The Children From Gin Barrel Lane
Lindsey Hutchinson
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Epilogue
More from Lindsey Hutchinson
About the Author
About Boldwood Books
1
‘Jack Larkin, get yer arse in here NOW!’
‘I ’eard you, I ain’t deaf!’ Ten year old Jack yelled in response to his mother’s call.
‘Don’t you back-chat me my lad or you’ll find yerself out on the street with nowt but the clothes on yer back!’ Nellie Larkin shouted, her hands on her ample hips. A single nod set a grimy mob cap wobbling on prematurely greying hair which could not be contained by its pins. Nellie wore a full apron which, although once white, was now stained and a similar colour to her hair. The dress beneath had also seen better days and the hem at her boots was ragged and worn.
Jack gave her the once over and shook his head. In contrast to his mother he was tall for his age and slat thin which belied his strength. His dark hair was thick and his brown eyes held a constant mischievous twinkle. His old trousers fell short of his boots and the collar and cuffs of his shirt were almost transparent. His jacket was threadbare at the elbows and his muffler was old and dirty. His flat cap, however, was brand spanking new having recently been liberated from a market stall, and Jack wore it with pride.
‘Get on t’other end of that bar and get serving,’ Nellie swung out her fat arm and Jack ducked just in time to avoid it colliding with his head.
Walking to the end of the long wooden counter, Jack surveyed the room. It was packed full of men and women drinking gin – as much as they could pour down their throats. The noise was deafening as some folk argued and others sang loudly. Women screeched with laughter as people came and went through doors which seemed never to be still. There were no chairs or tables, just a mass of bodies lit by the gas light chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. The etched plate glass window was obscured from Jack’s view as men pushed forward to be served their half pint of mother’s ruin.
Jack filled a glass from a bottle on the counter and picked up the coins. A row of huge casks stood behind him which were backed by large mirrors reflecting the light back into the room.
Serving another drink, Jack took the money and threw it into the massive black till with the handle on the side.
Feeling Nellie’s eyes on him, he ignored her and continued to fill glasses and take coins. He knew his mother didn’t trust him – she didn’t trust anyone where money was concerned – but he would never steal from her. Thieving outside of family was necessary on occasion, and Jack had no qualms about helping himself to something he needed – like his new cap. After all, Nellie gave him nothing except his food and somewhere to sleep and a bawling out now and then. But all in all, Jack didn’t think it a bad life; there were others in far worse circumstances than his. Some were forced into the workhouse; more were living on the street, so residing in his mother’s gin palace was what could be considered a fairly good existence.
Jack reflected on this as he watched a man, who had been leaning against the wall, slowly slide to the floor without spilling a drop of his precious drink.
Gin – the opium of the masses. With a smile, Jack’s attention was caught by a small hand tapping a coin on the counter. Standing on the sturdy wooden box that ran the full length of the bar, Jack leaned forward.
‘Hello Ginny – usual is it?’ he asked with a grin.
‘Yes please, Jack,’ the little girl said, passing over her money and a jug.
Filling the jug, he handed it to his small customer. ‘You want me to see you home?’ he asked amid the noise of the bar.
‘No, s’all right, I can manage,’ Ginny answered.
Jack nodded and watched her thread her way through the crowd being careful with her important cargo. He knew if she dropped it she would be given the hiding of her life.
‘Stop lollygagging and get serving!’ Nellie’s voice soared over the hubbub of the bar.
Jack took a deep breath and closed his eyes tight for a few seconds, trying to hold on to his temper. As he went back to his work, he recalled the last time he had stood up to his mother. They had argued about Jack needing new boots. Nellie was loath to part with her money, even when Jack had showed her the soles he had fashioned from waste cardboard and tied on with string to cover the holes. With the profit she was making, Jack could not understand why he couldn’t have a couple of pennies to buy second-hand footwear from the market. He had protested loudly at her refusal to provide the necessary funds which had subsequently earned him a sound beating. To add insult to injury, Nellie had battered him with the very boots they had disagreed about. With a few bruises and no money for arnica to ease them, Jack had fumed in silence for days. The question he kept returning to was – did his mother love him? Because, if he was honest, much of the time he felt unloved and only wanted for the work he could undertake.
Just then his attention was drawn to two burly men in the corner, their raised voices heralding an imminent fight. Jack glanced at Nellie who jerked her head towards the crapulous men and he sighed. Climbing over the counter he jumped down and pushed through the throng of unwashed bodies, all the while thinking, ‘I shouldn’t be doing this – I’m only a kid!’
Walking over to the men, he shoved himself between them. Looking up at the first one and then looking to the other Jack yelled, ‘Nellie sez to take it outside or shut the hell up!’
