The Orphans of Ardwick

by Emma Hornby

  Pip bit down on her lip until she tasted blood, her every nerve urging her to spring on them, stop this monster from harming the boy further. Yet still, fear held her back and she cursed her cowardice. The gentleman’s breathing had quickened and it seemed his victim had given up resisting; he uttered no sound, now. Suddenly, Mack’s bonny grin and laughing blue eyes crashed through Pip’s mind and hot fury flooded her veins. Of their own accord, her hands balled into tight fists. She stepped into view. ‘’Ere, stop!’

  With a gasp, the gentleman whipped around.

  ‘You’ll harm the mite no further, d’you hear?’ she announced boldly, though the quaver behind the words gave her terror away and she cursed inwardly. She cleared her throat to banish the shakiness. ‘You leave him be.’

  ‘I don’t believe … You again?’ In one swift movement, the gentleman lunged, catching her off guard. She lost her footing and his face twisted in a grim smile as she hurtled backwards. Her buttocks hit the hard flags first, the impact stealing the breath from her, and she rolled into the gutter, hitting her head on the journey, to lie in the filth in a crumpled heap. Through bleary eyes, she peered up, a hand out in front of her to ward off his inevitable advance. ‘Nay, leave me … Someone help me!’ she cried hoarsely, trying to haul herself up.

  Clogged steps struck the cobbles as the little boy made his escape up Great Ancoats Street; swearing under his breath, the man threw Pip a furious look. ‘You interfering gutter-dog. I’ll snuff you out this time, you see if I don’t! It’s not as though anyone shall miss or mourn a parasite such as you, is it?’ He closed in on her, fingers, like bony talons, outstretched, and a scream ripped from her. To her relief, her act had the desired effect: he paused, worry flitting across his long face, and glanced left and right.

  Taking advantage of the moment’s distraction, she skittered to her feet. Her head felt weightless, her vision fuzzy. When she reached up to the tender spot that had made contact with the ground, something hot and sticky met her touch. Blood. Her hair was wet with it and she knew a moment’s panic as dizziness swooped again, stronger than before.

  Please don’t let me faint, for I’ll be at this devil’s mercy completely and Lord knows what he’s capable of, she willed herself as she swayed slightly on the spot. She had to get away. She must, but how? His looming form would be on her before she could take a few steps. Help me, Lord, please!

  Assistance came not from God, but from two figures turning the corner.

  The gentleman, peering towards the newcomers with a mixture of scorn and unease, drew in a furious breath. Pip took her chance. Surely he wouldn’t seize her or give chase with witnesses up ahead? Twisting on her heel, she bolted in a somewhat drunken sprint in the opposite direction. Her own were the only pounding feet to be heard. The gentleman hadn’t set off after her in pursuit; relieved tears sprang to her eyes. Gasping, she continued down the street, trying desperately to regain her balance. Her injured head had begun to thump and nausea was rising.

  Before hurtling around the corner into the inky blackness of Mather Street, she thought she heard someone call her name. Certain it was her muddled senses playing games, she didn’t stop. Nor did she look back. Ignoring her burning lungs, she picked up her feet and ran faster.

  A few turnings later – how many, she couldn’t say, couldn’t be sure of anything, now – kaleidoscopic colours popped and burst behind her eyes, merging with the pewter of the cobblestones. She was aware of juddering to a halt in the centre of the road. Then weight left her body and she folded to the floor in a dead faint.

  ‘Ay, you’re for wakening finally. All right, lass?’

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘Drink this.’

  Fiery liquid trickled down her throat and she gagged and spluttered. Though surprisingly, after some seconds, it seemed to help. The pain she felt in numerous places numbed to a dull ache and the muggy feeling inside her head slowly subsided.

  ‘’Tis brandy, is all. For the shock, like.’

  Pip squinted through the gloomy light of a single candle. A squat man in his middle years sat on a low stool beside her, stroking his long dirty beard, eyes holding relief. She raised herself on an elbow. ‘Where am I?’

