10,000 memories in Nelson, Lancashire

Here, the old cotton mill workers recall noise, bullying and hunger. Now, in Asia, a new generation

The streets of the Lancashire mill-towns are full of old people now. If there is a certain melancholy as they look out on to the car parks and rectangles of rubble where weaving sheds and houses stood, this is perhaps because their whole working life was spent in a declining industry.

The house where Ethel and Alan Timberlake live is in the shadow of one of the last mills in Nelson. It closed 18 months ago, and is now being demolished; sunlight comes into the front room for the first time, through the roofless building and its broken windows. "The house used to shake with the vibration from the looms," says Ethel. "It was not very pleasant, but the silence is worse." The mill had the most modern Swiss looms, making industrial uniforms for several airlines and Marks and Spencer. It was taken over by Carrington Viyella, who get the work done more cheaply abroad. The looms went to India.

"We used to make sarees for export to India," recalls Dick Howarth, now in his mid-eighties. "Then, when there were labour shortages, they fetched workers from India and Pakistan. They worked the night-shifts, sleeping in beds turn and turn about, just as the Irish did 100 years ago. Now they are bringing in the material from India and Pakistan. It's hard to make sense of it."

"It's a different world," say the old spinners of Bolton and Oldham, the weavers of Blackburn and Burnley. And for them it is; even though that same world still exists, on the other side, the dark side, of the earth, in the slums of Dhaka and Jakarta. To the former workers of Lancashire it is distant memory now, long confided to oral historians and enclosed in industrial museums. In any case, the pain of loss has been decertified by political gibberish about progress and modernisation. They sit in their front rooms, with tea and home-made victoria sponge and the hiss of the gas fire, surrounded by pictures of grandchildren against a sky-blue background, the bird twittering in its cage, the poinsettia (also from Asia) wilting in the heat. A different world indeed.

Yet the abuses of poverty and overwork linger tenaciously in the minds of the very old; stories that correspond with an aching exactness to the testimony of the young women workers in Dhaka, Jakarta, Mumbai. Their recollections of hunger, cruel overseers, physical chastisement, ruined health and industrial hazards are still commonplace in the industrial suburbs of Asia. The cobbler who gave his children leather to chew in order to appease their hunger would have recognised the plight of the mother in Dhaka, giving her children rags for the same purpose. The women who searched the market stalls on Saturday night, picking up specked oranges and mouldy bananas, might be speaking for the women of Jakarta, scavenging scraps from the trash outside the city's restaurants.

When they tell of foremen who hit the women, made them stand for an hour in the freezing mill-yard if they were late for work, their echoes prefigure the woman in the Dhaka factory, beaten with a chair leg for tangling her threads, the woman dismissed from her job for abandoning her machine when she learnt that her son had been killed. When they speak of the ebb and flow of trade, the long periods on the dole, they anticipate in memory the thousands being laid off each day in the Jakarta of 1998. Olive Sharples, Weavers' Union organiser for 44 years, remembers visiting the sick, many of whom were dying of byssinosis, a then unrecognised respiratory disease that came from long exposure to cotton dust. Now, the workers of Dhaka waste away with TB.

Ethel Timberlake remembers her mother sucking the ends of the cotton through the shuttle - "kissing the shuttle" they called it - the kiss of death, for she died of emphysema at 50. Others tell tales of people who were caught by their hair or a limb in the straps that drove the looms, and were dashed against the ceiling of the shed. The same industrial accidents are reported today, which is scarcely surprising, since some of the same archaic machinery is still in use in the decaying mills of Mumbai, the names Northrop of Blackburn or Platt Brothers of Oldham still embossed in the ancient metal.

The old bring to life not only their own testimony of work, want and struggle, but equally, the experience of people separated from them only by time, different skies, another colour or religion. If it is hard for them to perceive a common destiny, perhaps this is because they are constantly being urged on to a future of undreamed-of technological marvels, to a frantic keeping up with the times - times that demand the same tribute of flesh and blood all over the world, and which the workers of Lancashire paid so recently.

It isn't only the working conditions that join our past with their present. The mill-workers tell how the big stores - Woolworth's, Marks and Spencer - would place an order for fancy handkerchiefs, say. "A small order at first. Then a bigger one. Finally, the whole factory would be given over to the production of one item. Then, when the company was dependent on these orders, the stores would offer less money. The wages of the workers went down, profits dwindled, and in the end, the company closed down."

