9
Though the sun was shining from a cloudless blue sky, the blue the colour of a duck egg, it was bitterly cold with a crackling coverlet of hoar frost underfoot. The frost even helped to disguise the ugliness and filth of Angel Meadow, painting the roofs and window ledges, the piles of rubbish, the cracked pavements and cracked doorsteps with a shining silvery white which dazzled like scattered diamonds in the sunshine. It was a Sunday and there was no one about, for even those who were to attend mass had decided that the later one would do when perhaps the streets would be “aired”. They huddled together under their thin coverlets or sat over carefully nursed nuggets of coal on fires that were barely alight, cursing the winter and all its tribulations. Life was hard at all times of the year, wages earned, when not poured down the throats of the men in the beer house, eked out to keep body and soul together, but in the winter it was malevolent. They fought it, some more savagely than others, but it was hard going until spring came to ease the burden.
Nancy Brody’s fire leaped cheerfully up her chimney and had they seen it would have caused serious envy among her neighbours. She sat with her feet on the fender, brooding into the flames, her face pale and sombre. The room was warm, since she had left the fire in last night. She had banked it up with clinkers and ashes saved especially for the purpose in the ancient bucket Mick O’Rourke had mended for her mam many years ago and which was kept at the side of the chimney breast. Nothing was wasted in this household, not a scrap of food nor a scrap of material, not a button nor a pin nor a spoonful of water, not a farthing spent unnecessarily; and as soon as spring came she and Jennet were to hire three sewing-machines and move them in here. There had to be enough money to keep all four of them until the business began to make a profit. There was cotton cloth to be bought, thread, needles, oil for the machines and money enough to rent a stall in the market on which to display and sell their goods. Initially she had intended that she and the girls would move on from Mr Earnshaw’s in Brown Street, where the business of shirtmaking took place, to the production of undergarments and baby clothes in the sweat shops on Shude Hill. But it appeared there was no need, for Jennet knew all there was to know about such things, since she had been employed in their manufacture before being taken on at Earnshaw’s. Jennet was invaluable with her knowledge of the trade, knowing exactly where to purchase what was necessary, especially the fabric. They must make every farthing count, for if they failed it would be back to the sweated trade of shirtmaking for Mr Earnshaw or someone like him. They must not fail. She repeated the words over and over again, trying to regain the enthusiasm, the sheer, overpowering excitement that had surged through her for a long time now, but despair, something she had never allowed herself to suffer before, swept it all away on a wave of hopelessness that she could not seem to swim out of.
She sighed deeply, allowing her glance to wander round the room in which she had taken such pride. She had made it what it was. She had overcome the filth, the squalor, the misery, though she still lived, with the rest of the denizens of Angel Meadow, in unpaved streets, strewn with offal and refuse, airless cul-de-sacs and noisome alleyways. Among huge, unsightly, shapeless mills, towering chimneys which tainted the sky to a dull, leaden colour, the cesspools and ash-pits which were a familiar part of her everyday life. But her determination, her sheer bloody-minded determination had lifted her out of the life the others led, the life they saw no chance of changing nor had the will to try. It had given her the resolution to sweep aside all obstacles that might stand in the way of what she wanted for herself and her sisters. It had made a shining path that was hers to follow. It had got them this far but now . . . now, how was she to survive this last and fatal blow? This room was a symbol of all she had achieved. Nobody else in Church Court had strips of matting spread on a floor from which you could have eaten your dinner, nor two armchairs and a settle. None of the neighbours except Mick O’Rourke had been inside in all the years the Brody girls had lived alone, but if they had they would have been open-mouthed with wonder at the sight of the whitewashed walls, the cupboard in which were displayed her precious assortment of mismatched crockery, her skillet and stewpan, her teatray, her clock and the pictures, cheap prints, that hung on her wall, her cracked ornaments, all costing next to nothing but loved just the same. Upstairs were two iron bedsteads with spotless feather mattresses and regularly changed bedding, warm blankets and even, bought in a dreadful fit of extravagance, a couple of worn patchwork quilts. She shared one bed with Jennet and the second was occupied by her sisters.
