Sixpenny Girl

by Meg Hutchinson

  The thought plagued the rest of that long trudge but as they neared the town that signpost had named as Wednesbury it was ousted by the sight spread out before them. Was there really a town at the bottom of this hill? Did the sky still exist somewhere above that thick dark cloud of smoke belching from a myriad of chimneys? Was this truly Wednesbury or had they stumbled on the gates of hell!

  ‘We’ll go back, go the other way.’

  ‘And find what?’ Saran shook her head. ‘Didn’t Harriet tell us there was little to choose between either town? Darlaston is probably just the same as here.’

  His lips set stubbornly, Luke stared at the jumble of tiny houses cramped together along narrow streets despite the empty heath that stretched away on all sides.

  ‘Harriet Dowen don’t be knowin’ everything!’ he said, anger burning away disappointment.

  ‘She knew enough to tell us the way would not be easy . . . and that we would find a crossroad—’

  ‘Don’t tek no magician to tell that!’ Luke’s reply was mutinous. ‘Even a five-year-old babby be wise enough to know there be bound to be a crossroad somewheres along any track!’

  What had he thought to find? Saran’s glance wandered over the tall-steepled church, its black walls standing sentinel over the small huddled town. Locked for years in the isolation of a workhouse, knowing only the cruelty of warders and the pain of separation from the sister he loved, had he built some myth for himself? When running away had he imagined a utopia where everything would be green and beautiful . . . a place of welcome? She had not the gift of sight, the gift given Harriet Dowen, but she could have told him such dreams were a fallacy, that to lose oneself in their delusion was to lose touch with reality. That town was their reality. It was not green and beautiful, it was smoke-laden and grimy with the touch of soot, but while it was no dream it offered a hope.

  ‘I says we try the other place . . . it has to be better than this!’

  The anger was still evident in his voice but now the hurt of finding a dearly held dream in pieces at his feet showed in that young face. It was not easy to lose a dream.

  Gently, but without condescension, Saran spoke quietly. ‘Luke, the town where I lived, Willenhall, was little different to the one we are looking at now. It too was dark with the smoke of chimneys and the forges that worked the brass for making locks. Its people toiled so long bent over the workbenches that their spines became misshapen. The area became known as Humpshire, there were so many men and women with this deformity. I remember asking my father why we stayed there, why not go live somewhere where the air was clean, not heavy with the dirt of coal-mining and metal-smelting; he told me then that all of our part of England bore the same blight, that men called it the Black Country, and within its circle no town fared differently to the other. We will go to Darlaston if that is what you wish but try not to be disappointed if what my father said proves to be true.’

  ‘No.’ Luke shook his head though the trace of disappointment lingered. ‘Like as not Harriet Dowen and your father were right an’ we’ll find no better in that town.’

  ‘there be one walks beside you, his future locked with yours.’

  Descending into that smoke-wrapped town, Saran remembered. Luke Hipton had once again made his choice.

  ‘It were all I could find, it were tek it or leave it, an’ to leave it meant another night wi’ naught but hunger pangs in the stomach.’ Luke held out the strip of fat bacon that had been payment for helping a jagger sell coal from a cart. For nigh on ten hours he had hauled sacks, lifted sacks and, as tiredness weighted his limbs, he had dragged sacks to wherever customers said he should. ‘It be a day’s work,’ the jagger had told him that morning. He had stood in the line along with others seeking a day’s hire but only the coal jagger had looked at him. ‘There’ll be pay at the end of it, but regard me . . . I don’t give what ain’t bin earned, I deals in no charity!’

  He should have said he dealt in no honesty! His limbs sore as after a beating from one of the workhouse warders, Luke tried to smile as he passed the bacon to Saran but his young heart was heavy. There would be no bacon tomorrow, maybe nothing at all, for much as he might be willing to accept the coalman’s offer of work should it be made, maybe his aching arms and legs would not cooperate. P’raps if he prayed real ’ard. But ’adn’t he done that every night, prayed ’til he couldn’t think of another word to say? But it seemed the angels ’ad turned their backs on Luke Hipton!

  ‘It will be better tomorrow, we will both get work.’