The beneficiaries of the shift to Asia are deterred from organising by the vast pool of workless, or by the presence of the military, spies and informers, in the factories. Nuri was dismissed in June 1998 for trying to form a union in a sub-contractor to Marks and Spencer in Jakarta. In Dhaka, Rehna Begum was imprisoned with 21 other trade unionists for stealing from the factory; after two years in jail, it was "discovered" that the production manager had stolen the goods. No compensation.

In the industrial zones of Tangerang, Bekasi, Mirpur, Dharavi, you will find all the big names - Walmart, C&A, Levi-Strauss, Great Reaper, Nike. The complaints of the workers might have been compiled in Lancashire: bad ventilation, no work security, compulsory overtime, no health insurance, insufficient rest, being timed going to the lavatory, fines for the smallest mistake, bullying, harassment, being forbidden to sing, talk or laugh.

Dick Howarth and his wife look out into the street; children sit on the wall of a derelict house, the inheritors of the lost function of the mill-town of Padiham, where mills employed the vast majority of its 13,000 people. "Drugs, no secure work, is that better than what we knew?" they ask. Ethel Timberlake tells how a friend, a woman of 54, was raped by a 15-year-old boy. "What have we done to our children? What have we left for the next generation?"

The questions scarcely require answers. How can it not be better than the thousand looms that clattered through the day, leaving a whole generation to lip-read? Better than the smoke from the chimneys of Nelson, "which made it impossible for Hitler to bomb us, because he couldn't see us through the smoke". Better than children crawling under looms to clean them, starting work at age 12, as they do now in South Asia. Better than the room-and-power mills, rented by manufacturers so that they could dismiss all the operatives as soon as trade slackened; just as the management in Dhaka boast that, if workers try to organise, they can sack the whole workforce and recruit a new one within 48 hours.

The old look back with a curious estrangement from their earlier selves - as though they had died and been reincarnated. "We went on holiday to Blackpool. My grandmother filled a tin trunk with cakes and bread she'd baked. Then she came all the way back on Wednesday and filled it up again."

"They used to take all their belongings on holiday. This woman, big fat woman, carrying her canary in a cage, little husband with two huge suitcases. She says to him, 'be careful, we don't want that rupture coming down at Morecambe'."

"We had to call the boss 'Master'. He'd stand at the entrance, push back his billy-cock, and walk through. If he was wearing his blue suit, you knew things were rough, there'd be trouble."

"When they brought in the Clean Air Act, the sheep and sparrows of Nelson all changed colour."

They were part of a great division of labour, in which the work of thousands of hands was co-ordinated into a single industrial machine. Even the words that placed them in the structure are a dead language now - who knows now what a cake-winder was, a deviller, a tackler? "I used to look in the shop windows and see the stuff we'd made. We were pleased. The cotton they sell now, we wouldn't have it as floor-cloths." The last mill in Blackburn that still used the old Lancashire looms made non-washable fabric; material, fittingly, for shrouds.

Sometimes the Lancashire people talk of the people of Asia "stealing our jobs" as though labour had crossed the world like a thief in the night to take away their function as they slept the sleep of exhaustion; as though capital had no role in it; as though desperate migrants to Dhaka or Jakarta, in their shared slum rooms, three metres by three, were the enemies, and not the kin, of the ghosts of country people once driven from impoverished villages into the squalid towns of Lancashire.

"We tried everything to keep the mills open," recalls Olive Sharples. "We organised the Buy British campaign in the sixties. Some companies imported cloth and stamped Made in Accrington on it, but it didn't save them. People feel bitter, they still do. It wasn't till 1980 that we could see it was all finished. We thought if they modernised, at least there'd be some jobs."

The workers of Asia and of Lancashire have one other thing in common; they were never consulted about the setting up of the industry, any more than they were about its closure, but were sucked into it beyond their will, beyond their control. They used to say "I'm not going to let any child of mine go into the mill", but into the mill they went. Then, when there were no mills left, they find themselves asking "Where are the jobs for the next generation coming from?"

There is no answer. The jobs have gone to use up the youth and energies of young people in Asia, just as they laid waste those of generations in Lancashire.

