by Mary Gibson
‘I caught Stan spying on me through the hatch when I was getting changed for bed! So, course I give him a whack and pushed him down the stairs, dirty little sod. I’ll have to keep the hatch closed, but it’s stifling up there this weather.’
‘He should know better than to upset you by now!’
‘It’s getting worse there, Marge. Not just Stan. Janey never stops going on at me. She thinks I’m her skivvy. I’m just hoping she’ll meet someone and get married… Just think, Marge, there’s some poor unsuspecting feller out there, having a lovely life, and he don’t know what she’s got in store for him.’
Marge chuckled. ‘You’re terrible.’
‘It wouldn’t be so bad if I could keep more of me wages, but sometimes I don’t even have enough for a bar of soap.’
‘Don’t seem fair, love, having to buy your own soap out of the shilling she gives you back.’
Kate put down her tea tin. ‘Fair? Life ain’t, is it?’
*
When the dinner hooter screeched their release, Kate hung around, waiting for Conny. She saw the girl ambling up the factory floor, head down, in a world of her own, and had to call her twice before she looked up with a slow smile. Kate beckoned to her.
‘Conny, I daresay you think I’m nagging you all the time. But if you don’t start moving yourself, you’ll still be sweeping up when you’re sixty!’ Kate knew that Miss Dane had spotted early on that she herself was a quick learner as well as a hard worker and so she’d progressed quickly to the factory floor. But Kate suspected Conny wasn’t so much stupid as bone tired.
‘What’s keeping you awake at night?’ she asked.
Conny looked up in surprise. ‘How did you know that?’
‘You got purple rings as big as saucers under your eyes. And I swear half the time you’re leaning on that broom just to keep from falling over.’ Kate paused. ‘So, why ain’t you getting no kip?’
Conny’s eyes brimmed with tears, but she shook her head.
‘I can’t…’
‘You got your own bed?’
She nodded. ‘But I’m in the same room as me brothers – Wally, he’s five, and our little Alfie, he’s only three. Wouldn’t be so bad if it was just them, but me two stepbrothers are in with us as well.’
Kate nodded her head slowly and said in a low voice, ‘Is one of the boys pestering you of a night?’
Again, Conny’s eyes filled, but this time she gave a short nod. ‘Reg. I’m laying awake, waiting for him to start. I do me best to stop it, but he’s getting strong now, Kate, and I don’t know what to do!’
‘Listen to me, Conny. I’ll tell you exactly what to do. Come here.’
She led Conny to one of the coke ovens. A dozen soldering irons were waiting to go in. She picked one up. ‘See this? Quick, put it in your bag. You keep it in bed with you and if Reg starts tonight, you give him a bloody good wallop round the head with it! He won’t trouble you no more. In fact, I never go to bed without one meself!’ She grinned and Conny gave her a grateful hug. ‘Thanks, Kate.’ She smiled shyly. ‘You know I never mind you telling me to gee up – at least you notice me. No one else ever has – let alone that I’ve got dark rings!’
Conny left her with the beginnings of a spring in her step and the soldering iron tucked inside her bag.
Though Kate was happy she’d found a solution for Conny’s problem, her own home life was still too full of them. She’d had her struggles with Stan, but although he’d still peek at her if he could, he’d not bothered her so much since she’d armed herself with the soldering iron. As the day wore on, the heat from the coke ovens intensified and the fumes thickened, but still she dreaded going home. For even the hell of Boutle’s seemed preferable to Aunt Sylvie’s.
*
It was Friday – bath and hair-washing night. Kate’s job was to fill the copper in the scullery with water, then set a fire beneath to heat it up. First, she carried the tin bath into the kitchen from the yard and then filled it with bucket after bucket of hot water from the copper. The family took it in turns, each dirtying the water a little more. First Aunt Sylvie, then Janey and Stan. She had to make do with what was left after the others had finished.
