Page 29 of Inventing Vivian

“Where are they going?” Benedict asked, motioning to a group with his chin as he used his handkerchief to wipe oatcake grease from his fingers. The lads each carried a long board with rows of teacups.

“The ware’ve been dried,” Mr. Gallagher said. “Now they’re to be fired.”

Benedict watched the young boys balance the long boards and take quick steps over the uneven paving stones. He was impressed that not one teacup slipped.

“Don’ worry, my lord. They’ll not drop any. Knows ’twill come out o’ their wages if ware are damaged.”

Benedict considered what that might mean to the boys. “What is the typical worker’s wage, Mr. Gallagher?”

“Depends,” Mr. Gallagher said, leading them toward one of the buildings. “Yer average worker receives six shillings at the end o’ the day, based on his work and the quantity o’ ware he’s turned out. Women are paid four shillings, children two.”

“Children?” Benedict asked. “But there are laws...”

“Aye,” Mr. Gallagher said. “We don’t employ any children younger than nine years. But there’s always them what don’ right know what year they were born.” He shrugged as if there were nothing he could do in such cases.

Mr. Thomas was writing in a small notebook. It was the man of business’s first trip to the factory as well, and Benedict wondered what he was thinking.

They reached the door of one of the buildings at the same time as a young woman with a pail of water. She held the door for them.

Mr. Gallagher started inside, but Benedict reached past him, holding the door and motioning for the young woman to enter ahead of them. The noise from the building would make conversation nearly impossible, and he wanted to understand this point completely. “Everyone at this factory earns six shillings or less daily?” he asked the foreman.

“No, Yer Lordship.” Mr. Gallagher shook his head. He motioned toward the building they were entering. “The master potters earn up to eight, depending again on quantity and the quality of the ware they produce.”

“And what of the kiln workers?” Mr. Thomas asked. “Those men who keep the fires stoked for days and nights at a time—what is their wage?”

Mr. Gallagher shrugged. “Same’s the others, sir. They’re not skilled laborers, you see. Just shovel coal.”

The men entered the large workshop, and the noise and steam of machines filled the air. A girl rushed past, holding the corners of her apron. It was filled with balls of clay. Another followed right after.

Mr. Gallagher walked quickly, appearing to hurry them through the workshop, but Benedict slowed. He wanted to understand the working of the factory, to see what the people did and where there might be room for improvement. He appreciated that Mr. Thomas stopped and spoke to a group of workers who were forming bowls with molds. The man wrote in his notebook, taking down what they had to say.

Benedict and Mr. Thomas were introduced to the master potters, a group of men who worked on pottery wheels in one corner of the shop. Mr. Gallagher told them each man was capable of producing one piece of shaped pottery per minute.

The pottery wheels turned steadily, spun by women, either by turning a wheel crank by hand or pressing with their feet a long board pedal that powered the lathe. The work was repetitive and looked exhausting. None of them spoke but worked in silence, staring at the ground and looking miserable. As the men observed, one of the women quickly stepped over the pedal to switch feet without disrupting the speed of the wheel.Her legs must get sore, Benedict thought. It would deform a person, working one muscle for ten hours each day.

Benedict watched the potters expertly shape teacups and attach handles, but after a moment, his attention returned to the women supplying the power. He turned to the foreman. “Surely there are motorized alternatives to...” He motioned to the women.

“Machinery is expensive, Yer Lordship,” Mr. Gallagher said. “And it requires maintenance and repairs.”

“And people are replaceable,” Mr. Thomas muttered in a low voice only Benedict could hear. He appeared to be displeased by the working conditions as well.

They moved to the next building, and as soon as they stepped inside, the sound of banging met Benedict’s ears. He found out quickly enough that the noise was made as the clay was thrown down against a tabletop to rid it of air bubbles. The child workers cut a chunk of the clay, weighed it, then lifted it above their heads and slammed it down again and again onto the table before a girl gathered the measured balls in her apron and delivered them to the potters.

An older boy, introduced to Benedict as Dewey, strode between the tables, watching the children closely. “Keep at it,” he called. “And no plaster bits or dust will be tolerated in the clay.” He peered at a scale, watching a girl measure her clay ball, and strolled on.

One of the boys dropped his clay, and when he bent to retrieve it, he stumbled, landing on his knees on the floor. He began coughing.

Dewey crossed the room. “You there, Jack. Up with you.”

Jack gripped the edge of the table to pull himself up. He was shaking, and perspiration made his thin shirt cling to him. His eyes rolled, and he swayed.

Benedict rushed forward and caught the boy before he fell again. The lad was thin as a broom. “This boy is ill.”

“We’ll send him away, Your Lordship,” Mr. Gallagher said, looking embarrassed that the factory’s owner should have witnessed such an oversight. “There’s plenty what can take his place.”

Mr. Thomas brought a chair, and Benedict helped the boy sit. His skin was burning with heat. “He needs to be cared for, not sent away,” Benedict said.

One of the girls who carried the clay balls from room to room returned, and seeing Jack, she hurried toward him. “Jack, you must get up.” She pulled on the boy’s arm, trying to lift him.

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