*I'm scared in case she gets lost.'

*Maybe she'll find her way back.'

Tramping through a less-frequented, unkempt part of the graveyard they chanced upon a ghastly sight. Bundled in sacks, prisoners' corpses were being tipped from a cart into the mouth of a gaping pit.

Fur spoke as though seeing the bodies were an everyday experience that merited no show of emotion. *It must be jail sickness again. Usually, except when they've died from some disease, the bodies of hung prisoners are sent to London to be hacked by surgeons.'

Eppie could hardly believe she was hearing about such atrocities. Dank Cottage seemed a world away.

A wicket gate was set into a cobblestoned wall. *This way's the short cut back to the cellar,' Fur said. *That's the jail over there, one place I wouldn't care to see the inside of. Crispin Cornell, the Thief-Taker General, gets rich on the hangings. Watch how you go, it's muddy in parts.'

The sluggish river gurgled on its stodgy course.

Unidentified things bobbed in the water. Amongst them, Eppie recognised the bloated bodies of dead animals. Slick, rainbow-hued oily patches covered its surface. *Why is the river so dirty?'

*Bone-boilers, dyers, guano-makers, bleachers, you name it, they all spew out what they don't want into the water. It's so full of poisonous stuff that I've seen pockets of fire blaze in the river on hot summer days. The water moves so slowly that it freezes in winter.'

On the opposite bank was the burnt-out shell of a warehouse. *That used to be a place where they stored rubber. It caught fire. It went on for days and spread to the tea warehouse next door.' They ascended a flight of steps. Before them was a tavern. Wrapped around it, like a thick sheep fleece, was a pungent smell of beer.

*This is The Leaking Barrel. The best gin palace around. Open all hours.'

*It won't be long before Wakelin finds his way here.'

*He already has. It would've been busy last night. A lot of men who work at the mill blow most of their wages on drink and spend Sunday suffering for it.'

Tipsy did not return to the cellar.

The night drawing in, Eppie huddled beneath the covers with Martha and Lottie, comforted by the warmth of their bodies and steady breathing.

Restless again, Wakelin had gone for a walk along the riverside, alone.

*I hate this place,' Eppie said.

*We have to think of the joyful times we've had,' Martha whispered, *not what our life is like now. It's the only way we'll get by.'

Eppie did her best. Gabriel's face was so clear it was as though she could reach out and touch his cheek. A happy voice chirped, *Do you want to see a pixie twirl?' Dawkin's face was less distinct, a dying memory.

For a short while she slept and forgot her troubles, but sudden noises catapulted her back to reality, banishing any chance of respite.

She remembered how, at home, she would lie in the truckle bed and listen to the calls of the wild: the yipe of badgers, the roow of foxes. Penetrating the gloom, the only sounds here were the shouts of drunkards, boisterous laughter, and the occasional scream.

This was an alien world which hid many unknown terrors.

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE.

GRIP OF IRON.

Hours before dawn, a bell clanged through the oily blackness, summoning workers.

Having spoken with Eibhlin, Martha believed working at the mill to be their most sensible option. Come spring, as Wakelin said, they would look for work on the land.

Wakelin yawned noisily.

Fur had gone to check the snares he set yesterday. If he left them too long someone else was bound to take the meat.

*What about Lottie?' Eibhlin asked.

*I'll take her with me,' Martha answered. *She'll be no trouble.'

*The overseer won't allow it. They don't ask for birth certificates and children under five are often taken in, but Lottie is far too young.'

*Whatever shall I do with her?'

*Mrs Hoggett left her two-year-old tied to the grate in that wall.'

*Tie my child up like a beast? Like as not she'd strangle herself.'

*There's Grandmother Mobsby. She lives a few houses along. Whilst her son and his children are at the mill she takes in little ones for a few pence.'

Fog hung over the river and crept into alleys.

Eppie and Coline followed in the steps of their mothers. It was odd to see the streets fill with people, all heading in the same direction. Her lungs worse from the damp air, Eibhlin coughed persistently. Wakelin trailed behind, his head lolling in tiredness.

The steady shifting of workers ceased before the locked mill gates. Crates were stacked in the yard, fluffy fibres caught upon their rough surfaces. Ranged around the mill were a dye house, smith shop and warehouse.

The canal began at the mill and stretched many miles to the docks. Towing a narrowboat, a horse tramped towards them.

*Wakelin!' Ezra cried in surprise, walking up to him.

*I was wondering when I'd bump into you. Are you working here?'

