The rhythmic, clicking gallop of the Singer treadle sewing machine was the only sound in the front parlor of Number 14 St. Jude’s Terrace, except for the quiet crackle of coal in the hearth and the steady hiss of the blazing bright gas mantle overhead. Outside, the Lancashire rain beat against the front bay window with the steady, grey persistence that had defined northern factory towns for a century. It ran down the sooty brickwork into the street gullies.
Jo Saye pressed her right foot against the cast-iron treadle, her body rocking in a smooth, clockwork rhythm that had been ingrained in her muscles since her fourteenth year. Beneath the polished steel needle, two heavy layers of twelve-ounce raw, unwhitened cotton duck canvas moved with steady care, guided by her swollen, arthritic thumbs. She held the fabric taut against the throat plate, her keen eye following the chalked guidelines she had drawn with tailor’s soap.
On the dining table behind her, the tea things had been cleared away to make room for three large paper patterns, a wooden mallet, a pot of melted beeswax and boiled linseed oil. A dozen brass eyelets laid out in neat rows on a cracked china saucer.