This article first appeared in the 27 November 1998 issue of the New Statesman, How the left hijacked the family

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“I felt so frantic I couldn’t see my screen”: why aren’t we taking mental health sick days?

Some employees with mental health problems fake reasons for taking days off, or struggle in regardless. What should companies be doing differently?

“I would go to the loo and just cry my eyes out. And sometimes colleagues could hear me. Then I would just go back to my desk as if nothing had happened. And, of course, no one would say anything because I would hide it as well as I could.”

How many times have you heard sobbing through a work toilet door – or been the person in the cubicle?

Jaabir Ramlugon is a 31-year-old living in north London. He worked in IT for four years, and began having to take time off for depressive episodes after starting at his company in 2012. He was eventually diagnosed with borderline personality disorder last January.

At first, he would not tell his employers or colleagues why he was taking time off.

“I was at the point where I was in tears going to work on the train, and in tears coming back,” he recalls. “Some days, I just felt such a feeling of dread about going into work that I just physically couldn’t get up ... I wouldn’t mention my mental health; I would just say that my asthma was flaring up initially.”

It wasn’t until Ramlugon was signed off for a couple of months after a suicide attempt that he told his company what he was going through. Before that, a “culture of presenteeism” at his work – and his feeling that he was “bunking off” because there was “nothing physically wrong” – made him reluctant to tell the truth about his condition.

“I already felt pretty low in my self-esteem; the way they treated me amplified that”

Eventually, he was dismissed by his company via a letter describing him as a “huge burden” and accusing him of “affecting” its business. He was given a dismissal package, but feels an alternative role or working hours – a plan for a gradual return to work – would have been more supportive.

“I already felt pretty low in my self-esteem. The way they treated me definitely amplified that, especially with the language that they used. The letter was quite nasty because it talked about me being a huge burden to the company.”

Ramlugon is not alone. Over three in ten employees say they have experienced mental health problems while in employment, according to the Chartered Institute of Personnel and Development. Under half (43 per cent) disclose their problem to their employer, and under half (46 per cent) say their organisation supports staff with mental health problems well.

I’ve spoken to a number of employees in different workplaces who have had varying experiences of suffering from mental ill health at work.

***

Taking mental health days off sick hit the headlines after an encouraging message from a CEO to his employee went viral. Madalyn Parker, a web developer, informed her colleagues in an out-of-office message that she would be taking “today and tomorrow to focus on my mental health – hopefully I’ll be back next week refreshed and back to 100 per cent”.

Her boss Ben Congleton’s reply, which was shared tens of thousands of times, personally thanked her – saying it’s “an example to us all” to “cut through the stigma so we can bring our whole selves to work”.

“Thank you for sending emails like this,” he wrote. “Every time you do, I use it as a reminder of the importance of using sick days for mental health – I can’t believe this is not standard practice at all organisations.”


Congleton went on to to write an article entitled “It’s 2017 and Mental Health is still an issue in the workplace”, arguing that organisations need to catch up:

“It’s 2017. We are in a knowledge economy. Our jobs require us to execute at peak mental performance. When an athlete is injured they sit on the bench and recover. Let’s get rid of the idea that somehow the brain is different.”

But not all companies are as understanding.

In an investigation published last week, Channel 5 News found that the number of police officers taking sick days for poor mental health has doubled in six years. “When I did disclose that I was unwell, I had some dreadful experiences,” one retired detective constable said in the report. “On one occasion, I was told, ‘When you’re feeling down, just think of your daughters’. My colleagues were brilliant; the force was not.”

“One day I felt so frantic I couldn’t see my screen”

One twenty-something who works at a newspaper echoes this frustration at the lack of support from the top. “There is absolutely no mental health provision here,” they tell me. “HR are worse than useless. It all depends on your personal relationships with colleagues.”

“I was friends with my boss so I felt I could tell him,” they add. “I took a day off because of anxiety and explained what it was to my boss afterwards. But that wouldn’t be my blanket approach to it – I don’t think I’d tell my new boss [at the same company], for instance. I have definitely been to work feeling awful because if I didn’t, it wouldn’t get done.”