*Have been nigh on six months. See if you can get in with me.'

Ezra's son, Simkin, carried, as did Eppie and Coline, a tin of cold tea and a basket containing bread and dripping for the family's meal.

A man, with mutton-chop sideburns and straggly hair which stuck out beneath his tricorn hat, emerged from the office. He paced towards them.

Ezra nudged Wakelin. *That's the overseer. There's not a scrap of friendliness about him.'

*And that's Snarl,' Simkin told Eppie, pointing to the overseer's bulldog. *He's got a ferocious bite, and don't much care whose leg he takes a lump outta.'

The gates clanged open.

The overseer was chewing a sticky sweet, his jaw rapidly opening and closing. *You after work?' he asked Martha. *Wait under them arches.'

Jenufer noticed Eppie's nervous expression. *At least it's warmer in there.'

Eppie forced a smile. Inside, though, she was filled with a sinking feeling.

Within the archway stood carts loaded with sacks of raw cotton. Gloomy nooks and crannies led into numerous storerooms.

*It's like being in a castle,' Eppie said.

*Yur,' Wakelin answered, *and we're waiting to be dragged into the dungeons.'

*Don't be silly,' Martha rebuked. *It's only for a short while, until we've saved. Perhaps, after a few months, we could write to Claire and go to America.' Quietly, regretfully, she added, *I wish now we had gone with her.'

Trooping down to the mill advanced a line of pauper apprentices, all orphans, some of whom had deformed limbs or stunted growth. None of them showed in their faces the least enthusiasm for their work.

Checking his pocket-watch, the overseer addressed the matron. *One minute late, Mrs Muggleton. Can't you get your lot down any quicker?'

*It's a long leg from the apprentice house and well you know it Mr Crumpton. Besides, them getting no wages and knowing they'll be thrown onto the streets after their so-called apprenticeship has finished, well, they're hardly going to feel lively are they?'

*All right, don't make a meal of it.' Some workers lingered to chat in the courtyard. *In,' Crumpton ordered, *or you'll be the worse for it.'

Huddled in the office, the new families eyed one another uneasily.

*Take their names,' the overseer told Longbotham, the clerk. *If any of them can't write,' he poked a tooth, a boiled sweet having stuck, *their mark will do.'

Eppie was fascinated by the overseer's teeth. Fur had told her that they had been taken from butchered donkeys and filed down to fit his mouth.

In turn, the head of each family stood before the high desk whilst the clerk worked lugubriously, his quill creeping over the paper like a spider precisely constructing a web.

In a rough, threatening voice, Crumpton said, *Throughout the mill you will see notices called Yellowings. They state the rules. No doubt none of you can read, so learn the rules of the mill by word of mouth from those few who do.' He prodded a book, its red leather cover punched with decorative grapevines. *Break the rules, you will be fined and your name written in Mr Grimley's tome of misdemeanours. Discipline is expected at all times.' He stared stonily at Eppie as though she had already committed an offence. *The rules include no talking except on mill business, no looking out of windows, no running, and definitely no practical jokes to be played on the management. Any misbehaviour will be severely dealt with. Understand?'

Eppie nodded meekly.

*Your children are your responsibility,' Crumpton told the parents, *so if they have any accidents don't come crying to me.'

A portly gentleman, attired like a pigeon in sombre hues, stepped into the office, upon his face a grave look of authority. *Mr Grimley,' he said by way of introduction, *mill manager.'

Eppie recognised him as the gentleman who led the chapel service. So the girl with him must have been Rowan, the girl who Gabriel was fond of. She beamed with pleasure to be beside this gentle man. Somehow it made Gabriel seem close.

In a deep, rumbling voice, Mr Grimley said, *Your normal workday is sixteen hours, from five in the morning to nine at night. You are permitted fifteen minutes for breakfast and tea. Thirty minutes for dinner. Any questions?'

*Where's the meal room?' a woman asked. *For breakfast, like.'

*You take your meals in the yard,' Crumpton answered, *whatever the weather.' He turned at the sound of slapping feet.

Fur pelted breathlessly through the gates, gripping a dead rook by its neck.

Crumpton threw back the door and stormed into the yard. *Late again, ya bow-legged scrag!'

Mr Grimley ushered the families through an internal door into the steamy mill. It felt delightfully warm after the chill of the streets. Eppie gazed in wonder at cotton fluff floating like snowflakes around the workers' blurred figures. It was as though she were seeing everything through a mist.