Simultaneously, the men glanced over at the large woman behind the bar and were immediately cowed by her frown. Jack nodded and returned to his post behind the bar wincing at Nellie’s look which he was certain could sour milk. He heaved a sigh of relief when he saw those same men laughing and clapping each other on the back. He hated being sent to break up fights or disagreements; he could be hurt badly if one of those big blokes turned on him. So far he’d been fortunate, but how long would his luck hold out? One of these days he’d find himself thrown out onto the streets with his brains mushed from a pounding.
When a toothless old woman called Aggie picked up her skirts and began to sing and dance, Jack knew it was going to be a long night.
Early the following morning, Jack sprinkled sawdust on the bar-room floor to soak up the spillages, then began to sweep it out of the door and onto the street. The chill of early spring caused him to shiver as he looked around. The Crown Saloon where he lived with his mother, and which depended largely on passing trade, stood on the intersection between the tramway and Bailey Street and had been affectionately nicknamed Gin Barrel Lane by the locals.
Nodding to passers-by, Jack leaned on the besom and contemplated his surroundings and his life. Dirty cobbled roads, grimy buildings, their windows so filthy they shut out the light. Detritus of all sorts in the streets which threw off foul odours on hot days. Tramps and beggars loitered further towards the centre of town hoping for a hand-out from a kind stranger. There were out of work men standing on street corners grumbling about the poverty, some even having to accept the ticket to the workhouse for themselves and their families.
This was the heart of the industrial Black Country in the centre of England. It certainly lived up to its sobriquet, for everything was constantly covered with a layer of coal dust. Birmingham, a town growing rapidly which boasted a market hall housing six hundred stalls built at a staggering cost of twenty thousand pounds. Also built at an enormous cost to the town was New Street Railway Station which had opened three years previously.
Jack was unable to comprehend such a figure, seeing as he was more used to working with pennies. He did, however, like a stroll around the market on the rare occasion he was let out of The Crown Saloon.
The bar’s name triggered thoughts of Victoria, the English monarch, then on hearing the lilt of an Irish voice, his mind shifted to the great potato famine in Ireland five years ago. This had prompted a mass migration to the mainland as many came seeking work.
The screech of Nellie’s voice broke his train of thought and with a last sweep of his broom Jack re-entered the bar-room.
‘Oh, there you are! Stop clarting about and get some bloody work done!’ Nellie yelled.
‘What do you want doing now?’ Jack asked, feeling exasperated.
‘That new cask of Ladies Delight needs bottling and diluting – you know what to do, I shouldn’t have to keep reminding you,’ Nellie said as she pushed Jack towards the cellar steps.
‘Are the bottles washed then?’ Jack called over his shoulder.
‘Yes, Poppy did ’em yesterday; gave ’em a good scalding she did.’
In the cellar, Jack began his task of half filling bottles from the cask, and his thoughts lingered on Poppy Charlton, the barmaid.
The Charltons had been forced to accept the ticket into the workhouse when Poppy was a child, and there she had been torn away from her parents to be put in the girls’ dormitory. At fifteen years old she had signed herself out, preferring to take her chances on the street rather than live another minute in that dreadful place. She had ended up on their doorstep all skin and bone, begging for work. Nellie had taken her on as a scullion; cleaning and washing, and before long she had been promoted. Now, at eighteen, she had attained the position of barmaid and was popular with the customers. Tragically, when she had revisited the workhouse in search of her family, she had learned they had passed away.
Jack saw Poppy in his mind’s eye, her blonde curls bouncing and her blue eyes sparkling. She was a beautiful young woman and admired by many who would have willingly taken her as a wife. She could be a force to be reckoned with too, for on many occasions she had saved him from a beating. Knowing Nellie could not manage without her now, more than once Poppy had threatened to walk out, taking Jack with her. She had made herself indispensable and Nellie was fully aware of it. Her bright disposition and sunny nature drew the crowds in, but to Jack she had been his protector and he loved her for it.
The thought made him smile as he topped up the bottles with water and stoppered them with corks; then stacking them in a crate he carried them up into the bar. Placing them in their rightful place in the space beneath the counter, Jack returned to the cellar to repeat the process.
This particular batch of alcohol was the roughest produced and therefore by dint was the cheapest to buy in quantity by Nellie. Sold as Ladies Delight – a much smoother gin – the price was the same. It was throat-searing stuff but if folk were daft enough to drink it, who was he to argue?
It was not against the law to sell or drink this foul beverage, and it was up to the individual as to how they spent their hard-earned coin. Besides, this was Nellie’s business, and she didn’t care as long as they spent their money in her saloon.
