“Morning Boss,” the ladies sitting behind the huge sewing stations chorused as Thrumps sat himself behind his desk.
He nodded and thanked the young runner for the mug of coffee she’d brought over to him. The coaster shuffled itself in disapproval, that was its job. He ignored it and set the mug down on it to keep it still.
The room was a hive of activity. Five women industriously worked nimble fingers down seams of material making … Thrumps didn’t know. What he did know was that apparently, he was the one that was in charge.
“Mr Thrumpus,” one called. “We’re never gonna get finished on time.”
There was a murmur of consent.
“Now, now ladies,” he improvised. “I have every faith in you.” They all giggled.
“Ever the optimist Sir,” one replied.
He sipped at the replacement mug of steaming coffee that had materialised on the coaster, wondering what they were making and what the deadline was. The Book of Un-Reality flipped open to a neatly scribed order page. Thrumps scanned the columns, the tick in the last one indicating completion, they were on the last order, deadline … midnight.
It had been a funny kind of a day. He’d woken early, which was very unlike him and had become acutely aware that The Emporium had landed itself in London, not the modern kind of place you’d recognise but one of way back in time. The plaque on the wall told him that this was an establishment that belonged to The Framework Knitters of London.
The Book of Un-Reality flipped the page over to a newspaper cutting.
New factory opening soon … the headlines announced. It was 1722 and still the era when knitting was a cottage industry with wool sourced from the surrounding areas, but the proprietor had visions of mechanization taking over, hence the new factory. The addition of the production of underwear tickled Thrumps.
“Knitted knickers,” he mused and then realised he’d said it out loud.
“Certainly good sir,” said a voice behind him. “What could be warmer in these inclement times?”
Thrumps didn’t know, so he just nodded.
“They sell very well,” the gentleman continued. “Allow me to give you a tour and to show you the latest addition to my empire, the factory shop on the ground floor where people can buy direct and save the costs added by distributers.”
Thrumps was captivated as it was explained that the Bond Street factory complex would be built in stages with extravagant plans to further add to this manufacturing empire. As they walked through a dividing door it was obvious that all this had indeed come to fruition.
“There were a few difficult times,” the now much older gentleman continued without missing a beat. “But by the eve of war orders were abundant and we acquired new machines to cope with the need for productions in pure silk and rayon.”
“Post war was not bad either,” he continued as they walked through another door. “We became a private limited company and moved successfully into the supplying chain stores and multiple retail outlets.” He said with pride. “And we remained the oldest surviving independent knitting firm in the world, until now,” he sighed.
“Industrialisation?” Thrumps asked.
“Mass production,” the gentleman agreed. “Quantity over quality. We were constantly being undercut on price and people stopped caring about the traditions behind how things were made.”
Thrumps shook his head sadly.
“We sold floor-space and had no choice but to reduce the numbers of our loyal workers, but even that was not enough. There were four generations that had produced specialist babywear all laid off, their profession no longer a requirement of the modern age.” He let out a deep sigh. “We’d held on for a bit, as we’d managed to maintain an ethos of high-quality goods and service and kept a few dependable customers, but eventually we had to concede defeat and with the last order fulfilled we shut up for good. I just wish I could have done more for the ones that stayed to the very end, it was hard on them and if I’d had the means I would have shared it all with them.”
Walking through the final door Thrumps found himself back in the sewing room of The Emporium. As the clock was striking twelve the final thread was cut.
“Phew,” one of the ladies exclaimed leaning back in her chair. The others laughed.
“All done boss.”
Thrumps put a tick in the last column and sealed the bulging brown wage envelopes that were on his desk and handed them out.
“Thank you, ladies,” he said. “Ohh and there’s a little something extra in there for each of you.
He would never know how the money changed their lives, but somehow, he knew that it would.