  ‘Nan Nuttall’s place.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Nan Nuttall. She runs the common lodging house you’re sitting in.’ He rose and crossed to a small deal table propped against one wall. A fire burning low in the grate lent some of its meagre light to his features. He was painfully thin, she saw; his sunken cheekbones and hungry stare, as he tore with his hands a heel of loaf in two, were testament to a strife-worn life. Returning to her, he held out a piece.

  Having grown accustomed to Bracken House’s regular meals, which were of substantial proportions, her stomach seemed no longer the shrunken thing it had been. Used to being filled now, and not having eaten since lunchtime, the hunger she’d been fortunate not to know for a while had crept upon her like a stealthy foe. That familiar instinct of survival told her to snatch the crust and feed, but she had to ask: ‘Mister, is tha sure?’

  ‘Aye. Go on, take it.’

  ‘Ta, thanks.’

  ‘Nowt left to drink, mind,’ he told her through a mouthful of stale crumbs. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ she lied, quite desperate for a sup of milky tea.

  ‘Folks calls me Peter.’

  ‘I’m Pip.’

  ‘Pip?’ His brows, like fat slugs, bunched together. ‘Like what you find in fruit?’

  She shrugged. ‘S’pose so.’

  ‘Aye, well. Takes all sorts to make a world.’

  She nodded and they lapsed into silence as they ate their spartan meal. Afterwards, she felt much better. She fingered the back of her head. Though it was tender to the touch, the blood flow had at least ceased.

  ‘Took a tumble, did thee?’ Peter motioned to her injury.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘That’ll be what had you passing out, no doubt, as you did. I spotted thee in the road, thought you were a dead dog forra minute. Gave me a shock, you did, when I saw you were a lass.’

  ‘You carried me in here?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Ta. Ta, Peter.’

  It seemed to take an effort to bring a small smile to his lips, as though he wasn’t used to it. Mind, given his obvious circumstances, it was little wonder. A body on the dire side of life had little reason to smile.

  ‘There’s many a bad ’un lurking round these ’ere streets when the sun’s high – the night hours are worser still. And well, when I spied you by chance through the window … I couldn’t very well leave thee alone out there, could I?’

  The truth in his words she understood only too well. She shuddered. ‘Ta,’ she repeated.

  ‘You destitute, like?’ he asked, as though sensing her experiences of the past.

  She hesitated in giving an affirmative answer. But why? She was, wasn’t she? A lump formed in her throat. That she was back on these mean streets again! The horror, fear, uncertainty – and this time all alone. Lord, how would she bear it?

  ‘Thought as much. Mind, to look at thee …’ He nodded to her dress.

  She clapped a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh! Oh nay, I …’ Shame coloured her cheeks. In her haste earlier, she’d forgotten all about her clothing, should have given everything back straight away. What must the household think of her? A thief as well as a brute … ‘I stole it,’ she whispered.

  ‘Aye, well. We does what we must, eh?’

  ‘Nay, you don’t under— I’ve never once stolen owt in my life afore.’

  ‘Don’t fret much over it. All will seem brighter the morrow, it allus does. You’re welcome of my bed. The floor don’t mither me; it’s not like I ain’t passed a night on t’ ground afore now. And these here boards look a sight comfier than the flagstones out yonder. I’m just blessed of the dry roof over me. And the warmth. Aye, I’ll be reet in front of yon fire.’

  Relief washed through Pip. Thoughts
of returning outside, where that devilish gentleman and others of his ilk roamed, had her shaking with dread. ‘Won’t Nan Nuttall mind?’

  It was his turn to shrug. ‘Whether she will or no, it’ll be too late, won’t it, by morning? She’ll not venture down here no more the night.’

  ‘But happen she sends thee packing? What will you do the morrow night?’

  He released a gruff chuckle. ‘I haven’t the brass for the morrow’s bed and ain’t likely to find it, so there’s no worry on that score. In any case, I’m for moving on come daybreak.’ He made for the table again and lifted the stub of candle. ‘Come on, I’ll show you to next door. ’Tis sleep you need; to heal, like. You’ll feel better come morning.’