By lunchtime, all the shelves beneath the bar were fully stocked once more. Nellie had opened up after breakfast and rubbed her hands with glee as people poured in through the door. She had tended the bar throughout the morning whilst Poppy had scalded more bottles and their lunch was prepared by Nancy Sampson, the cook, and Nellie’s long-time friend.
Jack shot into the kitchen for his plate of grey peas and bacon with fresh crusty bread. He was looking forward to the afternoon – he and Poppy would be working the bar together whilst Nellie took a nap.
It was fun to work alongside Poppy; her quick rejoinders to smutty remarks made by drunken customers always made him laugh.
Finishing his food, Jack stepped into the bar and immediately found his name being called by folk waiting to be served.
He smiled. The afternoon shift had begun.
2
As afternoon faded into evening Jack propped open the doors, front and back, with cast iron doorstops shaped like barrels. Slowly, the smoke from clay pipes smoked by both men and women drifted lazily outside, and much needed fresher air took its place.
The sound of a trumpet heralded the rag and bone man’s passing and Jack heard the screech of the tram wheels as it drew to a halt. In a matter of moments people scrambled from the tram and pushed their way through the open door.
Standing three deep at the bar, folk yelled to be served, desperate for their tot of gin as though afraid the place might suddenly run dry. The noise was deafening as Jack hurried to attend to waiting customers and he had only a second to glance at Poppy. Laughing as always, the girl was working flat out but was still having a hard time keeping up with demand.
As he moved along the line of waiting men Jack knew it was time to approach his mother about hiring some more help. He sighed, knowing she would balk at having to pay a wage but the three of them couldn’t cope any longer. They were all exhausted; the long hours and very little sleep had begun to take its toll on them.
Nellie arrived in the bar to be greeted by a cheer from the crowd and she gave them a wide smile and a wave as if she was the queen.
Lowering the chandelier by way of a rope attached to the wall, Nellie lit the gas lights before hauling it back towards the ceiling and tying it off securely. Lighting the wall lights too, she passed a word or two with her regular customers before taking her place behind the bar. Hooking a thumb to Jack, she dismissed him from his work there; his job in the cellar, however, began yet again.
Sitting on a three-legged stool and filling bottles with diluted gin, Jack longed for the day he would be old enough to leave this place. He yearned to be out in the sunshine, on a farm maybe. Here he felt trapped, suffocated – rarely seeing the seasons change or the goings-on in the outside world.
Once finished, he went out into the back yard for a breath of evening air. Standing on the doorstep, he leaned against its jamb and watched the light give way to darkness which gradually surrounded him.
It was as he turned to go back indoors that he heard a sound which, if he was not mistaken, sounded like a sob. Leaning casually against the frame once more, he waited. Sure enough, a moment later Jack heard the sound again. It was definitely a sob – someone was in the yard and they were crying.
Tentatively, Jack stepped forward to search between the empty casks awaiting collection. Following the sounds, he eventually came upon a young girl hiding between two massive barrels.
Seeing Jack, she tried to push herself further back into the shadows but was caught against the wall which surrounded the yard.
Frightened eyes looked up at him and Jack’s heart melted. ‘It’s all right, I ain’t going to hurt you.’ Whispering so as not to scare the girl any more than she was already, Jack hunkered down beside her. ‘My name’s Jack and I live here. What’s your name?’
The child began to shake but whether with fear or cold Jack wasn
’t sure.
‘Are you cold? You can borrow my jacket if you like,’ he said as he made to take off the garment.
The girl tried to scramble away from him and her sobs rang loud in the darkness.
‘Hey, it’s all right, gel, I promise I won’t hurt you. Just tell me yer name then at least we’ll be introduced. Once that’s sorted out maybe we can become friends.’ Speaking quietly Jack sat on the cold cobblestones and leaned his back against the wall.
Jack winced as Nellie Larkin screamed out his name.
‘That’s me mother. Blimey, she’s got a voice like a glede under a door!’ In the dim light from the saloon doorway he saw a smile creep across the girl’s face and he went on in a mimicking tone. ‘Jack, fill the bottles! Jack, roll them barrels! Jack, do this – do that!’ He heard the girl chuckle quietly and swiftly moved on. ‘This place belongs to her – my mother – the one with a gob the size of England.’ Another giggle and Jack felt he was making headway. ‘So, are you going to tell me yer name?’
‘Dolly – everybody calls me Dolly Daydream,’ came the timid reply.
‘Oh, ain’t that nice? I like it – how do you feel about it?’ Jack asked.
‘I don’t mind it.’
‘What’s yer other name?’ Jack probed.
‘Perkins.’
‘Well, Dolly Perkins, what brings you here to The Crown Saloon?’ Hoping he was not pushing too hard, Jack kept his eyes on the doorway.
The Children from Gin Barrel Lane Page 1
