As a countryman he had always lived in open spaces with clean fresh air scented by spring blossom, summer’s heady golden corn, freshly scythed hay meadows and the salty aroma of the German ocean. Never in his entire life had he been engulfed by towering chimneys blasting out thick black smoke, nor deafened by the dull thump and grind of heavy machinery, a thousand times louder than the ring of the blacksmith’s anvil; nor had he ever hidden his nose and mouth beneath his hand to escape the choking dust-filled air that not only reeked, in this area by the River Hull, of corn or rape or linseed, or whatever product was presently being crushed, but also carried an acrid, pungent, overpowering stench of paint, whiting and glue that made him baulk.

Can I work in such a place, he thought, as he continued past lofty red-brick warehousing where seed was delivered by barge into large yards and shunted into hoppers and seed bags, and glanced in at old windmills now being converted to steam. But what choice have I, he answered himself bleakly, thinking that no one needed to know about corn to work here; he wouldn’t need to check the grain with his fingers to feel the quality, nor to let it stream through his fingers to test the strength or see the colour.

There was no use for sentiment here; the golden bloom of rape, the blue linseed flower, or flax as it was sometimes called, which produced the seed would be crushed and processed into foodstuffs, oil or cattle cake; paint and soap and tallow would be produced to feed the industry which in turn fed the people, giving them work and money to survive.

When he reached Wincomlee he tried the first factory he came to, climbing up a flight of steps towards a wooden structure that served as an office and reading a notice pinned to the door which proclaimed bluntly No Vacancies.

At the second mill the notice simply read Out. Harry didn’t know if it meant callers should leave or the owner or foreman was not at his desk, but it didn’t really matter: the reasoning was clear enough.

He passed by several other buildings, noting that many were dilapidated and the yards strewn with old machinery, and he decided that if he should be successful in his application the first thing he would do would be to clear up and get rid of the rubbish. He paused at another, which had R. Tannerson and Son painted on the outside wall, and through the bump and grind of machinery he heard the sound of laughter. He went in and strode across the yard, patted an old horse who had his nose in a hay bag, and climbed another set of stairs to an office where the door was open.