She had come so far, she, Nancy Brody, daughter of Angel Meadow’s whore and now that was what they were going to call her. Like mother, like daughter, they would say, which didn’t matter, for what did she care what people thought or said? What had she ever cared about the opinions of the people who lived beside her? What mattered was the enormous extra burden, the impediment, the strain this would put on not just her but on Jennet and the girls.
She leaned forward and grasped her knees with both hands as though in deep pain, gritting her teeth until they ground together. Great God above, what was she to do, what was she to do?
A sound behind her made her lift her head hurriedly and turn, doing her best to smile at Jennet who stood hesitantly at the foot of the stairs. Like Nancy she still wore just her nightgown. She bit her lip and half smiled, waiting for Nancy to say something, for Jennet was a private person who believed that others deserved to be private too. Then, as though it were not really her business – but how could she ignore what was obviously Nancy’s pain? – she came forward and, sitting in the chair opposite, she leaned forward and took her hand in both of hers.
“What is it, Nancy? What’s bothering you? You haven’t been yourself for weeks now. Can you not tell me what it is? I’m, I hope, your friend. You have done so much for me I long to repay you in some way.”
Nancy gripped Jennet’s hands fiercely and her face spasmed with some deep-felt emotion. “God almighty, don’t you think you haven’t done that already? I couldn’t have done . . . anything without you.”
Jennet didn’t even wince at the blasphemy nor the vice-like grip of her friend’s hands. “Of course you could, Nancy Brody,” she said quietly. “I wasn’t here when you achieved this,” looking round the cosy room. “I wasn’t here when you found work for yourself and your sisters. I wasn’t here when you went to Sunday school and learned to read and write. You did all that, you alone, for your sisters merely followed where you led. Now, something has happened and it is dragging you down, tearing you apart, I can see it and I want you to tell me what it is. I . . . well, tell me to mind my own business if you want but I’m your friend. I . . . I’m very fond of you, Nancy, and friends, true friends, help one another.”
“You can do nothing to help me with this, Jennet Williams, so go back to bed and . . .” Nancy’s voice was harsh in her effort not to weep. This was what she was afraid of. Weeping, crying her eyes out, and Jennet’s soft sympathy was about to start her off. She had sworn she wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t let any man make her cry but it was Jennet who was doing it and she resented it.
“Don’t be so bloody foolish.” The words were spoken coldly and Nancy lifted her bent head in astonishment.
“Why, Jennet, I’ve never heard you swear before.”
“You’re enough to make a saint swear, my girl, and it’s no good looking at me like that. You’re in trouble and I’m—”
“Yes, the worse sort, Jennet,” Nancy interrupted sadly. “The worst sort of trouble an unmarried woman can be in and I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what that is.”
For several seconds Jennet stared at her uncomprehendingly then her pale face became even paler and her eyes grew wide with shock.
“Yes, you may well look amazed and so was I, though why that should be, I don’t know. When a woman lies with a man it is a natural consequence.”
“Nancy ! You have . . .” Jennet gulped, for it seemed she was incapable of repeatin
g the words Nancy had spoken.
“Aye. Oh, not voluntarily, believe me. I wasn’t going to tell you, or anybody, if nothing had come of it but I’m afraid I won’t be able to hide the result before very long. I was raped, Jennet.”
“Dear Lord above!”
“Yes, on a grave in the churchyard.”
“Dear sweet Jesus!”
“Oh, He was no help to me, Jennet, I can assure you. I was on sacred ground but there was no help from that quarter. I was dragged off the street, knocked unconscious and raped. Before he . . . he did it he offered to marry me which I suppose was very generous of him but I refused, which he seemed to think gave him the right to . . . Oh, Jennet, what am I to do? Jennet . . . Jennet.”
