Sixpenny Girl

by Meg Hutchinson

  ‘Your brooch!’ A hardness emphasising his words, Gideon did not look at the bauble. ‘Did Luke play no part in saving that couple? He may not have helped the child from its mother but it was he as much as you kept all three from possible death . . . unless what he told me was lies and I do not judge Luke Hipton a liar. So the way I look at it is this, the lad played his part therefore the reward were not just yours, Miss Chandler, half of it be rightly his, as is freedom to speak of it. However, I can see it has caused you vexation and for that I apologise . . . the fault is mine for listening to him. But I have warned strongly against his telling anyone else of that trinket and I give you the same advice. Wednesbury has its villains, as does any other town, and though that brooch be worth little or nothing there are those would take it from you.’

  The words had shot at her, each stinging like a pebble thrown at her face, but Gideon Newell had spoken only the truth. The brooch had of course been a gift to both Luke and herself, the woman who gave it must have meant for it to be sold and the few coppers it fetched shared equally between them. But she had not intended to share . . . she had not meant for Luke to have a penny.

  10

  ‘I wondered where you was, I was becomin’ feared . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry, Luke, I called at so many houses that the time had gone before I realised.’

  ‘Be all right now you’re ’ere.’ Luke Hipton breathed a sigh of relief as Saran came up to him. ‘I was about to go look for you, I thought p’raps you ’adn’t ’eard my call as I crossed to them tube works.’

  ‘I heard—’ She got no further, Luke’s words cutting her off.

  ‘It weren’t so ’ard as Gideon ’ad me think, though to be fair I reckon that were more his doin’ than not; kept me close alongside all day, he did, and what be more I’ve bin told I can work again tomorrow. I bin given another day in them tube works, ain’t that bostin’, Saran? Ain’t that just bostin’!’

  Yes it was wonderful. Saran stayed silent. Gideon Newell had been kind to Luke . . . just as he had tried to be kind to her. For a brief moment she saw again the look touching his face before he turned away leaving her alone in the street, a look of disillusionment, a sadness that seemed akin to regret, a look that seemed to say he had not expected selfishness. She had not meant what she said to sound that way but he had strode away before she could explain; it had been obvious Gideon Newell wanted no explanation. But why had not giving it been so painful . . . why was it painful still?

  ‘. . . so if I works real ’ard chance be I might get given another day in the tube works.’ Ending suddenly, Luke let the silence lie undisturbed between them. Saran was not usually this way, just the opposite, she listened when he told her of his day, showed interest in all he’d done and seen; something had happened, something that hurt! The thought sent a tingle along his spine; the man who’d carried her into that tavern, the man the serving woman showed no liking for . . . was he somehow responsible? Or had she heard bad news of her family? Reaching for her hand he held it tight in his own. About her family he could do nothing, but if that man or any other hurt her then he would kill them!

  ‘Saran.’ With the thoughts still filling his mind he spoke slowly. ‘If it should be as anybody – any man – causes you grief, you will tell me, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘You will tell me, promise me, Saran, promise me!’

  There was so much feeling in the words: anger, sorrow, protection and love . . . yes, there was love for her mixed in that demand. Squeezing the fingers that held hers, Saran answered softly, ‘I promise I will never keep anything from you, Luke.’

  But she had meant to keep one thing from him, she had been bent on selling the brooch to the pawnbrokers without telling Luke, had intended to take the money she got and say nothing of it. But she had not wanted it for herself ! Almost a cry for forgiveness, the thought rang in her heart as a picture of that disillusioned face rose to her mind; Gideon Newell had judged her selfish and deceitful and, given the circumstances, he could not be blamed.

  ‘I got this today.’ Releasing her hand Luke delved into a pocket of the trousers which, like his jacket, had fitted years ago but now rose above his worn-through boots. Palm outstretched he displayed several coins. ‘A day’s pay, that means you get a warm meal, an’ Gideon told me of a place . . . a friend of ’is mother who’ll find you a bed.’