  ‘We’ve said the same for more’n a week yet it ain’t never showed sign ’o bein’ different.’ Disillusion tracing every word, Luke paused, resting his aching body against a wall. ‘We stands the line every mornin’ along of the High Bullen an’ when we gets no offer traipses around every house an’ shop yet the answer be always the same, “We ’as nothin’ we wants the doin’ of.” It were wrong to come to this town, wrong o’ me to talk you into followin’, you should go your own way, Saran, you’d like to get a position in one o’ them big places we’ve seen.’

  ‘You did not talk me into anything, Luke Hipton!’ Seeing a sharp tongue the quickest way to deal with self-recrimination, Saran applied it quickly. ‘I have a mind of my own and I will use it in deciding what I should do. I will not leave this town or any other I might go to without first making sure there is not a single soul can tell me of my family.’

  Luke straightened but could not keep from giving a quiet groan. He was too tied up with his own well-being, he should give more thought to that of the girl who was suffering torment of mind as well as of body.

  ‘You d’ain’t find nothin’ out today?’

  Afraid that to answer would bring the tears that had threatened all day, Saran shook her head. She had asked at every door she had knocked on but no one had heard of the buying of a woman and child, no one had seen two people matching the description she gave, and with every shake of a head the desolation in her heart had increased until she felt it must break.

  ‘I asked an’ all, but it were the same wi’ me as wi’ you, seems your folk ain’t bin heard of in Wednesbury.’

  He meant to be kind and it was kind, Luke had enough to handle in keeping himself alive without bothering his head on her account. Saran tried to fend off the extra unhappiness his words brought but as they walked on she felt the tears press harder. He was the one should go his own way, he had no reason that could hold him in any one place, neither did he owe her any loyalty; alone he could travel more quickly and a place for one to sleep was given more readily than for two.

  ‘We came together, we stays together!’ Luke answered adamantly after she had steeled herself to say what she thought. ‘Only two things will see we separated, the first be when you tells me I ain’t no longer wanted an’ the second be if you asks me to turn to the parish. I can’t knock the door o’ that work’ouse I seen along o’ Meeting Street, I . . . I can’t face such again . . . I’d rather die than give meself over to that.’

  He was saying that now but in the days ahead . . . if with time things got even worse . . . if one of them should get sick . . . but the workhouse! Dear God, never let Luke go back to that!

  Lost in the turmoil of her thoughts, Saran bumped the shoulder of a man bent under the weight of a heavy bundle slung across his back. Apologising for her clumsiness she heard the clink of metal as the bundle was lowered to the ground.

  ‘Ain’t no hurt done.’ The man wiped a forearm across his forehead. ‘I been promising meself a rest since leaving Brummajum.’

  ‘Brummajum,’ Luke echoed, ‘be that another town . . . be it bigger than this’n?’

  Drawing breath then loosing it in a short loud puff, the man looked enquiringly at them. ‘You be new come to Wednesbury?’

  ‘A week gone,’ Luke answered.

  ‘Then my advice to you be to leave agen with the mornin’ for there be naught but misery an’ hunger to be found in these streets.’

  ‘You reckon Brum
majum be better?’

  ‘Would be to mislead you, lad, should I tell you it were when truth be it ain’t, not for the likes o’ we; there be no part o’ the Black Country be easy for a poor man, no matter what his trade an’ that there Brummajum be no different.’

  ‘Is it far?’

  In the deepening dusk the man’s rueful smile faded quickly. ‘You’d think so, lad, if you ’ad to walk the ten mile there an’ ten mile back every few days an’ while you be walkin’ you don’ be earnin’, which in turn means less bread for the bellies of children that be empty enough already.’

  ‘Then why travel so far?’

  ‘The answer to that be simple, that be the only place I can sell the nails I meks.’

  ‘And a place which pays least for them.’

  Having bent to retrieve his pack the man let it lie, straightening to look at Saran. ‘You be in the nailin’?’

  ‘No.’ Her reply was quiet. ‘My father was a lock-maker, he often sent brass lock to Birmingham but the money paid was less than their true value.’

  ‘Was a lock-maker?’

