Sixpenny Girl

by Meg Hutchinson

  Reading the words to herself Saran could muster no feeling of optimism. Were there employment to be had would there be men standing the line each morning?

  ‘I wouldn’t set too much hope on it,’ she said, not wanting to disillusion yet wishing to soften the blow refusal always gave, ‘after all, you have no experience.’

  Beside her Luke’s mouth quirked in the cheeky grin she had come to love. ‘I ain’t got no experience o’ bein’ king neither but I be willin’ to give the job a try if ’n that new queen be fed up o’ doin’ it.’

  The new queen. Victoria. Saran felt the pang of bitterness bite hard on her heart. There was little more than a year between her own age and that of the girl who sat on Britain’s throne and until the coming of Enoch Jacobs there could have been no more happiness in one than the other. But all of her own happiness was gone, swept away with her mother’s marriage. She had no envy of the queen, no envy of the lush comfort that must be that other girl’s life, her only wish was that, like Victoria, she too had her loved ones close beside her.

  ‘You thinks I oughtn’t to try over there, then? An’ it be no use to try many o’ these for I’ve asked more’n several times already.’ His grin faded as Luke cast a glance over his shoulder at the group of timbered buildings facing the newer tube works across the space that had not so long ago been used for the sport of bull-baiting. Waiting on an answer, a tingle of worry touched his nerves when none came. Saran became more disheartened as day followed on day with no word of her folks; soon it might be he could no longer joke away her misery, no longer bring a smile to her mouth.

  ‘What say we tries that way? We ain’t give that a go yet.’ Giving no time for refusal Luke turned sharp right, avoiding having to pass Meeting Street and its dreaded workhouse. Taking an alley which led between a covey of closely packed houses, and crossing the wider street that led from the church, he walked quickly towards Little Hill.

  What could he hope to find that he had not already found in this sad town? Saran’s steps dragged as she followed. There was nothing here but poverty and heartache, she had seen it in every tiny house she had called at hoping for some word that might tell of her mother and sister; men, women and children, some not yet eight years old yet every hand busy with the business of nail-making. They had spoken kindly to her but their eyes – screwed in a nest of lines embedded by the glare of brilliant fire amidst the gloom of perpetual shadow in the windowless shack that served as wash-house and workplace – never lifted from their work, while their hands and feet not once ceased their monotonous jig. A mixture of fascination and horror holding her, she had watched the working of bellows, stoking of the red-hot fire, the turning of iron and the sparks as it was hammered on the anvil; brusque harassed movements, jerking as if the lash of some unseen whip, and all the time the smoke that bit into the lungs. How did those people bear it? How did they live such a life? Yet without the nailing there were many would have no life, starvation walked close to the poor of this town. And yet there was generosity here, people like the Elwells ever ready to share their last crust with a stranger. She would never be in a position to fully repay the kindness that family had shown, never be able to help them rise out of their poverty, only the will of heaven could do that.

  With her hands still buried deep in the pockets of her coat, her fingers curled with the intensity of the prayer that whispered in her heart. Glancing to where the great black edifice that was the church of St Bartholomew stood proud against the smoke-shrouded sky the silent voice spoke inside her.

  Lord, You know how it is with me, You know I cannot ease the hardship of those people. I ask nothing for myself but please keep Livvy Elwell and her family from hunger, let Your clemency shine over them and Your compassion enfold them; help them, Lord, for I do not have the means.

  No, she could not help the Elwells nor ease the suffering of so many others like them. Fingers still curled into her palms though her prayer was done, Saran remembered the words she had whispered so many times in the days and nights of being parted from her family, words that echoed again and again in her troubled sleep.

  Lord, watch over my mother and sister, and help me find them.

  But they were words that suddenly seemed empty, a parroting of fruitless sterile phrases, useless and impotent, finding no listener except herself. Why should the Lord help the Elwells, why help one when He made no attempt to help the other!

  Following behind Luke, seeing the play of daylight dart from light brown hair, Saran faced the truth. Her mother and sister were lost to her. She would never see them again.

