How do you make a needle?

Women in nineteenth-century novels spend a lot of time sewing. They might comment on their embroidery or the shirt they are making or, like the orphaned narrator of Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre, lament the bluntness of the needles, but I’ve never come across a character marvelling at the feat of engineering that pulls the thread through the cloth.

There is, however, a needle manufacturer in Jane Eyre, whose factory crops up in my alternative version of the classic story. My Jane is shocked when she discovers who owns it, because gentlemen do not involve themselves in trade.

Hathersage in the Peak District, the village on which both Millcote and Morton in Jane Eyre are loosely based, was known for needle manufacturing at the time of Charlotte Brontë’s visit two years before the publication of her famous novel. While Hathersage is now a pretty village surrounded by glorious countryside, the nineteenth century industries made it a dirty and unpleasant place.

As the needle factory plays only a small part in my novel, I could have done the relevant research online. But, on discovering that there’s a needle factory museum in Redditch, less than two hours’ drive from where I live, I had to go and see it for myself. It proved to be a fascinating day out.

Forge Mill Needle Factory Museum

In its heyday, ninety percent of the world’s needles were made in the Redditch area and Forge Mill processed three million needles a week. More than thirty separate processes were required to transform a spool of wire (imported from Hathersage) into thousands of shiny needles. The wire had to be thinned, straightened, cut into ‘doubles’ the length of two needles before the eyes were stamped out and the points sharpened.

This latter process, involving rubbing the metal against a water-powered grindstone, was the most dangerous. The fast-spinning wheel created a cloud of dust which destroyed the workers’ lungs. Although they rarely survived beyond thirty, the men resisted safety measures, such as fans, lest they lead to a reduction in their wages. And the work was certainly well-paid: in the mid nineteenth century ‘pointers’ earned up to a guinea a day (£1.05) while women in other roles were earning between eight and twelve shillings (40 to 60p) a week.

The next stage of needle production was undertaken by women and children, some as young as three. The double needles were put into ‘spits’, the waste metal (flash) removed from around the eyes and edges, and the needles finally separated. This ‘heading and cheeking’ wasn’t as hazardous as ‘pointing’ but imagine the strain on the (human) eyes doing such delicate work in candlelight.

The next process – hardening and tempering by heating and cooling – left the needles scratched and discoloured, so it was off to the scouring mill for cleaning and polishing. A large quantity of needles would be splashed with emery powder and soapy water, bundled in sacking and agitated in polishing beds for eight hours. Then they would be washed in hot water and dried in a rolling barrel of sawdust, which then had to be winnowed away. This hot and heavy work brought the risk of a hernia. Finally, it was back to the women for packing, the points stuck into black paper which was thought to prevent rusting.

Like any industry, needle making has a specialised vocabulary, and I loved discovering the weird and wonderful words and phrases. Unfortunately, I don’t think I can use any of them in my novel. When Jane sees someone leave the needle factory coughing up blood, it might be too confusing to refer to ‘pointing’ as the cause rather than the less technical ‘needle grinding’.

Although now completely mechanised, the process of needle production is similar today.