  It was now that Pip realised they were in some mode of communal kitchen-cum-sitting area. Light from the candle Peter now held up showed a small, grubby-looking cooking range with a few sagging chairs crushed around it. Besides the table she’d already seen, several stools and empty wooden crates completed the furnishings. It wasn’t grand like Bracken House, by any stretch of the imagination. Yet as Peter had pointed out, it was at least dry. And preferable to the streets in that it was safe, if nothing else.

  They entered a long room crammed with iron bedsteads; in here, filth and poverty stagnated the air like a noxious gas. Trying not to openly grimace, she followed the man to an empty bed squeezed between two others, the walking space leading to it barely passable, so narrow was it. This Nan Nuttall knew how to make brass, all right, Pip thought, reckoning there should be half the number of beds in here. But, beggars couldn’t be choosers, could they? And that’s what she was, now, once again. At least she would have to be tomorrow if she wanted to eat, survive. And the day after that, and the next day … God above, she was going to cry again.

  ‘You’ll receive no trouble from any person here present,’ he said loud enough for the seemingly slumbering room to hear. He added in a clear and grim warning, ‘Mind, if you’ve need of me, just yell.’

  ‘Ta, ever so,’ she whispered, hoping his veiled threat to the others would be sufficient to steer them away from trying anything with her and that she wouldn’t be in want of his assistance. She knew what folk who frequented these establishments were capable of. The dregs of society, all ages and every manner of criminal and sinner passed through the doors of lodging houses such as these, which choked every pocket of this city. She, Simon and Mack had passed a night here and there in such places when they could spare the pennies.

  Peter left to return to the room next door and she glanced at the dark lumps of humanity all around her, huddled from the biting cold beneath every manner of coverings: threadbare blankets and sheets, and ragged scraps of material that had once been God only knew what; even newspaper. Anything that could be used to chase the chill from your bones, was.

  Thoughts of Cook’s clean and comfortable bed, the boys’ warm bodies snuggled close either side of her, the heady sense of sheer contentment she’d known and wouldn’t again brought back the agonising ache inside. She clenched her teeth together tightly to quash her emotion. She couldn’t let it escape, she couldn’t, for she’d never be able to stem it. She felt torn to bits inside, worse than she’d ever known or thought possible. Broken, utterly. Alone. And she wouldn’t ever be mended. She couldn’t make this better. No one could.

  Thoughts consumed with loss, she unlaced and removed her new boots through instinct alone and placed them under her lumpy, and rather smelly, pillow. Experience had taught her that desperate people carried out desperate deeds – any possessions that could be spirited away from the sleeping would be, and it would be a miracle indeed if you ever saw them or the perpetrators again. Then she laid her head down, dragged the scant covers around her and pulled her body into a tight ball.

  My lads, my lads. The silent cry repeated like a mantra in her tortured mind. Just before a restless sleep claimed her, words from another whispered alongside them, and Pip frowned softly.

  ‘She’s the one put Miss Lucy up to this, I’ll be bound.’

  The memory of Hardman’s speech, and the truth of it, left Pip as cold as it had last time.

  ‘Caroline Goldthorpe needs getting rid of …’

  Before exhaustion claimed her, Pip’s head moved of its own accord in a nod.

  For good and proper.

  Chapter 12

  WHEN PIP AWOKE, Peter was gone.

  It was shortly after sunrise and most of the beds’ occupants were still snoring when she’d jolted from a bad dream. After slipping on her boots, she’d padded to the communal room only to find it empty. A feeling of sadness had overcome her and it remained with her still as she exited the lodging house and made off aimlessly down the frost-stroked street.

  She would have liked the opportunity to thank the man who had come to her rescue last night. Plucking her from the cobbles and carrying her to safety, he’d saved her from God alone knew what fate – as he’d pointed out, the slums were a danger to man, beast, and all in between once the sun retired for the night. He’d shared what little food he’d had with her, not to mention the last of his brandy; all that kept his chill body warm most nights, no doubt. His bed, that he’d likely had to beg the brass to pay for, he’d given up for her. More importantly, he’d been kind, understanding. And he hadn’t expected nor wanted a single thing in return. Some folk – aye, there were still some around despite it feeling to the contrary at times – really were golden hearted.