Tonight, she waited for Stan to go up to bed before lowering herself into the bath with a groan. With only a small square of Sunlight soap to wash her body and hair, it wasn’t a luxurious bath, but she was grateful to be rid of the stench of solder, however briefly. As she reached over for the jug, her hand found a bottle. It was Janey’s Amami shampoo. Aunt Sylvie had forked out a small fortune for it and Kate knew the almond oil magic ingredient turned her cousin’s thatch of sandy hair into shining spun gold. She normally used shavings of Sunlight soap, which turned her own dark curls to wire wool. ‘You could scrub a pan out with yours, Kate, gel,’ she muttered, regarding the half-empty bottle of shampoo. ‘She’ll never notice a little bit,’ she told herself, unable to resist pouring some onto her palm. It smelt exotic and she inhaled deeply, rubbing it well in, enjoying the prospect of shiny hair tomorrow.
She rinsed it off and sat in front of the fire, drying her hair with her own towel. One of her first purchases with her allowance had been the whitest, fluffiest towel she could afford. For some reason Aunt Sylvie begrudged Kate using the family towels and she’d always dried herself on pieces of cut-up old sheets. But the white fluffy towel was more than a luxury, it was a link to another life. The feeling of being lifted from the tin bath by her mother, wrapped in a white towel, pre-warmed at the fire, was one of her sweetest memories of a time when she’d felt precious, and she took as much pleasure in the memory as in the towel itself.
Kate would have to empty the bath before she went to bed and hang it back out in the yard. But just for a few minutes, sitting alone, she returned to thoughts of her dad. Why couldn’t he spare even a day from his business – whatever that was – to come and see her? Her aunts might say he was avoiding painful memories of her mother, but Kate felt it must be something else. Surely a bad memory wouldn’t keep him from his only child. Perhaps he’d been ill and they hadn’t wanted to tell her? Or his business had got into trouble and he was just waiting for things to pick up before he came. He wanted it to be perfect for her. That must be it.
*
It was on the following evening that Janey rushed into the kitchen, breathless and indignant, waving her shampoo.
‘You sneaky tea leaf, Kate Goss. You’ve used all my shampoo! And don’t look all innocent, I know it was you. I left it in the kitchen after our baths and you was the last one in here.’
Kate was sure she’d used only a tiny amount. Janey must have put a mark on the bottle, and considering it was left handily beside the bath, Kate suspected she’d walked into a deliberate trap. What a fool.
‘I never touched your stinking shampoo. Why would I want to smell like you?’
Janey had made her accusation in front of everyone just as they were having tea. If there was one thing Aunt Sylvie hated it was disruption at mealtimes and, as a child, if she was late coming to the table Kate would always get her knuckles rapped with a spoon.
Now Janey launched herself at Kate, giving her a clout around the back of the head. She might have accepted that without retaliating, purely to keep Aunt Sylvie from weighing in, but she couldn’t swallow the jibe that followed the blow.
‘You’re just like your filthy tinker of a mother. Born in a filthy caravan, bet she never had a wash, let alone a bath!’
The memory of the fluffy white towel and her mother’s careful arms lifting her up stung Kate’s eyes with angry tears. She stood up with a roar so fierce her cousin blanched. Kate kicked over her chair and, scattering dinner plates from the table, lunged for Janey’s throat. As Aunt Sylvie tried to restrain her, Kate turned on her aunt with a snarl that brought fear to the woman’s astonished face. Then, grabbing Aunt Sylvie by her shoulders, she tossed her aside.
Janey backed away, but Kate sprang, pinning her cousin to the kitchen door, before pound
ing her fists into the girl. ‘You don’t talk about my mum!’ She emphasized each word with a blow. And as Janey slipped down, cowering on the floor, her hands covering her head, Kate’s blows battered her. Still, Kate felt an unsatisfying lack of contact with Janey’s skull. She felt hands grabbing her, pulling her from her wailing cousin, but her pure intention to inflict damage wasn’t to be diverted by the combined weight of Stan and Aunt Sylvie. She kicked back like a mule and Stan retreated, but not before she’d twisted to knee him in the groin. For some reason Aunt Sylvie let go briefly, long enough for Kate to deliver a final, satisfyingly solid punch to Janey’s nose. This time the girl screamed in agony as blood spurted, coating the back of Kate’s fist. She breathed in the sweet relief of anger expressed more fully than in all the long years of her torment. Janey was at the receiving end, but it could have been any of them.
