They all knew how the fire started. It was the clogs. Just one girl. A novice, probably first day on the job, who didn’t know any better or simply wasn’t thinking. She was only twelve years old as it turned out, but hadn’t she wondered why the other women and girls left their clogs outside the factory doors? Hadn’t anyone told her? Obviously not. But then all the workers entered those hideous cotton mills mindlessly, robots resigned to the endless drudgery of the day ahead, to the deafening clash of monster metal looms, to shuttles crashing back and forth and cogs gnashing like the teeth of giants. Who would notice that one small girl wasn’t barefoot like the rest of them?
The mills were ghastly places, and Comberton Cotton Mill, built on the bank of the River Croal in the centre of Bolton, Lancashire, was no better or worse than the rest of them. Employing principally women and their children, it consisted of a massive single room ninety-five yards long and forty-four yards wide with a ceiling over fifty feet high…
Leave a Reply