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Little Helen Trotter dodged the whirring machine parts and scuttled under the spinning cogs as she crawled around to pick up bits of cottons. She didn’t like doing the work. Her friend had lost a hand as a part of the machine crushed down on her only a week ago.
Helen had no choice but to work though. Her family lived in the squat little terrace houses that had began to line the streets and the money that she earned from the factory was just enough to help pay for food everyday.
Dodging a part of the machine that slammed down onto the floor, Helen grabbed the last bit of cotton and rushed out from under the machine. All around the room, women and children were controlling the spinning inventions as they made cloth for people to have clothes made out of. Standing in the corner of the room, watching them all, was the factory owner with his beady little eyes.
“All done,” Helen said to him, dropping the cotton into a basket. “Can I go home now?”
“Yes,” the factory owner grunted, digging deep into his pockets. “And here’s your money. Don’t bother coming back though.”
“Why?” Helen asked, taking the few tiny coins. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Yeah I know that, but it’s not my choice. The government passed some new Act about child labour. I can’t employ no one under the age of nine now and that includes you, missy. Now get out of my sight,” the factory owner said, turning around.
Helen shrugged her shoulders and ran out of the factory, eager to get away from the deadly machines. As she came out onto the cobbled streets, her dirty clothes swaying in the wind, she rushed passed the newspaper stands and corner shops to reach her home. It was only a few minutes away. Most factory workers lived near the places that they worked in.
“Mummy? Mummy?” Helen called, pushing open the front door and entering the small house. Already she could smell the stew that was cooking away in the kitchen. Pushing open the living room door she found her father, mother and brother all sitting on chairs. While her little brother pushed at the toy horse that their father had made for him, her mother knitted away with her needles.
“Hello dear,” she said, looking at Helen.
“Money,” Helen said smiling, shoving the coins into her mother’s hands. She thanked her and gave her a little kiss on the cheeks as Helen ran over to her father, his nose buried in the newspaper. “Did you know that I’m not allowed to work anymore?”
“Yes, we just didn’t want to tell you. We didn’t want you distracted while working under those dangerous machines,” her father said, Helen crawling up into his lap.
“But how will I get money for you?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll just work some more hours at my factory,” her father said, turning over the page. “We’ll manage. We always do.”
Here is Richard reading the story to you.
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