Heading through the wrought iron gates at the entrance, she passed the night watchman’s dingy office where Alec Smith used to sit, in a room the size of a cupboard with nothing but a candle for company. That was before he managed to get a job as station porter then soon became promoted through the ranks to manager. He worked so hard; he didn’t deserve the tragedy he was having to deal with right now.

She creaked open the heavy wooden door of the mill. The sound inside was deafening. As she walked towards the production area, she heard the whirring of the spindles and the clatter of the looms; it was little wonder many workers went deaf. Above the noise of the machinery, she could discern the clamour of shouting and yelling. The women in Dundee’s jute mills had their own dialect, developed over the decades to counteract the roar and clunking of the spinning frames and carding machines. Ann smiled as she heard the flat vowels, the only ones to carry across the cacophony. The memories came flooding back to Ann as she noticed the rags and tatters of the women’s dresses, their bare feet, while she stood incongruously in her black silk gown and tall black velvet hat. As she looked over to the receiving area where the jute was batched, the smell of whale oil carried over the air and she began to feel nauseous. What used to be an everyday smell now made her gag.

A young girl, about twelve, came up to her and bobbed. ‘You lookin’ for someone, missus?’

‘Thank you, child. I came to see Mr Johnston the manager.’

The girl looked over towards the roving machines. ‘Over there last time I saw him.’ The child ran away and Ann watched her stop at a carding machine where a woman skelped her across the head. Ann sighed as she looked around at the many children the same age as her own, working as ‘pickers’, cleaning dust from the machines. She lifted up her skirts a little and headed towards the roving machines. A man, dressed in dark brown, was pointing to something in the machine. Perhaps there was a problem with the twisting of the fibre, Ann thought, watching him lift a thick strand and wind it around a bobbin.

‘Mr Johnston,’ she shouted above the clamour. ‘Excuse me, Mr Johnston!’

One of the workmen beside him pointed in Ann’s direction and he turned round.

‘Wait a minute please,’ he shouted.

She watched him give instructions to the men at the machine then headed towards her. He was smiling.

‘Mrs Craig, what a pleasure to see you here. Have you news?’

‘Nothing specific but I should like a word. Please.’

He gestured to her to follow and together they walked up rickety wooden steps to his office above the mill. They walked inside and he shut the door and at once the babble and clatter below ceased.