  They had found nothing over the crest of Little Hill. True, the houses gracing Brunswick Terrace and Squires Walk were larger than those of the cramped town. Set apart from each other, enhanced by spacious gardens, they blared the importance of the new industrial elite; the iron masters and owners of coal mines were rapidly overrunning the gin pits each worked by one or two men. But for all their loudly sung prosperity they offered neither work nor charity to the less fortunate who found the way to their door, and none gave the time to listen to enquiries of her family. Money and manners, why did one seem to leave the other behind? But that was unfair! Saran’s slow footsteps came to a halt though the thoughts in her mind continued their parade. She had spoken only with servants, people possibly under much the same pressure of work as those in the minute brewhouses or coal pits; to be seen wasting a moment talking to her could have meant the likelihood of dismissal. Was it time and not manners had forced their brusqueness?

  Luke had tried to find some cheer in the day but even he had fallen silent as, one after the other, kitchen doors closed on them.

  She should not insist upon remaining in this town, Luke would not leave without her, he was only gone from her side when, as now, he had been given employment. Employment! Saran’s thoughts became acid. A few hours unloading then reloading a carter’s wagon, carrying heavy sacks and boxes for the promise of a sixpence! Yet he had taken it and gladly, happy that tonight they would eat, that twopence would buy them a bed in some hayloft. But she had found no work, she was bringing nothing to the partnership and nothing to Luke except worry. That could end now, though; instead of waiting here for him, as they had arranged, she could walk away, be gone before . . .

  ‘You shouldn’t think of going in there, the Turk’s Head be busy on market day and not all of its customers are gentlemen.’

  She had not realised she was stood across from a tavern. Breaking her stare, Saran felt a sweep of colour rush to her cheeks as she looked at the speaker, taller by a head than herself, his eyes rivetingly dark in a strong beardless face, a well-formed mouth smiling.

  ‘I . . . I wasn’t thinking of going in . . .’ she stammered. ‘I was just watching.’

  ‘Watching!’ His mouth still curved in a smile, the man drew his brows together lending his dark eyes an amused inquisitive look. ‘Now there’s an occupation I haven’t come across before, might I ask does it pay well?’

  Catching the humour in almost coal-black eyes, Saran’s initial nervousness at being addressed by a total stranger faded. ‘It is not an occupation,’ she returned, ‘and it most definitely does not pay well; in fact, it doesn’t pay at all.’

  ‘In that case I won’t take it up, making a living in Wednesbury is a hard enough task as it is, I won’t add a thankless one to it.’

  She should not stay here talking to a man she had never seen before, but if she never spoke to a stranger how would she ever hope to get news of her mother and sister? The last thought making sense, she quieted the niggling doubt resurfacing inside her; she would take any risk if it meant she might hear of her family . . . and what risk could there be in speaking to a man in broad daylight in a market square filled with stalls and women hurrying about their shopping?

  Gathering her courage she asked, ‘Do you live here in Wednesbury?’

  ‘For twenty-six years,’ he answered with a rueful shrug of wide shoulders. ‘And like to be more than a few yet
to come for I live with my grandmother, she reared me from a small child and I won’t ever leave her. So you see, my fate is sealed.’

  Murmuring a word of apology to a woman whose way they blocked, Saran responded with a smile. Living in a place so many years he must know everybody, hear of anything unusual . . . like a man purchasing another man’s wife!

  ‘But you,’ he was speaking again, ‘you are not from these parts, I would have seen you before this . . . a face as pretty as yours a man doesn’t forget easily.’

  Only her father had ever called her pretty.