Suddenly she was aware of another stream of blood, flowing over her arm, and it wasn’t Janey’s. It was a steady red jet, gushing out of her own arm, and now she saw the cause. A kitchen knife was sticking out of her forearm and Aunt Sylvie’s hand was gripping the handle.
It was only then that Kate felt pain shooting up her arm, grabbing her heart, knocking the breath from her. She pulled away but Aunt Sylvie’s hold was strong and the effect was to drag the knife along Kate’s arm, scoring it deeply. She cried out and Aunt Sylvie let go, rushing to help Janey.
‘You’ve gone and broke her nose! Hold this over it, love.’ Aunt Sylvie used her apron to staunch the blood pouring from Janey’s nose. ‘Stan, run round the doctor’s. She can’t breathe.’
There was a shift in Kate’s vision, which she knew was not physical. She was seeing through the eyes of her childish self, all the horror-struck faces in the room were hazy, the one clear image that was sharp-edged and bright was that of her father. If he could see her now. He would be sorry. Sorry he’d left her to their mercy.
‘Dad,’ she heard herself whisper hoarsely as she reached for him, before falling, the knife still firmly embedded in her blood-drenched arm.
*
When Kate woke, she was aware of her arm only as an agony-filled balloon, twice its normal size. The knife had been removed and her arm expertly bandaged. What struck her immediately was not that she’d been stabbed, but that she was in the front room. The front room was out of bounds to her, unless it was to dust. She’d sat in there no more than a dozen times – once for every Christmas she’d spent here. The fact frightened her. She must be dying if her aunt had allowed her to be placed on her best furniture. Still being paid for on tick, it was now in danger of being ruined by Kate’s blood, as it flowered red on the white bandage. She called out, but the house was all quiet. On the mantelpiece the heavy, wooden-cased clock ticked with ear-splitting precision. Through the sash window Kate saw a reddish full moon, lurid against an inky-black sky. Everyone must still be asleep. She tried to get up from the sofa, but was immediately pinned by pain, like a moth to a board. She grimaced, making no sound. Instinctively feeling that, more than ever, in this house she needed to stay invisible, unheard. Just until morning.
Stan was the first to venture in. She heard him breathing over her and woke to find his face inches from hers.
‘I thought you was fuckin’ dead,’ he said and then grinned. ‘You might wish you was once Mum’s finished with you!’
‘How’s Janey?’ she croaked, propping herself up with her good arm.
‘Her face’s wrapped up like a mummy and for once she can’t open her gob, so you done us all a favour there. You’ve got a right-hander like Jack Dempsey’s,’ he said with grudging admiration. ‘The doctor says you’ve broke her nose.’ He shook his head. ‘I heard Aunt Sarah say once that your dad had a vicious temper. Maybe you take after him more than your mum, though don’t tell anyone I said that.’ He hitched up the collar of his jacket and walked out, leaving the door ajar.
She had no memory of her dad’s temper, but then half her memories had been supplied by Aunt Sylvie, who never criticized Archie Goss. She swung her feet onto the floor, cradling her arm. It would have to be her soldering hand, damn it. She grimaced. Perhaps she’d be joining Conny today, back on cleaning duties. Better that than be sent home with no pay. She guessed she’d have to keep Aunt Sylvie sweet for a year after this lot.
She heard movement in the kitchen and got up. She might as well get it over with and face the old witch. Besides, she needed to know if her injury was as serious as it felt. She pushed open the kitchen door and took in the blood-spattered wall, and then the reddish stain on the lino. Her aunt was on her knees scrubbing at it with soapy water. She looked as if she’d seen a ghost.
‘What are you doing up? Go back in the front room. The doctor said you wouldn’t have the strength to walk after all the blood you lost!’ Her aunt’s face was grey and there was something in her eyes Kate hadn’t seen before. Was it guilt?
‘Did you think you’d done me in?’ Kate asked, but she saw no remorse in her aunt’s eyes. Rather, Kate’s presence seemed to cow her, which was a new experience. She stared at her aunt and saw it again. Fear. Not for Kate’s safety, but for her own. Aunt Sylvie was frightened of her! Though she couldn’t imagine why – after all, Kate hadn’t been the one brandishing a kitchen knife. ‘You thought I was coming in to finish what I started!’ Kate looked down at her aunt and laughed. Which was a mistake.
