And calico disappears. And my father’s business, that he inherited from his father, and his father’s father, begins to wither and die. And my father suffers the compound shame of financial failure seen through the eyes of his son, and descended into drink. I’d sit beside him as a boy at the Sunday service as he shouted at the pastor, at the altar - at anyone who would listen, really - at the injustice of it all. […] So, I set to work, determined to rebuild what had been taken away. I was thirteen years old, but I was determined. Until a man arrived at my door, claiming to hold debts belonging to my father, debts accumulated as my father drank, debts he claimed that now belonged to me, debts I could not possibly hope to repay. Debts over which this man would have seen me imprisoned. Imprisoned in a place where the debts would have been discharged only through hard labour, hard labour and no wages. Working at - wait for it - the production of textiles.