Midnight is a Place Read Free

Its real name was Murgatroyd's Carpet, Rug, and Matting Manufactury, but locally it was always known as Midnight Mill. Its extensive premises occupied a central position in the town of Blastburn, and its chimneys belched out more smoke than any other. But Sir Randolph himself never went near the place, and nor had Lucas. He entertained very little notion of what the Mill was like, beyond a vague general dread of it, born from Bob's dark saying: "Ah, there's more folk dies at Murgatroyd's, think on, than at all th'other mills put together. They'll alius take on new hands at Midnight, for they go so quick, but chaps looking for work'll try anywhere else first."
    Perhaps Sir Randolph, at no time a kindly or welcoming guardian, had decided to get rid of the burden of his ward altogether by sending him to earn his living in the Mill? Children much younger than himself, ones of nine or ten, and even of seven or eight, did work there, Lucas knew.
    Unhappily, following Mr. Oakapple, he went out to the stableyard, which lay to the rear, between the east and west wings of the E-shaped house. A governess cart stood waiting, with an old cob called Noddy, one of the few remaining horses, already between the shafts.
    They set off in silence, Mr. Oakapple driving.
    "Why are we going to the Mill?" Lucas finally summoned up courage to ask. He always felt ill at ease with Mr. Oakapple whose manner was invariably short, preoccupied, as if the center of his thoughts were a very long way off. Although the two of them spent hours together every day doing French, arithmetic, and geography, Lucas did not have the least knowledge of what went on inside Mr. Oakapple's head.
    "Oh"—Mr. Oakapple turned slightly at the question, then concentrated once more on the dark road—"I thought Sir Randolph had told you. We are going because it is your birthday tomorrow."
    "I don't understand."
    Lucas knew that he ought to have been pleased at his birthday's being remembered, but he could only feel cold, wet, and anxious. They jolted on through the rainy dark. By now the lodge gates had been left behind; they were descending the broad main hill that led into Blastburn. Gas lamps flared at intervals; the mare's feet slipped and rang on granite cobbles.
    "Well"—Mr. Oakapple drew a sharp, impatient sigh—"You know that your father was Sir Randolph's partner."
    "Yes."
    "And after he died, it was found that he had left a will appointing Sir Randolph as your guardian."
    "Yes," Lucas answered despondently, remembering his journey back from India to England last year, after the death of his parents from smallpox, and the miserable arrival at Midnight Court.
    "It was also laid down in your father's will that from the age of thirteen you should be permitted to learn the business, in order that when you were of age you could take your father's place as partner. Your father stipulated that some part of each day should be spent in the Mill, studying how it is run. And I have to go with you."
    Mr. Oakapple's tone indicated that he did not in the least relish this program, but Lucas did not notice the tutor's shortness for once.
    His great relief at learning that he was not immediately to be put to work as a stripper or fluff-picker was mixed with another anxiety. How, he wondered, did one set about running a carpet factory? He found it quite hard enough to perform the tasks in geometry or history prepared for him by Mr. Oakapple, who often called him a slowtop; he was unhappily certain that learning how to look after a whole factory would be completely beyond him.
    They had reached the town. There were very few shops, taverns, or dwelling houses. The buildings for the most part were factories, workshops where articles were made—nail foundries where clanging lengths of iron were cut into strips, gasworks where coal was baked in huge ovens, papermills where wood pulp and clay were boiled into a porridge that was the raw material for books and