to be in the grip of the mob. A crescendo of breaking glass all the way up Corporation Street and on to Stephenson Place announced the destruction of plate-glass windows in some of its department stores.
The fight was still raging at midnight, but, shortly after one a.m.,the
Courier
âs reporter spotted âglints of steelâ: fifty men from the Second West Yorkshire Regiment advancing on the crowd with fixed bayonets. The following week, in answer to Keir Hardieâs criticism of the Home Secretary positioning troops in strike districts, MP Sir Arthur Markham, who had accompanied his brother the Mayor to the scene, gave a vivid account to the House of Commons of the pandemonium outside the Midland Station.
The Battle of Chesterfield was discussed locally with relish as well as shock â at one point, the townâs main Great Central Station was also in possession of the mob: imagine if theyâd taken the station at Wheeldon Mill? Strikes were much more than talking points and newspaper headlines, however. No work meant no food beyond the small amounts relief committees could organise. Without their husbandsâ wages, Betsyâs customers could neither buy groceries nor settle their existing debts.
The following year brought another minersâ strike â even more working days were lost to industrial unrest during 1912 than in 1911. No coal: no cages lowered down pit shafts; no greedy raging furnaces; nearly everyone in the district was affected. Florrie Stokes, Nora Parks, Mildred Taylor⦠one after another, women came into the shop and shook their heads in disbelief. Never was a newspaper twist of tea or sugar, or a spoonful of jam more welcome. The Sheepbridge Company established a soup kitchen and issued tickets for groceries that could be repaid once the men were back at work. There was nothing to do but wait.
Some said they knew 1912 would be a bad âun, given the wicked start to that year: the funerals of five young girls due to perform in a Christmas performance at the townâs Picture Palace. Waiting in the nearby cottage that served as a dressing room, one of the young performers threw something on to the fire. A spark leaptthe fire guard and caught her dance dress. In terror and blind panic, she dashed about the room, igniting one gauzy Eskimo after another. Their burns were so bad that one father, hurrying to the cottage upon hearing of the fire, asked his own daughter, âWhose little girl are you?â
By 1912, Annie was in her third year of training at the Princess Street Infantsâ School and had much more to occupy her time than keeping an eye out for the postman. She loved teaching small children, but mere enjoyment was not enough: in order to obtain a good reference at the close of her apprenticeship, she needed to make a good impression on the headmistress, Mabel Doughty. Annie worked alongside Miss Doughty as a classroom assistant and was allowed to take charge of some lessons, with Miss Doughty observing her work: Composition one week, History the next, and so on, all the way through the lengthy syllabus. Each plan and scheme of work had to be submitted to the headmistress, and every faltering command and imprecise instruction dissected and discussed. When Annie looked about the room to take in her pupilsâ faces, there was Miss Doughty, straight-backed, solemn-faced, an irritant in the corner of her eye. Night after night, Annie was tormented by the thought of her sharp observations and the way she had of saying, âI wonder, Miss Nashâ¦â before slicing into some new failure of hers.
There were also exams to revise for. In 1912, Annie passed the Oxford Local, enabling her to work in schools outside the borough. She could now teach Arithmetic, History, English Language and Literature, including Composition, Geography and Needlework. Betsy and Dick were delighted: another gilt frame for the wall.
Q.
What illustrious lady did [Queen]
The fight was still raging at midnight, but, shortly after one a.m.,the
Courier
âs reporter spotted âglints of steelâ: fifty men from the Second West Yorkshire Regiment advancing on the crowd with fixed bayonets. The following week, in answer to Keir Hardieâs criticism of the Home Secretary positioning troops in strike districts, MP Sir Arthur Markham, who had accompanied his brother the Mayor to the scene, gave a vivid account to the House of Commons of the pandemonium outside the Midland Station.
The Battle of Chesterfield was discussed locally with relish as well as shock â at one point, the townâs main Great Central Station was also in possession of the mob: imagine if theyâd taken the station at Wheeldon Mill? Strikes were much more than talking points and newspaper headlines, however. No work meant no food beyond the small amounts relief committees could organise. Without their husbandsâ wages, Betsyâs customers could neither buy groceries nor settle their existing debts.
The following year brought another minersâ strike â even more working days were lost to industrial unrest during 1912 than in 1911. No coal: no cages lowered down pit shafts; no greedy raging furnaces; nearly everyone in the district was affected. Florrie Stokes, Nora Parks, Mildred Taylor⦠one after another, women came into the shop and shook their heads in disbelief. Never was a newspaper twist of tea or sugar, or a spoonful of jam more welcome. The Sheepbridge Company established a soup kitchen and issued tickets for groceries that could be repaid once the men were back at work. There was nothing to do but wait.
Some said they knew 1912 would be a bad âun, given the wicked start to that year: the funerals of five young girls due to perform in a Christmas performance at the townâs Picture Palace. Waiting in the nearby cottage that served as a dressing room, one of the young performers threw something on to the fire. A spark leaptthe fire guard and caught her dance dress. In terror and blind panic, she dashed about the room, igniting one gauzy Eskimo after another. Their burns were so bad that one father, hurrying to the cottage upon hearing of the fire, asked his own daughter, âWhose little girl are you?â
By 1912, Annie was in her third year of training at the Princess Street Infantsâ School and had much more to occupy her time than keeping an eye out for the postman. She loved teaching small children, but mere enjoyment was not enough: in order to obtain a good reference at the close of her apprenticeship, she needed to make a good impression on the headmistress, Mabel Doughty. Annie worked alongside Miss Doughty as a classroom assistant and was allowed to take charge of some lessons, with Miss Doughty observing her work: Composition one week, History the next, and so on, all the way through the lengthy syllabus. Each plan and scheme of work had to be submitted to the headmistress, and every faltering command and imprecise instruction dissected and discussed. When Annie looked about the room to take in her pupilsâ faces, there was Miss Doughty, straight-backed, solemn-faced, an irritant in the corner of her eye. Night after night, Annie was tormented by the thought of her sharp observations and the way she had of saying, âI wonder, Miss Nashâ¦â before slicing into some new failure of hers.
There were also exams to revise for. In 1912, Annie passed the Oxford Local, enabling her to work in schools outside the borough. She could now teach Arithmetic, History, English Language and Literature, including Composition, Geography and Needlework. Betsy and Dick were delighted: another gilt frame for the wall.
Q.
What illustrious lady did [Queen]
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