  ‘He . . . he died.’

  ‘That be ’ard for you, wench . . . you an’ your brother, ’ave my sympathy . . .’

  ‘Afore you go,’ Luke spoke quickly, cutting Saran off before she could explain the mistake, ‘might you be able to tell where we could find a place to get this bacon cooked?’

  Grunting with the weight of the pack settling across his back, the man shuffled it into position, surprise in his voice when he answered, ‘Bacon! You ’ave bacon? There be a treat my little ’uns don’t know the tastin’ of.’

  Under cover of the gathering night Luke caught Saran’s hand, squeezing her fingers hoping she would realise he wanted her to leave the rest of the conversation to him; soft-hearted as she was, she would let the man they were talking with finish up with the bacon and the both of them would know yet another hungry night.

  ‘My missis’ll let you ’ave the use of a pan an’ there be a fire in the brewhouse you be welcome to the use of.’

  ‘We have no money.’

  Beneath the weight of his pack the man’s head lifted. ‘I d’ain’t ask no payment neither would I tek any, ain’t every man in Wednesbury be out to rob his neighbour!’

  ‘Luke did not mean any offence,’ Saran cut in quickly. The man’s feelings had been hurt. ‘He wanted only that you should know . . .’

  ‘One thing I bets I already knows –’ his tone softer the man gave a sad half smile ‘– that be you’ve toiled like a Trojan a full day for that there bacon, that some work master got his profits from your sweat; but, like I said, we ain’t all the same so you brings your earning along of me. It be warm in the brewhouse, you can eat it in there wi’ a bit more comfort than agen the church wall.’

  Tuned to Saran’s feelings, Luke knew the proposal sat uneasily. In the short time of their being together he had learned she was not a girl who took without thought of payment.

  ‘Mister,’ he said as the man turned away, ‘one good turn deserves the same. Let me carry that pack.’

  ‘Nay, lad,’ the man hitched it higher, ‘though if it be a good turn you be after doin’ then p’raps when that bacon of your’n be cooked you’ll let my little ’uns dip a slice from the loaf in the liquor it meks, that would be a feast for them.’

  ‘They’ll ’ave their bread dipped and a cut off the bacon to eat along of it.’

  Feeling Luke’s fingers tighten with his answer, Saran felt a smile warm her insides. The boy was once more the man.

  7

  It was even smaller than the home of Harriet Dowen and, unlike that, held no trace of prettiness or comfort, no touch of chintz to give colour, no oil lamp to light its dingy interior, only the glow of a small fire and one candle fought the cold shadows.

  ‘You can sit, an’ welcome.’

  A thin woman in patched skirts, grey hair drawn back from her face, placed the solitary chair beside a rough table devoid of cloth. ‘There be tea in the pot, I . . . I be sorry we ’ave no sugar for the sweetenin’ of it.’

  Murmuring her thanks Saran glanced about the minute room, empty except for table, chair and three stools set close to the fireplace, yet even in the sparse light she could see they were white from daily scrubbing. Poverty was this woman’s constant companion but pride too was an escort, it showed in the cleanliness of her home, in the well-washed faces of her children and in the obviously special cups she took from a wall cupboard.

  ‘Be you passing through?’

  Holding a small pottery jug in her hand a girl of around eight smiled shyly as she handed milk to Saran.

  ‘Martha,’ the woman’s tone sharpened, ‘you knows better than to ask questions, that nose of your’n be a mite overlong, don’t I always be telling you so!’

  ‘Beg pardon miss.’ The child blushed, her bare feet patting on bare boards as she ran to her mother, holding her embarrassment in the ragged skirts.

  ‘I should think so!’ Smiling, the woman stroked a hand over the child’s dark hair. ‘Now, reach you the pan for to cook the bacon.’ The girl moving to her task the woman, who had introduced herself as Livvy Elwell, took a half loaf of bread from the same cupboard. ‘You be welcome to a slice, the both of you, it will make you a good supper.’

  Yes, it would make herself and Luke a fine meal. Saran glanced at the bread. But give the children also a slice and what would this woman and her man have? Should that prove to be their own supper – and there was every possibility it was – then their kindness would mean they were the ones went hungry.

