‘Don’t be startin’ on politics at this time of the morning,’ her mother warned him. ‘We’ve heard it all before anyroad.’ She sliced him a thick crust off the end of a precious loaf of bread and spread it with butter for him. ‘Let that stop tha mouth for a bit,’ she said.

Her father was always talking politics, thought Bessie as she ate. And he was always out at some club or meeting after he’d come home from work and had his tea. Her mother sometimes complained that they hardly saw him, but Bessie preferred it when he was out. She liked it best when it was just her and her mother. Her father – well she found him difficult, and he’d never made any secret of his favouritism for Peggy, who, if it was to be believed, never did a thing wrong – unlike her who never seemed able to please him.

Her mother poured a cup of tea for Grandma Chadwick and took it to her. She was sitting up in bed with a couple of pillows propped behind her, and her shawl tight around her shoulders. Her mother would move her to the rocking chair by the fire once her father had gone to work and she’d sit there all day, nursing a little rag doll that used to be Peggy’s and singing it lullabies as if it were a real babe. They were the same songs that her grandma used to sing to her and it made Bessie feel sad. Grandma Chadwick had never been the same since Grandad died. It was the shock, her mother said, that had done something to her mind.

‘Time we were off,’ said her father and drained his cup. He took his jacket and cap from the peg by the door and Bessie got her outdoor shawl and put it over her head and shoulders. She kissed her mother goodbye and followed her father out on to the dark street to join the other workers who were coming out and slamming their doors behind them before making their way to the mills – some to the Dandy Mill, some to Quarry Street, but most to the Brookhouse Mill.

‘Good morning!’ The street was filled with early greetings. Some heartfelt, but most still sleepy as folk trudged to their jobs. Her father soon fell in with his friends and Bessie walked behind until they reached the gates. As the hooter blared across the town, joined by the other mills until it sounded like a fanfare, her father and the other men clattered up the iron stairs to the spinning rooms and she followed the women into the weaving shed. She hung up her shawl, slipped her feet out of her clogs, checked the looms and set them running. Two were weaving Blackburn Check for shirts and the other two were weaving a fine calico that would be sent up to Darwen to be printed in bright colours for summer frocks.