  Find her a bed, provide her with a warm meal; he did not speak of himself. How could she have been so thoughtless of him? Reproach staring at her from the face in her mind, she shook her head and turned away. Luke had shared . . . was still prepared to share everything with her . . . and she had not given a thought to sharing with him.

  Clinking the coins together Luke snapped his fingers shut. ‘Saran,’ he stepped closer, ‘there be summat as don’t be right with you, don’t tell me there ain’t cos I knows that will be a lie; is it . . . is it your kin, ’ave you ’eard bad?’

  It was there again, that concern, the compassion. Choked by the emotion it evoked in her, Saran took a moment to answer. ‘No, I have heard no news of my family.’

  ‘Then what? Did summat ’appen at one o’ them houses you called at, did some stuck-up body say something that ’urt . . . threaten you wi’ the dogs?’

  She could not leave it like that, Luke had the right to know what had been in her mind to do; and if telling him meant him turning his back on her, walking away as that tall figure had done, then it would be no more than she deserved.

  A fast-rising moon illuminated the thin face drawn with fresh concern, stirring the pangs of guilt as she turned to him. She was the cause of much of this boy’s worry, part of the burden resting on his young shoulders, and telling him of how she had been about to cheat him would only add to that burden. She had promised herself she would quit this town without his knowing. Her hand closing over the brooch, she drew a deep breath. It was a promise she would keep.

  Had it been embarrassment or had it been shame? Gideon Newell turned towards a small cottage stood some way past the oak-timbered Oakeswell Hall. Which was it he had seen on the face of Saran Chandler? The lad had laughed when she had been called his sister, but they were friends, he had said, good friends.

  Good friends! His hand resting on the low gate which led into a tiny garden he stared into moonlit shadows. The lad was certainly that, but the girl . . . could anyone so prepared to deceive be called a friend! In what else had she duped the lad? Was her story of a family sold for gain true or a tissue of lies? She had been bound with a rope when Luke had come across her in the dawn hours . . . but what did that prove, that she was a victim of her stepfather? Or had she been tied to prevent waywardness . . . was it that she was the shame of the family? No! Instinctively he rejected the idea. He had felt a little angry when speaking of that brooch, disappointed at the possibility of her not deciding things with the lad who so obviously thought her special – but a woman of the streets? No, he could not think that of her. So why think of her at all?

  Pushing the gate open he stepped through it. Making no move towards the cottage he continued to stare vacantly into the shadow-enfolded garden. Hadn’t he asked himself the same question while heaving ingots of iron into red-hot crucibles, while drawing it into tubes which, when cooled, would be soldered end to end? He had watched her in that line, a thin coat pulled close against the bite of early morning, seen the way its light gleamed on her hair sending tiny sherry-coloured darts dancing from it with every movement, darts he had seen again with each showering of sparks as he poured molten iron. Why think of her at all? Loosing a long silent breath he stared hard at the golden moon. It might be simpler to ask himself why he could not stop!

  The dirt of the factory scrubbed from him, the rust of iron dust beaten from trousers and jacket that were now laid as usual across the rickety chair in his bedroom, Gideon lifted his face for the kiss that was more welcome than the kidney pudding his mother set before him on a table scrubbed ’til it squeaked. But as
her lips brushed against his brow his thoughts were of another, far younger, mouth. Would its kiss taste as sweet, would it calm him as his mother’s always had, or would it tug, pull his heart, as thoughts of that gleaming hair and gentle-looking face had torn at it all day?

  ‘Has it bin a hard day?’

  It was a question his mother often asked, holding a little of the ache he knew she always felt for him, worry that the iron-filled crucible might fall, killing him as the coal that had fallen in the deep seam of the mine had killed his father, trapping him behind it, so far behind that rescuers had never found him. He had been four years old when that disaster had struck taking several of the men of Wednesbury to their death, and his mother had reared him alone, taking no other man in her husband’s place. It had not been easy . . . it was not easy for her now. Touching the hand resting on his shoulder he looked up. No matter how hard the work in the tubes it could be no more than she had toiled for him.