  Taking the cast-iron frying pan from the still blushing Martha she glanced to where Luke stood watching and as their eyes met he gave a tiny, almost imperceptible, nod.

  ‘You’ll be wantin’ the use of this.’ Livvy was holding out the broad-bladed kitchen knife.

  ‘Would you cut it, please?’ Saran asked shyly. ‘Luke and myself would be pleased if you would all share it with us.’

  They had slept warm. Shivering against the sharp air of early morning, Saran drew her thin coat closer about her. Was her mother as cold, or Miriam? Thank heaven she had given the shawl to her sister.

  ‘That be the lot for today, I don’t ’ave use for another pair of ’ands.’

  The rough voice cutting into her reverie, Saran glanced up in time to see Luke brushed aside by a heavy-set man, his jowls half hidden by a woollen scarf tied about his ears.

  ‘I’ll tek the same wage as you paid the other day.’

  ‘A wedge o’ bacon!’ A laugh, coarse as the voice, scraped the smoke-laden air. ‘I ain’t so flush wi’ money I can throw it to any work-shy bugger as crosses my path, I expects a full day’s labour and you d’ain’t give it.’

  Rage rising hotly to his face, Luke grabbed the man’s sleeve. ‘I be no work-shy bugger, mister!’ he snapped. ‘Ten hours I worked for you wi’out so much as a cup of water and instead of the shillin’ you promised I got a wedge of bacon that were little more’n fat.’

  ‘And that were more’n you deserved. Now get out of my way, you moanin’ little scroat!’

  His free arm already lifted to strike a blow, Saran stepped between them. ‘Touch him and I’ll—’

  ‘You’ll what? What is it you’ll do?’ Sly, degrading eyes trailed slowly from her face to her toes. ‘I’ll tell you what you can do an’ I’ll even pay you a tanner forrit, you only needs open your legs—’

  He got no further. With every ounce of strength behind it, Saran’s hand crashed against his face.

  ‘You bloody bitch!’ The enraged shout bounced from the few buildings skirting the High Bullen. One swing sending Luke hurtling backward the coal-jagger shot one hand to Saran’s throat, gripping with the hold of a fighting dog, the other hand curling to a fist. ‘I’ll teach you to slap your betters.’

  ‘Not today, Turley!’ Sharp and painful, a hand strong as the jagger’s own chopped across his wrist, releasing the grip he had on Saran. ‘We put up with a lot of thing
s in this town but that don’t stretch to the beating of a wench nor a lad when they have done nothing to merit the deserving of it. Now, you take my advice and be off about the robbery you call a business or I might just take that sixpenny you spoke of, buy a pig’s head and stuff it, wide end on, right up your arse!’

  Shaking from the encounter, clinging to a Luke who would chase after the departing jagger, Saran tried to stammer her thanks.

  ‘Be no need of thanks,’ the newcomer interrupted. ‘It only pains that Turley made no move against me, I would ’ave enjoyed giving that no-good swine a leatherin’, Lord knows somebody should; as for you pair, tek a tip from me and avoid him, the man be naught but vermin.’

  Unable to still the trembling of her hands, Saran pushed them deep into the pockets of a coat she had outgrown and which fastened only with difficulty. The Elwells had given them a place for the night but that was all they must accept. She had known the goodness of heart in the couple’s offer of their sleeping in the brewhouse, but that was their place of work, it housed the forge, anvil and workbench used to make the nails that scarce afforded them a living, it was where the man and his wife worked long into the night; that they would not do with Luke and herself sleeping there. So they had said their goodbyes. But where would they rest when this night fell?

  As Luke called thanks to the man who had intervened, Saran watched the figure swing loosely away. Dressed as most men she had seen in this town, moleskin trousers, jacket and muffler, he seemed somehow different, a surety of self displayed in the way he walked, the way he held his head high.

  ‘Wonder if that place would give me employment.’ Luke too had watched the man until he disappeared into a long building running parallel with the edge of the High Bullen, tall painted letters proclaiming it to be the ‘Coronet Tube Works’.