With a soft cry Jennet swept Nancy into her arms, clutching her tightly, smoothing her cloud of curly hair, letting her weep the tears that had been dammed inside her for weeks. She said nothing, for what was there to say at this moment? Nancy was desolate, but if Jennet knew her friend, and she did, she would get over this in time. She would need the strength of others now, at least until she had regained her own and Jennet meant to be one of those others. She was horrified, repelled by the act that had brought Nancy to this; brave, courageous Nancy who had struggled so resolutely to escape from Angel Meadow. Jennet had been brought up in the gentle refinement of the vicarage and had, somehow, despite her squalid years in the sweat shop in Brown Street, and her bare room in Fennel Street, kept her gentleness and her refinement, for inside her bird-like frame was a core of steel without which she would not have survived. Now that steel was at Nancy’s disposal.
Nancy wept for ten minutes, silently but savagely and all the while Jennet rocked her and soothed her, much as Nancy had wanted on the night Mick O’Rourke had taken her down. She wept a little herself, for she was a woman too and with that sense that women possess could imagine, as though it had happened to her, what Nancy had suffered. She produced a clean handkerchief, a relic of her days as parson’s daughter, handing it to Nancy who blew her nose vigorously, then sat back in her chair. She looked at the handkerchief and with a touch of returned humour, grimaced. “What the devil is this bit of nonsense? It’s scarcely big enough for a sparrow.”
“I know, but it’s all I had.”
“Thank you.” They looked into one another’s face, both searching for something and, finding it, sighed then smiled.
“You’ll do, Nancy,” Jennet told her softly but sternly.
“I know that, lass. I know that now.”
“We make a good team.”
“I know that, too.”
“I’ll make a cup of tea.”
“That’d be nice, then I’m going out.”
Jennet, who had stood up to reach for the teapot and caddy, whirled about to face her. Her face was afraid for a moment as though she suspected Nancy of hurrying to the nearest back-street abortionist of whom there were plenty in Angel Meadow. Nancy smiled and reached for her hand, then in a rare demonstration of affection, placed her cheek along the back of it.
“I won’t do anything stupid, Jennet. I just need to collect my thoughts, be on my own for . . .”
“Let me come with you.”
“No, Jennet, not this time. When I get back we’ll sit down together and make our plans. I’ll . . . I’ll have to tell the girls and that won’t be easy. They liked him, the man who did it and I’m sure you know who that was.”
“I guessed. He’s been bothering you for a long time.”
“He won’t bother me again, I can tell you, but as sure as God’s my witness, I’ll bother him.”
She skirted Strangeways Park until she reached the quiet, tree-lined thoroughfare known as Bury New Road. Here the frost had laid a delicate finger along branch and bush and dying leaf, turning the everyday world into a magical glory of white and glittering silver and at each step she took Nancy felt her heart lighten. Here was space and purity, a world she had never seen before, since, except for the walk along Hyde Road when he had taken them to Belle Vue, she had never walked a country road. There were fields on either side all crisped over with the white dazzle of the frost and here and there along the way high walls that hid the grand houses of the cotton princes of Manchester, their fancy wrought-iron gates shut against intruders. Beyond the gates she could see neatly raked gravel drives, massed shrubberies, trees which hid the house and now and again a broad sweep of immaculate frosted lawn edged with flowerbeds, empty of colour at this time of the year. She stood like a child at the window of a toy shop, her hands gripping the gate, her nose pressed between the bars, staring in wonder, her sigh of rapture expelling a cloud of breath about her head.
She turned left along a lane which advertised on a neat sign that it was Broughton Lane. It was as deserted as Bury New Road except for a milk float, the driver of which raised his cap politely.
“Nippy this mornin’,” he told her and she smiled despite herself.
“It is that.”
She let her shawl slip back from her head and her hair, which this morning she had brushed vigorously, fiercely, as though brushing out some demon, clouded about her head and down her back in its usual mass of ringlets as she flipped it outside the shawl. There were more houses surrounded by fields and she imagined what it must be like to wake up each morning, draw back the curtains and see nothing but greenery, meadows carpeted with wild flowers, the clutter of mill chimneys and factories far away and hidden from view. One day . . . one day!
