Effie, crawling beneath the gnashing machine, tried to remember soft rain pattering on their turf roof. But the great shaft frames of the weaving hall had a different song: implacable, voracious. The noise and the odour of oil and cotton dust choked Effie. A frame scythed just above her squirming back, rattling the heddles. The sharp shuttle flashed athwart.
“Mama,” she called through the clatter. “I have it.”
She lifted the trapped bale.
In the din, nobody heard the scream as the shaft took her hand clean off.
“How will we survive,” she thought, “without my daily tuppence?”