Those two steps must have been completely destroyed then as the others are a bit dodgy.
A lot dodgy in winter, I’d imagine.
That’s what I was thinking of.
Very thoughtful. Thank you for sharing, Jane! Will need my audience for some more time. Michael
My pleasure, Michael 🙂
🙂🙂
Yes Jane a brilliant piece of history 💜💜
Thank you, Willow 🙂 We know what it was like, but there are no memorials to tell the tale.
No I know my dad was a Trade union Congress man, a shop steward and the things he saw did and lived through are hard to believe 💜🌹🌹
The children of the people who lived through the depression forgot about it easy enough when Margaret Thatcher told them it was okay to be as greedy as the gaffers. I suppose they thought they were just having their turn.
If only that had been true 💜
It’s never true. You can imitate them but you can’t join them.
Yes indeed
You’ve extended the newer steps into cultural remembrance–the need for it, that is. The details are compelling. I’d like to encounter these people. Except the minister–when he isn’t grim, he’s patronizing. In community, we should know our story. We should build the narrative, then share it.
I imagine the mill owners would have been high church and the workers low church. Either way, i’m sure the discourse was similar. Nobody wanted to stir the pot.
History, but a fight still being fought, a living wage still seen as an unreasonable demand. And just how long do we have to wait for God to “provide”? (K)
You can understand why God was never very high on the revolutionaries’ list of possible benefactors.
Indeed.