Sixpenny Girl

by Meg Hutchinson

  A tremble that warned of tears ending her explanation, Jairus Ensell watched the girl sat opposite him. Though her head was bowed, partly hiding her features, her face was etched clearly in his mind. Peaked with hunger, drawn from days walking the streets seeking work and a family who had been snatched from her, and from nights of trying to sleep on the heath and under hedges exposed to rain and cold, it was still . . . attractive? No, it was more than that . . . beautiful, then? Beautiful as the statue of that Greek goddess he had seen. No! He checked the thought. That had been false, a lifeless illusion of beauty, while what he saw in the girl that boy had freed from a yoke was, despite her sufferings, no misconception; when she smiled her mouth curved attractively while her eyes took on the sparkle of woods in autumn sunlight. Hers was no cold carved perfection, she was a warm living girl whose beauty was as yet sleeping. No, Saran Chandler was no illusion!

  ‘Saran . . . I shall use your first name for I feel we are friends.’ His voice was deep, like dark music. Saran found herself listening, wanting it to go on. ‘Wednesbury is a small town, almost all of its inhabitants are tied to a place of work and that means contact with the wider world is restricted. So it follows that they might well have heard nothing of the selling of a woman and child . . .’

  ‘Might have heard nothing?’ She looked up quickly, the hypnotism broken. ‘Are you saying they could have lied?’

  The dark eyes smiled at once. ‘That was not what I meant, all I am saying is that with little movement from mine or workshop their circle of acquaintance is not as wide as, say, that of myself; I travel often to Birmingham and meet with people on a far wider scale, so perhaps you would allow me to enquire . . .’

  He was trying to be kind, but to allow him to ask of her family would be taking advantage. And kindness, even his, must end somewhere; far better here and now.

  ‘That will not be necessary,’ Saran shook her head, ‘you see, Luke and I have already decided we will leave Wednesbury tomorrow so I will be able to enquire further for myself.’

  She was leaving! Jairus stirred cream into the coffee he had ordered for himself. That was bad luck on his part. He was interested in Saran Chandler . . . very interested!

  ‘Luke.’ He sipped the hot liquid. ‘Did you not say he was given work this morning?’

  The tea was life giving. Saran swallowed, savouring its hot sweetness before nodding. ‘Mmm, a day’s labour at the tube works up on the High Bullen.’

  ‘The Coronet Tube Works.’ Jairus replaced the cup on its saucer. ‘John Adams’s place. But it isn’t given to providing casual employment; men are not taken on for a day . . . who was it said there would be work for him there?’

  ‘I don’t know the man, he called Luke from the line, telling him to follow into the works. He did not say his name.’

  It would not be Adams, he did not walk the line himself . . . nor was that tube factory short of labour! So who was it had taken the lad in, and why? Musing over the dilemma Jairus’s wondering came to a halt as Saran described a tall fair-haired figure, one who had threatened the coal-jagger. Only one man would do that: Gideon Newell! Now where did his interest lie?

  ‘. . . so you see we shall be moving on tomorrow.’

  He hadn’t really heard the last of what she had said. Catching the eye of the tearoom proprietress Jairus signalled for the bill. Outside in the street, his thoughts collected, he glanced at the girl whose gratitude for the tea brought an attractive tinge of colour to pale cheeks. Could she be Gideon Newell’s interest?

  ‘You told me employment had been difficult to find the whole way from Walsall.’

  ‘Very difficult.’ Saran nodded.

  ‘And I have no doubt it will prove the same wherever you go in the Midlands, it certainly is between here and Birmingham; so should it be Luke has been found a permanent place in the tube factory will he be willing to give it up, to travel on with you?’

  She had not thought of that. Faced with the sudden probability she halted, the irritated mumbles of passers-by whose way she blocked going unheard. If Luke were given permanent employment . . . but he wouldn’t be, he had no experience of tube-making . . . yet even the most skilled of craftsmen had to start at the beginning . . . thoughts tumbling like leaves on the wind Saran did not feel her arm being taken, her steps being guided along the street.

  ‘men are not taken on for a day.’