  Enoch Jacobs had labelled her plain. ‘Her looks,’ he had said, ‘would never be of consequence, never bring men to ’er door, to do that ’er must learn to use what were atween ’er legs an’ Enoch Jacobs be the man to teach ’er.’ And he had tried. From the first week of becoming master of her mother’s house, he had found ways of keeping her behind when sending Miriam and their mother off on some errand, made excuses that resulted in her being alone with him. It had begun with a stroking of her hair, a finger trailing her cheek while his thick lips slobbered and his eyes glazed. She had said nothing of this to her mother, not wishing to cause her pain. Then the stroking and the trailing moved from her hair and face to her body, podgy hands fastened over her breasts, slid over her bottom, pulling her close into himself, and at the same time he began to mutter his threats, saying what he would do to her mother should their ‘little secret’ be spoken of. So she had suffered his hands. But that had not satisfied Enoch Jacobs. One night he had entered the bedroom she shared with Miriam. Stinking of drink, he had knelt beside the bed and she had felt his hand beneath the sheets, sliding under her nightgown and up over her thighs to touch between her legs. It had been over in a minute though it had seemed an eternity, then he had shuffled to his feet, weaving his way from the room, and she had cried herself to sleep.

  She had wanted so very much to leave that house, to get away from the beast that lived in it but, young as she had been, she knew that if one daughter left he would prey on the other, satisfy his lust on an eight-year-old child. Then the fear that haunted her every hour became a reality, had come the one day it was no longer the elder girl had to stay behind but the younger one. She had not needed to ask, feeling that small figure sobbing in her sleep had told her . . . her own release from the torture of those hands had become her sister’s nightmare. How calm she had become then. Held in an anger so intense it kept her numb she had slipped from the bed, tiptoeing to the kitchen, and in the glow of a sleeping fire had found what she looked for. An hour later by the striking of the church clock, he had come. The door of the bedroom had opened. Less drunk than normal, he had not weaved but walked softly to the side of the sleeping child. Saran remembered the pause, a hesitation when she had known his eyes were on herself, ascertaining that she was asleep, then he had slid to his knees! The shudder of that thin figure, the frightened cry . . .

  Stood there now in the street Saran experienced again the revulsion, the detestation, the hatred she had felt at that moment, but she had kept it fastened inside, held in bonds of silence. His head had been bent over the child whose nightgown he had lifted to her chin, his mouth pulling at breasts as yet no more than tiny buds, his hands shuffling with the buttons of his trousers. Totally immersed in his carnal pleasure he had not felt the slight movement of the bed as she had slid from it, so sunk in lecherous enjoyment he knew nothing else until his head was snatched back almost to his shoulders, the point of the sharp-bladed knife pressed against the vein pumping in his neck.

  ‘Touch my sister again,’ she had threatened against his ear, ‘touch her one more time, come near either of us and I vow before every saint in heaven I’ll sink the rest of this blade into your throat. You will never know when, whether by day or in the darkness of night, but have my promise, it will come.’

  The beatings had started the next day, the blows that sent her pregnant mother sprawling in the daytime, the unspeakable cruelty that had her cry out at night.

  ‘What the—’

  Saran did not hear the rest of the man’s anxious enquiry. As a sob caught in her throat she was already lost in darkness.

  8

  ‘I couldn’t get no more for ’em, all he would pay was sixpence ha’penny a thousand.’

  ‘Sixpence ha’penny!’ Livvy Elwell dropped heavily to her stool, her tired eyes filling with tears. ‘But we can’t live on that – two ’undred and twenty tacks for a penny – ’ow does a nail master expect folk to feed themselves?’

  ‘Nail masters don’t give no mind to ’ow,’ Edward Elwell dropped his head into his hands, ‘they don’t give mind to anythin’ other than their profit, to ’ow much more they can squeeze from a man.’

  ‘Sixpence ha’penny!’ Livvy stared sightlessly at the table she had scrubbed, though every bone of her screamed fatigue from carrying metal rods to and from the furnace, working the bellows, pounding the hammer on the anvil, chopping every one of the eight hundred tacks she had fashioned that day. ‘We already laid four of our babbies in the churchyard,’ she murmured half to herself. ‘’Twas cos they was clammed, so teken wi’ hunger their poor bodies couldn’t beat off the sickness, so starved of bread they ’ad no strength against the cough that wracked ’em, so death took ’em . . . and it be waitin’ in the shadows for to tek the others and we both along wi’ ’em.’

  ‘We ’as to manage.’

  ‘’Ow . . . tell me ’ow!’ Worry gave a sharp edge to her voice as Livvy flung the words at the man hunched in the chair. ‘Tell me ’ow we can live, four o’ we, on what be left after we pays our way!’