‘Don’t you threaten me, you vicious little cow!’ She threw the wooden scrubbing brush at Kate. It missed. ‘I ain’t having you in this house to murder us in our beds!’
Kate didn’t move. Her aunt stood up and pointed to the old tin box from her garret.
‘Get your clobber and sling yer hook out of it. It’s all there.’
This was the last consequence Kate had imagined. She’d expected a thump from her aunt and the silent treatment from the others.
‘But I ain’t got nowhere to go! This is me home.’
Her aunt pulled a face of disgust. ‘This ain’t your home! And it never has been. If it hadn’t been for my Archie begging me to look after you, I’d ’ave chucked you back to the tinkers you come from. But I’ve done me duty.’ She folded her arms. ‘You’re old enough now. You can go and see what it’s like fending for yourself.’
Kate tried desperately to stop her body from trembling. She wanted to draw on the anger of last night, but it had burned away to a spluttering ember. She blew on it. ‘You’ll be in trouble with my dad when he comes back!’ she yelled. ‘Wait till I tell him you’ve never give me a penny of what he sends!’
Aunt Sylvie gave her a pitying smile, but there was no compassion in it. ‘My brother has got more important things to worry about than you, and in case you hadn’t noticed he’s not been near nor by you for ten years.’
Kate’s lips trembled. ‘Nor you,’ she said carefully and watched as her aunt’s face flushed.
‘Because he’s been abroad building his business! He writes to me.’
Now she had Kate’s full attention. ‘You never told me that! Did he say anything about me?’
Aunt Sylvie shook her head slowly. ‘Not a word. I told you years ago, Kate. You died to him the day she did. And I lost me brother because of her.’ Kate had never seen her aunt cry, not even when Uncle Tom was killed in the war. But now a single tear trickled down her pallid cheek. She turned away.
‘You’re not welcome in my house. Go on, out of it, and don’t you dare show your face here again!’
‘Don’t worry. I wouldn’t come back to this shithole, not if you paid me!’
Kate picked up the pathetically light tin box and charged out of the house into East Lane. When she heard the door click shut behind her, in spite of having no idea where she’d sleep that night, she felt a surge of irrational elation. There were many things Aunt Sylvie had said which she didn’t believe, but her aunt was right about one thing – this had never been her home.
3
The Tin Box
1923
Kate picked up the ti
n box and lifted the lid. A quick glance confirmed it contained all her belongings. Her best brown frock, her coat, a change of underwear, her soap and the fluffy white towel. Along with it was her mother’s rosary, holy medal, prayer book and a bottle of Atkinson’s White Rose perfume whose contents had long ago evaporated. Kate let her feet take her to the only place that felt like home – Boutle’s the tin bashers in Wild’s Rents.
When she got there, Miss Dane immediately noticed the bandage.
‘What’s happened there? Did you cut it yesterday on the tinplate?’
Kate nodded. ‘It’s nothing much.’ She walked to her bench but Miss Dane insisted on replacing the bloody bandage. Like all the supervisors, she carried dressings and plasters for on-the-job first aid. The forelady dipped into her deep overall pocket and brought out a roll of bandage, some gauze and a small pair of scissors. Miss Dane had been with the firm for over twenty years, in which time she’d treated everything from burned fingertips to severed hands. Now concern clouded her face as she peeled off Kate’s bandage.
‘This looks too deep for a tinplate cut.’ The soldering room was the least hygienic of places, but Miss Dane went to work, deftly applying the fresh gauze dressing and bandage. Normally, she kept a strict distance between herself and ‘her girls’, but today she broke her own rule.
‘Kate, I’m not stupid.’ She kept her voice low. ‘This is from a knife. Who did it? Do you want me to get the police in?’
Kate shook her head. ‘No! It’ll just make more trouble. It was my fault anyway. Got into a fight with me cousin and Aunt Sylvie stopped me with a kitchen knife…’ Saying it out loud made her feel ashamed. But Miss Dane was the nearest thing to a confessor and so she added, ‘I was sorry I broke Janey’s nose, though… it was crooked enough as it was!’
Miss Dane’s shoulders shook as she suppressed her laughter. ‘Kate Goss. No one gets anything over on you, do they?’