  The words returned loud to her mind, and with them her decision. She would not stand in Luke’s way, not present him with the burden of choosing to stay here with the security of a job or throw it away to go with her; she would not wait for him beside the Elwells’ house . . . she would leave this town now.

  ‘It be no good talkin’, wench, there be no way I can feed my babbies an’ keep a roof over their ’eads an’ I won’t see ’em laid in the ground as was the others born o’ me; the workhouse be a hard place but at least they won’t starve.’

  The workhouse! Livvy was sending her children into the workhouse! Her heart wrenching with pity, Saran watched the lined face crumple into tears. She had decided on leaving Wednesbury but found she could not go without leaving some word for Luke so she had come to the place he would look for her; the Elwells would give him her message. But her own worries had flown as she had come face to face with the couple. Had the devils of hell confronted them they could not have looked any worse . . . but then Luke professed there was no hell worse than a workhouse and these people were having to hand their children into it.

  ‘There must be a way, Livvy.’

  ‘You think we ain’t looked?’

  The cry was not meant to be admonishing, Livvy intended no rebuke; the sharpness of her cry was the pain of the knife slashing her own heart, the echoes of which found a place in Saran’s.

  ‘We’ve thought an’ thought on it.’ Livvy was speaking again but now her voice was quiet, heavy with despair. ‘We talked the night long but it always come out the same way, it be impossible to live on what the nailin’ brings.’

  ‘But last week—’

  ‘Last week nail master were payin’ seven pence ha’penny a thousand for tacks,’ Edward Elwell cut in. ‘On that we could scrape through wi’ the wife an’ me not tekin’ a meal every day, but now if we missed meals five days outta the seven we still couldn’t manage. Sixpence ha’penny! You couldn’t feed a dog on that.’

  She did not know the true worth of the small flat-headed nails she had watched Livvy and her husband make but surely that amount for a thousand could not be right. Helpless to advise, Saran could only listen as Edward continued.

  ‘I told ’im, I did, I told nail master we couldn’t live on what he were offerin’, that my babbies were near clammed as it was, but their starvin’ med no odds wi’ ’im; sixpence ha’penny were his price, tek it or go to the fogger.’

  ‘Fogger . . . is that a man would buy your tacks?’

  ‘Oh he’d buy ’em, all right!’ Glancing at Saran, Edward Elwell’s red-rimmed eyes displayed contempt. ‘A fogger be a go-between, he buys from a nailer and sells to the nail master. As for bein’ a man! Huh . . . I’d rather ’ave dealin’s wi’ a snake any time. Foggers be worse thieves than any nail master, least he only teks his cut one way, but the thief of a fogger teks it every way. He charges more for a bundle of iron rod while payin’ less for the finished article, then sells on, chargin’ the master over the top.’

  That was no less than robbery. Surely it could not be legal? Putting the thought into words Saran was answered with a short laugh.

  ‘It ain’t.’ Edward’s laugh held no humour. ‘The government passed a new law forbiddin’ any such practice. The Truck Act were meant to protect such as we, but since when did a fogger or any nail master pay mind to the law? They pays what pleases ’em while we . . . well, a man can’t feed his kin on iron nails.’

  It needed no further explanation, Saran realised what he was saying. It was take the money or starve . . . now they were starving.

  ‘It be easy for the nai
l master to talk.’ Dabbing her eyes on a black apron heavily scorched with burn marks from sparks flying from red-hot metal, Livvy took up as her husband choked on his words.

  ‘I tried so ’ard, Saran, tried to find a way to keep my babbies wi’ me but wi’ nobbut ten shillin’ an’ fourpence a week . . . I don’t be a magician . . . folk wants payin’ for the food they sells, they got no more than me to be givin’ away.’

  It could not have been so very different the night Livvy had taken Luke and herself in off the streets, the night she had shared the last of her bread with them. Guilt burned hot in Saran as she remembered. Had the following day been one of those on which this kind-natured couple had been forced to do without a meal? Had she and Luke taken the bread from their mouths? Oh Lord, why could she not have seen . . . why hadn’t she realised?