Presenteeism is a rising problem in the UK. Last year, British workers took an average of 4.3 days off work due to illness – the lowest number since records began. I hear from many interviewees that they feel guilty taking a day off for a physical illness, which makes it much harder to take a mental health day off.

“I felt a definite pressure to be always keen as a young high-flyer and there were a lot of big personalities and a lot of bitchiness about colleagues,” one woman in her twenties who works in media tells me. “We were only a small team and my colleague was always being reprimanded for being workshy and late, so I didn’t want to drag the side down.”

Diagnosed with borderline personality disorder, which was then changed to anxiety and depression, she didn’t tell her work about her illness. “Sometimes I struggled to go to work when I was really sick. And my performance was fine. I remember constantly sitting there sort of eyeballing everyone in mild amusement that I was hiding in plain sight. This was, at the time, vaguely funny for me. Not much else was.

“One day I just felt so frantic I couldn’t see my screen so I locked myself in the bathroom for a bit then went home, telling everyone I had a stomach bug so had to miss half the day,” she tells me. “I didn’t go in the next day either and concocted some elaborate story when I came back.”

Although she has had treatment and moved jobs successfully since, she has never told her work the real reason for her time off.

“In a small company you don’t have a confidential person to turn to; everyone knows everyone.”

“We want employers to treat physical and mental health problems as equally valid reasons for time off sick,” says Emma Mamo, head of workplace wellbeing at the mental health charity Mind. “Staff who need to take time off work because of stress and depression should be treated the same as those who take days off for physical health problems, such as back or neck pain.”

She says that categorising a day off as a “mental health sick day” is unhelpful, because it could “undermine the severity and impact a mental health problem can have on someone’s day-to-day activities, and creates an artificial separation between mental and physical health.”

Instead, employers should take advice from charities like Mind on how to make the mental health of their employees an organisational priority. They can offer workplace initiatives like Employee Assistance Programmes (which help staff with personal and work-related problems affecting their wellbeing), flexible working hours, and clear and supportive line management.

“I returned to work gradually, under the guidance of my head of department, doctors and HR,” one journalist from Hertfordshire, who had to take three months off for her second anorexia inpatient admission, tells me. “I was immensely lucky in that my line manager, head of department and HR department were extremely understanding and told me to take as much time as I needed.”

“They didnt make me feel embarrassed or ashamed – such feelings came from myself”

“They knew that mental health – along with my anorexia I had severe depression – was the real reason I was off work ... I felt that my workplace handled my case in an exemplary manner. It was organised and professional and I wasn’t made to feel embarrassed or ashamed from them – such feelings came from myself.”

But she still at times felt “flaky”, “pathetic” and “inefficient”, despite her organisation’s good attitude. Indeed, many I speak to say general attitudes have to change in order for people to feel comfortable about disclosing conditions to even the closest friends and family, let alone a boss.

“There are levels of pride,” says one man in his thirties who hid his addiction while at work. “You know you’re a mess, but society dictates you should be functioning.” He says this makes it hard to have “the mental courage” to broach this with your employer. “Especially in a small company – you don’t have a confidential person to turn to. Everyone knows everyone.”

“But you can’t expect companies to deal with it properly when it’s dealt with so poorly in society as it is,” he adds. “It’s massively stigmatised, so of course it’s going to be within companies as well. I think there has to be a lot more done generally to make it not seem like it’s such a big personal failing to become mentally ill. Companies need direction; it’s not an easy thing to deal with.”

Until we live in a society where it feels as natural taking a day off for feeling mentally unwell as it does for the flu, companies will have to step up. It is, after all, in their interest to have their staff performing well. When around one in four people in Britain experience mental ill health each year, it’s not a problem they can afford to ignore.

If your manager doesn’t create the space for you to be able to talk about wellbeing, it can be more difficult to start this dialogue. It depends on the relationship you have with your manager, but if you have a good relationship and trust them, then you could meet them one-to-one to discuss what’s going on.

Having someone from HR present will make the meeting more formal, and normally wouldn’t be necessary in the first instance. But if you didn’t get anywhere with the first meeting then it might be a sensible next step.

If you still feel as though you’re not getting the support you need, contact Acas or Mind's legal line on 0300 466 6463.

Anoosh Chakelian is senior writer at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 27 November 1998 issue of the New Statesman, How the left hijacked the family