  Pip said a prayer for him. Then she wrapped her arms around herself as a shield from the cold and trudged on to London Road, where she knew it would be busiest.

  Cotton mill and factory workers had long since begun their shifts, and mostly she encountered a multitude of street traders, hawkers, dead-eyed men scouring the city in search of a day’s work and swarms of barefoot children. Women were in short supply; those not in employment would be occupied tending to home and hearth.

  She attempted to beg from one or two people but found the words wouldn’t come and, mumbling apologies, she’d scuttle off, face ablaze. She couldn’t do this alone. Realisation had panic gripping her chest like a physical thing. She didn’t want to – shouldn’t have to. She was guilty of nothing, nothing! Injustice stung afresh. She needed the lads, needed Bracken House. Lord, how would she survive? The sudden thought that if this was life from now on then she’d rather cease to be, entered her mind and instantly she was sorry. Folk desperate to live died by the second from all manner of causes the world over: disease, old age, even murder – who was she to warrant such a notion, young and healthy as she was? But oh, she was desperately lonely, afraid, hadn’t the slightest idea what she was to do.

  On she roamed, with little thought or reason, and by midday, the gnawing hunger she’d felt upon awakening had developed, like a growling monster dwelling within her. Her throat was parched and her new boots had rubbed her heels to ribbons. The pain in her heart, however, outweighed all.

  As the minutes and then hours crawled along, she found herself thinking more and more of Jess Hardman and her whisper to meet her today. What could she want? She detested her and the lads at the best of times; why choose to go out of her way to meet with Pip? Mind, the housemaid had said before, hadn’t she, that her hatred for Caroline Goldthorpe burned brighter. Did she have some plan or other to be rid of the lady, which she’d admitted she wanted to do, and needed her help to achieve it? Well, Hardman could go and whistle. As much as she disliked Lucy’s mother too, Pip wanted no part in whatever scheme the housemaid had up her sleeve.

  Or do I? her mind whispered. Wouldn’t life be much easier all round if Caroline was gone? I might just be able to return to Bracken House if she was and … Common sense returned, scattering the tempting possibility from her mind. Despite everything, she didn’t want to seek revenge. She wasn’t that kind of a person. Caroline and others like her were the wicked ones, not she. Bitterness had no part in her life, never had, for it was a fruitless emotion sure to bring but misery to the one who har
boured it. Her sins would catch up with the woman eventually, God always made sure of it. At least Pip’s conscience was clear and would remain so. The truth would out some day, it usually did.

  No. Whatever Hardman was concocting, she wanted no part in it.

  Nevertheless, Pip found herself walking in the direction of the station as the appointed hour approached. Glancing up and down the street, she awaited the maid’s familiar figure impatiently. She wanted to see her, aye, to find out how the lads were. Had they been allowed to stay on at Bracken House? Oh, she hoped so. After all, they hadn’t been accused of anything, had they? There was no reason – or at least Caroline surely hadn’t invented one just yet – for them to be cast out. Despite her feelings of betrayal, abandonment, she must also know that Cook was well. Tabby, she missed her too. And Lucy.

  Oh Miss, why didn’t you speak out, tell them I was innocent, that it was all lies? I thought we were friends. She swallowed down tears. She couldn’t be angry with her. The blame lay not with her, not a bit. She was but a child, one who had been manipulated by her own mother. She’d forced her daughter to lie, caused her untold grief and upset, it had been clear. What parent would do such a thing? She couldn’t fathom the actions at all.

  Ten minutes passed, then twenty. Still Pip stood, eyes trained to the corner of the street. Another score crawled by, and still there was no sign of her. After an hour, it was clear Hardman wouldn’t show and Pip had to swallow disappointed tears. What had kept the housemaid from coming? she wondered, turning reluctantly and walking away. Had something else occurred at Bracken House? Or had it just been a spiteful ploy to hurt Pip further? Was Hardman, at this moment, laughing to herself with thoughts of Pip standing here in the cold; had she never had any intention of meeting her? Oh, to hell with them all!