  ‘Ten shillin’ an’ fourpence,’ Livvy’s swollen eyes glistened with new tears, ‘that be what we got an’ the lad helpin’ in the workshop along o’ me and his father while the little ’un, my little wench, sees to the preparin’ o’ the food . . . that be when there be food . . . It be the outgoin’s,’ she went on after wiping her eyes yet again, ‘they swallows most o’ them shillin’s, they be gone afore I gets to buy a loaf.’

  Watching the woman’s tear-stained face, Saran was stung by the memory of her mother, of the many times she had tried to stretch the odd pennies left to her by a drink-sodden Enoch Jacobs, juggling halfpennies, searching for the cheapest food then pleading for a farthing to be deducted from a stale loaf or a cut of meat fit only for a dog; she had seen Livvy’s misery before . . . seen it in her own mother.

  ‘I set it all down afore Edward left for Brummajum.’

  It was like a stream pouring from Livvy, the hopelessness, the pain; but its coming left no healing wake.

  ‘Every penny it teks for to live I set to paper so it could be shown the nail master and not a farthing did I add as shouldn’t ’ave bin there. Two shillin’ and sixpence rent for house and workshop, breeze for firing the forge be a shillin’ and sixpence, while there be another shillin’ for repair of tools besides sixpence for use of anvil and bellows. Then after that comes three shillin’ an’ sixpence it costs to buy a bundle o’ rod . . . an’ that you must ’ave if you be to work the next week. I set all o’ that for nail master to see yet still he drops the price he pays. There be nothing for we ’cept the parish.’

  Nine shillings! Saran counted silently. Nine shillings . . . that left one shilling and fourpence to keep a family of four; no wonder Livvy was at her wits’ end.

  ‘I showed him what Livvy ’ad set down,’ Edward caught his wife’s hand, ‘told ’im we worked all day an’ three parts o’ the night for to earn what we got, that we couldn’t mek one more tack than we was mekin’ already.’

  ‘Did you tell him of the children?’

  ‘He knowed about them, wench, this don’t be the first time the price paid has bin lessened, that be a favourite pastime wi’ all nail masters as I’ve knowed of; but it’ll be the last time it ’appens to Edward Elwell.’

  ‘You can’t give up . . . there has to be someone who will pay a decent price.’

  ‘I d’ain’t want to give up,’ Edward’s sad eyes lifted to Saran, ‘but tack-mekin’ ’as given me up.’

  A slight frown speaking her confusion Saran looked from one resigned face to the other and it was Livvy who answered.

  ‘What Edward be sayin’ be this, the mekin’ o’ tacks by ’and be finished, nail master spoke o’ some new-fangled machine that can mek ’em a ’undred times faster’n a man an’ machines don’t need to eat bread, neither does they tire.’

  So their paltry living had been taken by a machine, profit had been placed above a man and his family! And this was the new England, the better life folk had sung of in the streets when the new queen had come to the throne.

  Watching Edward enfold the sobbing Livvy in his arms, Saran felt a despair to match their own . . . a despair born of the knowledge that she could do nothing to help.

  She had intended to leave Wednesbury, had wanted to leave so Luke could be free to make his way without having to think of her. She had gone to the Elwells to ask them to tell Luke of her intent, but the misery she had met in that house had dictated otherwise: she must face her own decisions.

  Stood on the rise of ground people of the town had told her proudly was once an iron-age fort thrown up under the instruction of Ethelfleda, daughter of Alfred the Great, Saran glanced across to the soot-lined church away to her right. She had been this way with Luke, both of them wondering who it was could live in the tall houses set back amid long stretches of neat gardens. Squires Walk . . . so different to the rows of mean little back-to-back houses shoved tight together such a short distance away, houses that held so much poverty, so much misery. Livvy, Edward, the woman at the Turk’s Head, the man who had taken Luke into that works and Jairus Ensell, they had all been kindness itself, but it was a kindness she couldn’t repay.

  Clear on the smoke-thickened air the church clock chimed seven. Was that the way Luke would come from the tube works, was he already stood waiting for her outside the Elwells’ house? There was no way of knowing, but she could not go there herself, not before asking at each of these houses if would they give her work.

