Chapter 2

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The world of George Walpole was once filled with those of beauty, fame, and happiness. As a family adorned with the glory of countless noble ancestors, the Walpoles had enjoyed the benefits of the Industrial Revolution very much. They are the proud owner of a manor just on the outskirts of London -- and what a beautiful place it is. Bushes of exotic flowers and trees, cared by gardeners thrived in the garden as a water fountain in the middle generously spread clear, crystal water into the grounds. The family house, decorated with smooth marble walls and magnificent glass mosaics, holds furniture of beauty and, art pieces of glamour. Servants would fill the fireplaces with pinewood in the winter, and warmth would last long in this little world. Even when one of the owners got an illness, professional doctors would soon come to the rescue and on most occasions save the person from death.

?? Every now and then wagons would carry men and women of status from far away, and the Walpoles would welcome them with a feast. A long list of dishes includes luxury like the French caviar and Wellington steak sprinkled with spice that came all the way from India or China. And the plates, made of ivory and trimmed with silver and gold, they themselves caused as much as the cuisine on it.

? George Walpole’s father, Edward Walpole thought of no error in the spending of so much money. He concluded that he had earned them all through hard work. Indeed, he studied well when he was a child and got a degree in Cambridge. As a young man with an exceptional long sighted view, he invested in the looming factories and got quite a fortune as the industrial revolution took steam. Later, he turned into the studying of British laws and history and had made quite a fame as a scholar. He married Isabella, daughter of a well-known lawyer, and soon afterwards had his only son, George Walpole.

?In Victorian England, men like him are expected to have a warm heart. Edward focused on education. He helped build several public schools across London and rightfully took much pride and prestige for that. And that virtue was inherited by George Walpole, and it all came to a head on a trip across the Thames.

?Traveling across the Thames on steamboats was quite the fashion in 19th century London. But unlike how the men and women on other boats who often burst into laughter, the Walpoles are much more concerned than relaxed.

?“Bella, look at the water, “Edward Walpole said, “Did you smell the scent? That’s the smell of fermented daily rubbish. The people there,” he gestures at the houses of parliament, “really need to do something. I heard that they have to paint their curtains with certain fluids to keep out the smell.”

?“Yes, certainly,” his wife replied, “Ed, they just take all the money and do nothing. We don’t pay thousands of pounds’ tax for nothing!”

?But young George was staring at a street on the side of the river. Unlike the neatly paved cobblestone walks that he was familiar with, it was all muddy and bumpy. Houses were crammed on the sides of the road, perhaps ages old, many missing parts of the roof.

“What is that, father?” he asked.

?Edward turned silent. Gently he replied,” the houses of the looming factory workers, son. They… were very poor. “

“How poor are they?”

?“Do you know their average weekly salary? Six shillings, or half a pound. You would spend it in a blink of an eye. Of course,” he added, “Don’t feel guilty, it’s not your fault. The reasons are much, much deeper and more complicated.”

?“So why don’t the rich help them by giving away some money? It would be so easy, considering the amount of wealth the wealthy own!”

?Then there was a long period of silence. Finally, he answered,

“Son, if only it was that easy…”

?And then he stayed silent for the rest of the trip.

??Seasons came and went, as the years flew past. George had turned 18, into an adult. During that year’s winter, unforgettable for so many, he was also infected by pneumonia. But thanks to their doctor William Baldwin, he was eventually cured.

?Now the cheerful June started to dance on the leaves of oak trees and in the merry streams. The skies of London took off its grey mask at last, and turned into a brilliant masterpiece of white strokes on a crystal blue canvas. George has got the admission to Cambridge to the delight of his parents, and is now enjoying his summer break. Two days ago, his father told him that he and his mother would go to France at the invitation of a friend for a week and asked if he would follow. To his father’s surprise, he chose to stay. Just barely an hour ago, his parents had set off for the railway station on their wagon. And now he was finally finished with the sheet of paper before him, and asked the mailman to send it to a looming factory by the banks of the Thames.