Instantly, her delight was crushed by the deafening noise. The sound was not unlike Shivering Falls, only this was far louder. Closing her eyes, she could easily imagine that she was standing beside a hot-smelling iron waterfall.

Machines sucked in cotton, stretched fibres, twisted, tensed and drew it into thread. The sinuous white threads, like the strings of a harp, were whirled onto hundreds of bobbins.

Beneath her feet the timber floor vibrated with the movement of mule carriages grinding back and forth, their wheels screeching. A child beside her pressed his hands against his ears in a vain attempt to cut out the din. Eppie wondered how the mill building, which looked so strong on the outside, could survive the continual shaking of the machinery.

Before the door closed, sealing their fate, Eppie glimpsed Fur cowering against a wall, the overseer thrashing him with a strap.

A boy took Wakelin to the finishing shop where Ezra worked.

Leaning on his cane, Mr Grimley led the way past cast iron pillars which held the weight of the floors above. Two boys rushed to empty the contents of a skip into the mouth of a drum that had teeth like the bristles of a brush. Passing over a cylinder, the cotton emerged out the other end in strips where a couple of girls, barefoot to keep their balance on the greasy floor, waited to catch it, a blanket held between them.

Mr Grimley raised his voice to make himself heard above the thunder of the machinery. *This is the scribbling engine. When the cotton comes out it is full of knots so it has to go into the carding machine.' He looked sorrowfully at the new children. *It is kept in motion by an endless belt. Heaven help you if you get caught in any of the machines. See that waste cotton on the floor beneath the mules? It needs sweeping, regularly. That's a job for youngsters of a slight physique.' He gently tapped his palm on top of Eppie's head, indicating that this rule applied to her. *Oiling is another thing. You children must do that whilst the machines are in motion. Mind, the whirling belts, grinding gears and wheels are open. Unguarded. If your arm is ripped off there is no physician.'

*Bobbin!' Eibhlin cried.

Coline scuttled beneath the carriage as it moved away.

The clerk strode up an aisle between the machines, the red fines book clutched in his hands.

*Longbotham!' Crumpton yelled. *Fine Mrs O'Ruarc. Dropped bobbin.'

Mr Grimley stared gravely at Coline as she scurried out. *Many are the locks rudely torn from the children's heads. So girls, before you set to cleaning beneath the carriages, caps on. Be fast or you'll get caught on the way back. Ladies, have some of the women show you how to operate the mules. It's not difficult, though you'll find it a long, tiring day. Coline, take these children to the scutching room.'

She led the way to a vast room filled to the ceiling with bales. Once the door was shut it was a little quieter. *See this?' she asked shyly, tugging a handful of dense fluff from an open bale. *It's raw cotton from America. All these twigs have to come out.'

Hours of steady work passed. All the while Eppie stood beside a table scutching; picking out seeds and grit. Once a pile was scutched clean she threw it into a skip. *Isn't there anything interesting to do?'

*You'll have something to whine about when your fingers start bleeding,' Susannah, an older girl, answered coolly.

The new children sporadically erupted into fits of coughing, their throats tickled by bits of cotton and fragments of thread, called flue, that floated in the air.

*Clench your teeth and breathe through your nose,' Coline suggested. *That way you won't notice the fly so much.'

*My back aches,' a new girl grumbled.

*If you ache now, wait *til you have to work on the mules,' Cecily said. *Crumpton doesn't allow anyone a rest, not even my mam, who's near the end of childbearing.'

*We're lucky,' Lilias added. *We can chatter in here and the overseer doesn't know.'

The door crashed back. *You there, O'Ruarc, Dunham!' Crumpton bawled. *To the mules!'

They sprang away before Snarl had a chance to bite. Hardly were they through the door when Martha, who had her arms full of bobbins, dropped one and uttered the dreaded word, *Bobbin!' The bobbin rolled beneath the mule carriage as it receded from the fixed roller beam.

Crumpton shoved Eppie. *Look sharp! Longbotham, fine Mrs Dunham. Dropped bobbin.'

Eppie had not a moment to ponder the dangers. Aware of Martha's frightened gaze fixed upon her, she launched forward on hands and knees beneath the threads, her chin grazing on splintered timbers, hot oil splashing upon her back. She was groping through the thick, white dust when the carriage rattled back towards her like a giant scythe, its hissing wheels whirling ceaselessly. Just as she thought she would be dashed to pieces she snatched up the bobbin and wriggled out.