The Christmas Carol: A Jayne Sinclair Genealogical Mystery by The Christmas Carol (epub)

Author:The Christmas Carol (epub)
Language: eng
Format: epub

Chapter NINETEEN

October 5, 1843

Manchester

The carriage arrived for Dickens exactly on time at 11 a.m.

As usual, he had been punctilious in his wardrobe. As he was visiting a mill and walking later in the afternoon, he decided on wearing his everyday clothes; loose, large-checked pattern trousers, a brown coat, belt instead of braces, a bright red silk cravat, his yellow waistcoat, a stout walking stick and even stouter boots. To top off the outfit he settled on his new felt hat, which he set well back on his head, cocked on one side.

After examining himself in the mirror and pronouncing himself fit to face the world, he strode out to the waiting carriage; a handsome four-wheeler with an elegantly matched pair of bays and a liveried footman.

It was certainly far more comfortable than the cabs he had taken the last few days. The interior was lined in silk and upholstered in a plush purple velvet. And when the carriage started forward, even the cobbles seemed less noisy and certainly far less bumpy, almost as if the road had been ironed flat.

‘How long to Mr Grindley’s mill?’ he shouted up at the footman.

‘I reckon about five minutes, sir,’ an Irish voice explained. ‘Sure, we just have to go across Great Ancoats Street and the canal and we’re there.’

‘I could have walked.’

‘But it would not have been as comfortable, sir.’ There was a slight pause. ‘If his honour would be requiring some refreshment, he’ll find a selection in the compartment on his left.’

‘Thank you.’ Dickens opened the lid and saw decanters of port, whisky, gin and sherry lined in a row, with two shot glasses held in a slot on the lid. Grindley did travel well.

Dickens relaxed back as the carriage and its horses trotted swiftly forward. On either side, the shops of Manchester gradually vanished to be replaced by the dark, forbidding walls of the mills, tall chimneys belching smoke into the crisp air of autumn.

There were not many people on the streets, but through the fogged windows of the mills, Dickens could see shadows moving within. The noise was constant too; a combination of the mechanical, rhythmic pounding of the looms shuttling backwards and forwards, and the constant throb, throb, throb of the steam engines.

The carriage pulled a sharp left beneath a cast-iron entrance. Mr Grindley was standing proudly at the door surrounded by his managers, his fingers perched in his waistcoat pockets and resting on his large stomach.

The coach eased to a stop, the footman jumped down and a door was opened. Dickens stood up and was greeted immediately.

‘My good friend, what a pleasure to see you at my humble establishment.’

Dickens felt like royalty descending from on high to greet his subjects. He was escorted through a small unprepossessing entrance, Grindley talking all the time.

‘The mill has four buildings at the moment, all producing or finishing the finest cotton cloth. I opened the first, the Waterloo Mill, in 1818. The second followed in 1825, named after the great duke himself.’

‘You called it Arthur Wellesley?’ said Dickens with a glint in his eye.

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