?George Walpole arrived at the gate of the Stockdale looming factory, London. It was seven in the morning, but he could already hear the cranking sound of the machines inside. The gates and fences of the facility, made of steel and painted black, gave him a strange feeling of imprisonment. Looking up at the factory building, the three-story brick structure, aligned with steel strips and with windows shut by metal bars, so filthy that he could not see through. The joy of summer, it seemed, unable to arrive, as the black smoke emitted by the chimney made this area gloomy and bleak. The sky was the bluest of all year, but he felt like there was a dark cloud that never fades, hanging over the factory, blocking out the people’s hopes there, neglecting to give the workers there even the simple right of seeing the clear sky and feeling the summer joy.

?? At this moment the owner of the factory, Brian Jerome, came out to the steps of the gate. Yawning, he stepped forwards and started to open the gate. George used his time to take a good look at him -- he was quite tall and not very fat, much to his surprise, and had two eyebrows squeezed together above a pair of squinted small eyes and a beard cleanly cut. He wore a neat black suit with a simple black tie and a pair of nicely trimmed trousers. Just then he stood up and opened the gate, put his glasses on and said,” you must be George, eh? I have heard of your father.”

“Yes, sir. I am George Walpole, son of Edward Walpole.”

“I see. Well, I received your letter yesterday that you’d like to have a look at my humble factory,” he gestured towards the building, “and may I ask why you decided to come?”

“Sure. I’m going to university in autumn, and I believe it is necessary to gain some social experience. And I have heard of your reputation from… a friend. It is my pleasure to be here.”

“No, young men. The pleasure is mine. So let’s waste no time and get inside, shall we?”

“Of course.”

“Follow me, then.”

?So George followed Brian into the factory, his hand holding to a sheet of paper that he wrote the address on years ago by the Thames.

?Brian first led George to the top floor of the factory, where his office is. The room was rather cosy, with a desk opposite the fireplace and bookshelves on either side. A large window faced the main part of the building where the workers laboured. Accepting Brian’s tea, he looked out of the window -- and despite all the efforts he had done to control his expressions, there was no denying of the shock he felt.

?His saw machines. And machines only. The metal ones that rumbled and cranked, for sure, but also the workers there. Their expressions were empty., and on their workplaces they just mechanically repeated the steps they had done millions of times. Only the wiping of sweat or coughing that comes once in a while could differ them from soulless metal structures. There were also men in brown clothes, the supervisors, each holding a belt in its hand and patrolled from one workplace to another.

?And when he asks Brian about this, he saw how a smiling, kind man turned his expression into a look of disgust against the workers, as he said,

“You saw the better side of them today. It took me years to finally made them work as hard as they can on their workplaces. Words were useless, only power would do.”

?The two men sat down by the window and started an exercise of words. But George found it hard to follow -- he couldn’t help but to turn and look at the workplaces below.

?As the time neared noon, George was just about to leave before he suddenly made a request,

“May I step down to the workplaces of your workers?”

?Brian frowned, “What? Why would you want to be there? I mean, if you really want to…” seeing the stern look on George’s face, he called upon a supervisor who had a scar stretched across his face, “Tom, accompany Mr. Walpole to the workplaces.”

?The man named Tom nodded and let George down. And as soon he opens the rusted iron doors to the workplace, he saw a view that he could never forget.

?The first thing that he could feel was heat. It was already very hot outside, but the steam from the boilers still at brings the temperature even higher. The metal beasts rumbled, taking in cotton threads and unleashed cloth. Cotton fibre filled the air, and his eyes could not help but water as he nearly coughed his lungs out. Looking up, there was no sight of a flamboyant blue sky, only a dark, compelling roof.

?Suddenly he heard the sounds of a jar hitting the ground. He turned around and saw a young man, perhaps not much older than he himself, stood upon a pile of splattered water. Immediately, the supervisors came for him and whipped him hard, shouting,

“Don’t you do that!”

“What are you doing?”

“You bastard!”

?And the young man laid on the ground, full of blood with without any tears. Tom walked forth to him, demanding, “That’s a one-shilling fine.”

