Diary Entry: 23rd April 2025
Lately, I’ve taken the role of secretary to the chief engineer at a sprawling textile mill in Manchester. The workers are as varied as the threads in a loom, each with their own quirks and tales. Among them, one woman commands attention—Caroline. They call her “River” here, a nickname that sticks despite her advancing age. At fifty, she’s a whirlwind, never treading lightly, always bustling about. Her hurried footsteps echo in the factory halls, her voice cutting through the clatter of machines with authority. She covers miles each day, her energy defying the clock. In the union, she’s a force to reckon with—unyielding, passionate, and relentless.
Caroline’s no-nonsense demeanor can be jarring; she’s blunt, even brash, and has little patience for fluff. Her style is garish—vivid patterns, bold accessories—but she keeps her nails polished and makeup flawless. Few befriend her, perhaps because her honesty feels like a scalpel. I never crossed paths with her until we got a new chief engineer.
Peter Thompson, a man I could have been his daughter, arrived with a quiet demeanor. He’s always professional, to the point—this man of thirty-plus years, his lunches packed in thermos flasks. While I munched crisps and tea, Peter served portions of sausage rolls and shepherd’s pie, insisting I join him. “My wife believes I’ve the appetite of an entire football team,” he’d chuckle. I, always ravenous, accepted, and so began our lunches, where he’d recount tales of his wife, Clara.
Clara had been his rock for thirty years. Three sons, all working at the mill, were her world. Born to a family of ten, she was the eldest girl, her childhood marked by scarcity. Their matriarch, a woman of iron will, ensured all worked hard, none idled. Peter had wanted a daughter, but the first came too sickly for survival. The grief lingered in his voice when he spoke of it.
Once, he’d faltered. A fling with a young colleague, a child born from it. Clara’s initial fury was volcanic, but she cooled, as if calculating. “If God sees fit to bless us,” she’d said, “we’ll call her Darina.” Peter’s shame was eclipsed by pride in Clara’s mercy. Now sixteen, Darina is a quiet helper, Clara’s shadow, but kind.
I’d admired Clara from afar—her grace in bearing his past, in sheltering her brother after a fire destroyed his home, in funding her sister’s life-saving surgery, even when their own finances were stretched. “She’s like a saint,” I’d thought, my heart warming to her.
Then, the day I met her in person. A woman waltzed into the office, straight for Peter’s office. “Documentation is done, right?” I snapped, only to pause. “If you’re his wife, then yes,” I relented. Her grin was sharp. “That’d be me, Clara Thompson, but just Clara there. Proper?”
And there she was—soft-featured, a far cry from the boisterous River I’d imagined. Peter introduced us, and the following days brought an invitation: Clara and I, to meet her sons. William, the middle one, single, dreaming of love like his parents. Now, I’m family.
But it’s Clara who stays with me. The way she hums as she paints, the way she speaks to the gardeners, the quiet strength in her hands as she tends to Darina. Peter is right—choosing a partner isn’t just about charm, but resilience. Clara, I see now, is the true steers the ship.
I’ll visit tomorrow, I think. Bring a cake, a proper one, not just scones. She deserves more.