  ‘I tried, Livvy, I tried tellin’ ’im . . .’

  Her own misery shoved aside she was beside him as his explanation died on a sob, her arms about his thin frame, his face enfolded between her breasts.

  ‘T’ain’t your fault,’ she murmured, her own tears spilling down lined cheeks, ‘you ’ad to tek what you was give, you couldn’t do no more. It be a bit ’ard but like you says we ’as to manage an’ so we will.’ Holding him, feeling the raw unhappiness surge from his chest in great dry sobs, Livvy felt the strength of desperation. This was her man, the one she had promised her life to and she wouldn’t let him sink. The money paid for tacks had lowered so they would make more. But how? In the quietness of the tiny kitchen she was forced to face the truth. There was no way they could produce more than they already did!

  ‘Lord, I feared you was dead, run down by a wagon or some such!’

  Luke’s tone conveyed the shock which had still not altogether left him.

  ‘I seen you in that bloke’s arms all limp and lifeless . . . I tells you, Saran, it fair put the wind up me.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Luke, it was stupid of me to give way like that.’

  ‘A faint ain’t stoopid! Not if it be genuine, it ain’t, an’ from what I seen you wasn’t doin’ no gammitin’.’

  No she had not been acting the fool. Saran took the pot the landlord of the Turk’s Head had had filled with hot tea, pouring it into heavy pottery cups placed on the table by a harassed-looking woman. Offering one to the lad who even now seemed wary of moving from her side, she smiled assuringly.

  ‘What ’appened?’ Luke accepted the cup but not the assurance. ‘Did that bloke . . . did ’e touch you . . . say anything ’e shouldn’t?’ Mistaking a frown that touched her brow for a sign of disapproval at so personal a question he stared self-consciously at the steaming cup in his hands. ‘I shouldn’t ’ave asked that, it were just—’

  ‘That you were concerned for me.’ Saran touched his hand gently. ‘I’m grateful for that, Luke. As for the cause of my faint, it was nothing that man said or did.’

  His head jerking up, Luke ran a swift worried glance over her face. ‘Then what! Be you middlin’?’

  From the corner of her eye Saran caught the quick turn of the serving woman’s head. As with many towns she guessed this one also dreaded the cholera.

  ‘No.’ She shook her head qui
ckly. ‘I am not feeling unwell, it is no more than tiredness, it has been quite a journey from Willenhall.’

  Across the large kitchen the woman’s body visibly relaxed. Tiredness and hunger were no strangers to Wednesbury, they were ailments many suffered from; lethal, but not a sickness passed one to another, not the plague that smallpox or cholera proved.

  ‘Well, we won’t be journeyin’ nowheres tonight,’ Luke beamed, ‘you be goin’ to sleep in a bed. I be goin’ to ask the landlord right now for to give you a room all to yourself.’

  A room to herself, how much would that cost? Luke had earned sixpence from the carter but after paying for broth the woman was dishing up to them, and paying for the tea . . . a room would probably take more than he would have left, unless – a frisson of uncertainty licked the edges of her mind, a brush of doubt – had Luke reserved money from any other source, could he have accepted it from that man she had talked with?

  ‘Luke,’ she said as he tipped off the remainder of his tea, ‘sixpence won’t pay for a place for each of us.’

  Setting his empty cup on the table with a satisfied thump, he grinned. ‘It don’t ’ave to, landlord said I can bed down in the stables, seems they ain’t used so much now that there new Holyhead Road has teken the coach trade away.’

  Guilt replacing the doubt, Saran was glad of the opportunity to look away from that pleased grin. Had she learned nothing during the time they had spent together! Luke was young but his pride was old, innate; a quality born in him, the heritage of generations who had lived by the skill of their hands, by the strength of their bodies, and while there was strength in his he would take no charity.

  Thanking the woman setting a bowl in front of her she picked up a spoon, holding it while she said, ‘I want no bedroom, Luke, and no argument; a stable was good enough for the Holy Child, it should be good enough for me.’

  ‘But—’