?The young man with trembling hands picked out a coin from deep inside his clothes and handed it over. Tom snatched it, and while flipping it casually in his hands, he ordered, “Now get back to work, you idiot!”

?The young man looked up and his eyes caught with George’s. Suddenly a sense of sympathy rose in his mind. Turning to Tom, he asked,

“What is his name?”

“That bastard’s name? Sam Macmillan. It is sir. Pure idiot.”

?

At the fierce stare of the supervisors, Sam reached out a bloody hand -- realizing that none of his work-mates would risk delaying their work to give him a hand, he turned face-down to the ground and with all his might, pulled himself up from the floor. His eyes met with George’s again, and George found it horrifying. Blood-filled and reddish, his eyes quickly showed a mix of fear and disgust at George’s clean shirt and trousers. Without a word, he went to work again, shovelling coal into the mouths of that roaring monster that spits fire out every once in a while. His veins bulged, fist clutched tight as tight as ever, and with a face instantly recognizable as in agony. George could feel the pain all over his back, just imagining sweat creeping into the cuts, still oozing with blood. His grey shirt was already moulding at the armpits and had with holes all over, and was now being painted red in the most painful way. And by the dark red patches on some parts of the shirt, George knew that it wasn’t the first time.

? Just then the church bell rung, and somehow it sounded like a gentle background rhythm to the lunch bell that hurried around the building. A strong man, perhaps in his thirties, slammed a lever down hard, and the cranking of the machines slowly died down. Men and women left their workplaces to the factory’s cafeteria, and to George’s disbelief children, boys and girls at the age supposed to play happily in the summer fields outside, crawling out from under the machine.

“I thought child labour was illegal?” He asked.

“Ha, illegal?” Tom replied,” The guys in the Westminster knew nothing. If we don’t use children, who would crawl under the machines to pick out the cod threads? And who would operate the looming machines for two shillings a week? Anyways, the people there had no choice. Either they sent them here or they starve to death. Ask Ellsworth Johnson, the guy who listened to parliament so he won’t get fined. Guess what? Half the children in his district was either sold or starved to death.”

?They believe their acts were kind? George thought in disbelief. Now he had this strong urge to explore the factory deeper, so he made a request,

“May I have a look at your dining place?”

“Sure thing, you’re hungry? Our dining place is upstairs…”

“No, “George interrupted,” I mean, the workers’.”

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?As soon as George entered the cafeteria, all of the workers stood up. But before George got the hang of what is going on, they all sat down again. Tom couldn’t help laughing as he told George, “They thought you were the boss. Never mind.”

?So he and George walked up to the tables of the workers, and at first sight he could barely hold his exclaim. It occurred to him that the food on their tables were like coal, however at a second glimpse he realized that it was rye bread. It was certain that parts of the bread were moulded, and he could see some of the men picking mealworms out and threw them away in disgust.

?But when the surge of surprise passed away, however, he noticed the chattering noises have restarted, which has died down at his arrival. It was as if the men had finally shed their numb skins at their workplaces, and even exhausted they still talked in high spirits. It seems that the short lunch-time break is the happiest time of their day.

?And to his surprise, he saw Sam, still trembling, under the laughter of a group of men in their thirties, bearded and muscular. Noticing his attention, Tom explained,” These are the engine workers. Their job is to shovel coal into the burner, so it requires a lot of strength. Usually men over thirty take the job, but Sam was probably the youngest ever, just 18 or 19. He demanded to work here himself -- I really don’t know why. The older workers usually bully him around and let him do the most. He is really tough, but at the same time unruly.”

?Standing in silence, George had an idea, a very crazy one. It would be so important for the people here to know that how beautiful the outside world is. The workers here spent their whole lives under the dark roofs and black skies and doesn’t even get a glimpse of the world beyond their neighbourhood. If only would they knew, it would rekindle their hopes.

?And there’s a chance, a single chance… his parents are out for the week… and he could bring one, as his “friend” to his place for a week, and let him know the world outside… that should let him know…

?Facing towards the workers, his eyes fell on Samuel Macmillan.