  There be nothing I could ask mistress to tek you on for . . . we don’t be short o’ maids . . . sorry, me wench, but there be no post for you to fill . . . the same replies she had met everywhere else she had been, met her again. They were kind enough, the housekeepers or cooks she spoke with, she could have a cup of tea, a slice of bread and dripping, but as for employment . . . She had thanked them for their hospitality, at the same time refusing it. The streets were already dark and she had to call at each house, even though her hopes of finding any kind of paid work were fading fast.

  Dejection a mist over her senses as she left the last of the houses, Saran ran past the wide space of open ground into Walsall Street, unaware of the figure in her path until colliding with it.

  ‘Try that with a wagon and you won’t come off as light.’

  ‘I beg your pardon.’ Her hands pressed to her mouth to still the quiver of disappointment muffled the words.

  The hand that had steadied her tightened sharply on her elbow and, though she did not lift her face, Saran felt the tension increase along the arm that held her and the head turn to sweep the street with a quick searching glance, and when the voice spoke again it held concern rather than rebuke.

  ‘Are you all right . . . has anyone frightened you?’

  ‘No . . . no one has frightened me, I . . . I was careless, I’m sorry.’ Pulling her elbow free she lowered her hands, and as they pressed against her skirts to pass the tall figure she felt the outline of the brooch in her pocket. Why hadn’t she thought of that earlier! Eager to be gone she lifted her head, light from the lanterns fixed to the wall of the coach house close across the street illuminating her face.

  ‘You are Luke’s friend – the girl stood in the line up along the Bullen! He said he had to meet you outside of Edward Elwell’s house.’

  Her mind only half on what was said, Saran looked up, taking a moment before recognition brought the touch of a smile to her lips.

  ‘And you are the man who said for him to follow you into the tube works. I did not know what time Luke would be . . .’ She paused. Home? That would be a lie – they had no home.

  ‘What time the shift finished.’ He completed the sentence for her. ‘That were half an hour ago.’

  ‘Then I have to hurry, Luke will worry as to where I am. Thank you again, Mr . . .’

  ‘Gideon Newell, and you don’t have to tell me your name, Luke has done that already.’

  ‘Then we will say goodnight, Mr Newell.’

  ‘I’ll walk with you.’

  It was not an offer, it was a statement. Holding her skirt with one hand she felt the small hard lump that nestled in her pocket. How could she tell this man without being rude? Tell him she w
ould rather go on her way alone.

  ‘Thank you,’ the words came at last, ‘but I must not detain you.’

  She had a softness of words, a way of speaking . . . Gideon Newell pulled himself up sharply. He had let his mind play on Luke Hipton’s friend too long during the day, he must not allow it to career in that direction again.

  ‘You won’t be detaining me.’

  It held a clipped ring to it, a brusqueness that seemed almost to deny the note of concern she had heard earlier. Following as he turned back the way he had come, she strove to think of some way to have him leave her.

  ‘Really there is no need for you to go out of your way, the Elwells do not live far from here.’

  It was weak, especially seeing there were several beerhouses to pass before she reached Russell Street and any girl would welcome an escort past such places.

  ‘I know where Edward Elwell lives and it isn’t that way.’ Having walked with her along Springhead, Gideon paused as she turned in the direction of the market square.

  It would be of no benefit to lie; but to tell? As blood rose to her face Saran wrestled with a pride she should no longer have. After all that had happened to her, owning to pawning a brooch should hold no embarrassment; yet it did, it seemed she placed no value on an act of friendship and she did not want this man to think that of her.

  ‘I was intending to call at Kilvert’s shop,’ she blushed more deeply, feeling his eyes on her. ‘I have been for going there several times, I thought maybe Mr Kilvert would know if my brooch is worth a few pennies.’

  ‘Would that be the brooch given by a woman you delivered of a child?’

  Just how much had Luke told of her . . . was delivering that woman all he had confided or had he told a perfect stranger of her mother and sister being sold for beer money, of Enoch Jacobs?

  ‘I see you need no informing as to where my brooch came from or the reason of its giving, so why not see it for yourself !’ Annoyance staining every word she held the brooch on the flat of her hand.