It was cold in the house and there were frost patterns on the inside of the back kitchen window, but the chill that struck her as she stepped outside was even more fierce. Her feet slipped on the ice as she went down to the little brick building at the bottom of the yard that housed the privy. She lifted the latch, pushed open the door and put the flickering lantern down on the stone floor. Then sat down with relief on the wooden board, her teeth chattering as she emptied her bladder.

The knocker-up had moved on to the next street and in the distance she heard the noise of the engines starting up in the mills for another day’s work. Her day began at six and it would be six this evening before she was finished – and her father would work another couple of hours after that. She supposed they were lucky. The mills were working full-time at the moment and the money was welcome, although there was always the fear that they would be put on short-time again if the mill owners decided they had more cloth than they could sell.

When she went back inside, her mother was up and had lit the fire. She was helping Grandma Chadwick get up and Bessie managed to close the door quietly and creep back up the stairs unseen. Her teeth were still chattering as she took off the nightgown and replaced it with a petticoat, followed by her skirt and blouse with an indoor shawl crossed at the front and fastened around her waist. She’d take it off later because even if she was cold now it would be hot in the mill. She welcomed the thought of beginning her work, even though it would be difficult to mend the threads at first until she got the feeling back into her fingers.

Peggy was still in bed. She didn’t begin her work at the school until eight o’clock and Bessie often felt jealous of what she regarded as the privileges her elder sister had. But, she reminded herself, her sister didn’t bring home the wages that she did as a four-loom weaver at the Brookhouse Mill.

She went back down to get her breakfast. The parlour was growing warmer and she tried to keep near to the fire, even though her mother kept calling her into the back kitchen to carry through the bowls and cups to put on the table for their porridge and tea.

Her father appeared yawning loudly, scratching his head, and sat in his rocking chair by the hearth.

‘It’s a cold ’un this morning,’ he observed. ‘They say as when the day lengthens, the cold strengthens. And it’s true.’

‘I’ll be glad when it comes lighter in the mornings,’ said Bessie as her mother dished out the oatmeal. ‘I hate starting work in the dark and finishing in the dark. And the smell of the gaslight makes me feel sick.’

‘It’s better than oil lamps and candles,’ her father told her. ‘In my day that’s all we had, and there’s many a mill gone up in flames because of it. Lives lost too,’ he added as he blew on his tea to cool it before taking a long sup from his pint pot. ‘Thing’s have changed a lot since I were a lad. But not always for the better.’ He frowned. ‘The Chartists are right when they say we should have a fair day’s pay for our work every day instead of being subject to the whims of yon mill owners.’