There was a bridge and on the right beyond it a stretch of woodland, the bridge spanning what she supposed was the River Irwell. She stood for five minutes, her arms on the parapet, looking down into the sliding waters, her face serene now, for what was the use of mourning for what was gone, for despairing over what was done. She had Jennet and the girls. She had the small hoard of coins behind the brick in the bedroom. She had her health and strength and she had her plans which no man, least of all Mick O’Rourke, would be allowed to interfere with. She did not let her thoughts wander to the coming child nor to what was to happen to it, and her, when it arrived. It would have to be fitted in to their lives somehow, she supposed. She didn’t want it, naturally, but it would be hers, her responsibility like all the others she had accumulated in her young life and she would not shirk it. She would survive it and one day . . . one day . . .
Those magical repeated words made her smile, then, her feet slithering down the frosted bank, like a child on a helter-skelter, she stepped between the dark trunks of the trees. It was enchantment. Every tree and bush was as sharp as ebony against the pale blue of the sky, the low sunlight shining through the bare branches and slanting across the slight, lavender-coloured mist that drifted above the ground. There were long shadows of deep purple stretching across the woodland floor, formed by the sun shining through the lace of the thin branches. Every stalk of what she thought must be fern or bracken stood to attention, frozen in a patina of glittering ivory and across a smooth carpet of white were the imprints of a small animal. She was bewitched, frozen herself to the spot where she had entered the woodland, wanting to weep, not this time in desolation, but in joy. It was as though the wonder, the beauty, the sheer magic of this tiny piece of what was still, really, her Manchester, had finally and irrevocably delivered her from her dread of what was to come, revealing to her another side of life, bringing her out into what could only be the fulfilment of her dreams. She was quite shaken, not only by this revelation but by the hushed beauty of the white and shaded world that had caused it.
She stepped carefully between the trunks of the trees as though it were sacrilege to leave a mark in this perfect place and when she came to the other side she let out her breath on a long sigh of sheer delight. It might not last, this feeling. There would be troubles enough and to spare in the months ahead but now, at this moment, she knew she was perfectly capable of dealing with them all.
The river lay to her right and, holding her shawl loosely about her shoulders, she strode out on the path that ran b
eside it, her head constantly turning to look about her. There were houses on the far side of the river, their gardens running right down to the water, trees sheltering them along the water’s edge. She walked for several minutes wondering, as she stepped out, what the old, ruined building ahead of her was. There was a narrow lane to the left of her, leading, or so it seemed, to the ruins which were half hidden behind a screen of mixed trees, beech and, she thought, hornbeam. Since their visit to Belle Vue and the lovely walk she had shared with Mary and Rosie and him, she had taken to dipping into books on trees and flowers, and even birds and had begun to recognise some of those she had seen there.
She skirted the castle, thinking perhaps she would bring Jennet and the girls out here for a picnic in the spring, assiduously avoiding the matter of how she herself might be by then. Her shape and size and . . . well, whatever. There were several flat-topped stones that looked as though they might once have been part of a wall, sheltered and yet in a scrap of sunshine. She sat down on one and leaned her back against another higher one and with a contented sigh closed her eyes and let the peace and stillness and total emptiness of the space about her seep through her pores into the centre of her.
She had no idea how long she had been there but it had given the sun time to move across the sky and leave her in the shade and she was cold, but it was not this that had wakened her. She was not awfully sure she had been asleep, just in a light daydream, but there was the sound of boots crunching in the crisp frosted ground, the rattle of something that might be a bridle and the blowing snort of a horse that has been ridden hard. She didn’t know how she recognised these sounds since she had no knowledge of horses but when her eyes sprang open she was not surprised to find she was right.
There was a man, tall, with a big flowing cape which seemed to billow out like a bat’s wings behind him and for a moment she shrank away as he strode towards her, leading the horse by the bridle, a horse she seemed to recognise. It was a lovely polished chestnut colour, rich and showy and still, she had time to notice, pulling at the restraining hand of the horseman and fractiously tossing her handsome head.
Angel Meadow Page 13