  ‘No more than usual,’ he smiled, ‘and what of your day? I hope you took notice of what I told you and rested.’

  Smiling as she reached a cream enamel teapot from the hob, Charity Newell offered the silent prayer of thanks she always offered when hearing that nothing untoward had marred her son’s day. ‘I needs no rest,’ she said pouring tea into a thick mug, ‘but I did sit an’ talk some while I was along at the Hall.’

  Taking up knife and fork Gideon cut into the savoury pudding. There had been no need of his mother working since he had been fourteen; somehow or other he had always found a day’s work, a day’s money to keep them in bread and coal, and then the tube works had taken him on permanently. But his mother had kept her post at Oakeswell Hall, assisting the cook. ‘That way I ’ave a body to talk with during the long hours o’ the day’ was all she would say whenever he had suggested she no longer work.

  ‘Were a bit of excitement up there today, seems the master’s bin invited to stand as godfather to the child of William Salisbury along of Darlaston. Will be quite a do, I reckon, seein’ the standing the man has in that town, mind the ceremony can’t be for a time yet for the mother still be lying in. Poor wench, it be naught but a miracle of heaven they all be alive an’ well what with that accident an’ then that babby delivered on the open ’eath . . .’

  Accident . . . baby! Two words stood clear of the rest, pushing everything else from Gideon’s mind. He had not thought Luke a liar but young lads were sometimes given to adding to the truth here and there, and as he had listened to him talk while they worked, suspicion had reared its head; he had wondered it the lily was being gilded just a little.

  He remembered his mother relating the news gleaned from her usual source, but pretending otherwise would bring a repeat without his seeming interested. Keeping his glance on his plate he said, ‘Accident . . . has there been an accident?’

  ‘Gideon Newell!’ Charity’s exasperated stare followed her words. ‘I wonders why I bothers to bring ’ome any sort o’ news at all for I doubt you ever listens! I told you some time gone, William Salisbury were drivin’ his wife to be with her mother – well, that be understood, any young wench about to give birth to her first wants her mother alongside o’ her, be only natural – any road up, like I was sayin’, he were drivin’ the carriage ’imself not leavin’ it to no coachman, and that were a mistake for the whole lot tipped over and ’im unconscious beneath it; had it not bin that a wench and a young lad found ’em I dreads to think what would ’ave followed.’

  Keeping his glance lowered and his tone even, Gideon kept up the pretence of not remembering. ‘Mmm,’ he swallowed a mouthful of kidney pudding, ‘lucky for William Salisbury.’

  ‘Lucky for ’im!’ His mother’s snort was one of deep disapproval. ‘It be lucky for ’im he be no son o’ mine . . . whatever give ’im such a crack-brained idea o’ drivin’ for ’imself in the dark and with a wife near nine months’ gone? Yes, he be lucky all right, lucky that babby weren’t dead afore ever it breathed God’s air. I don’t know who the wench were as brought it into the world but I reckons her saved the life o’ that child.’

  His meal finished Gideon moved to the chair drawn to the fire. His mother did not know who had brought that child into the world but he did. It was a young girl with sherry-coloured hair, a young girl whose face smiled in his heart.

  Stood close against the wall of the tiny house that was the Elwell home, Saran’s fingers closed about the brooch. It was a trivial piece, the woman who gave it had told her, worth very little. But that was of no matter . . . what was of consequence was Luke’s knowing she had thought of selling it without asking his opinion. Leaving this town without telling him was one thing, the selling of the brooch was entirely different.

  ‘Luke,’ she began hesitantly, ‘there is something—’

  ‘Tell me later, first let’s get you to the woman Gideon told of.’

  Pulling her hand from her pocket she held out the brooch, and the words she so dreaded saying poured out of her. ‘I . . . I was going to take this to the pawnbroker, to his shop in Union Street. I meant to sell it . . . I would have told you, really I would but—’

  ‘Why tell me? It be your trinket, given to you by that woman.’

  ‘Given to us, Luke, given to us.’ The answer was almost a cry. ‘That is what is so wrong . . . this brooch belongs as much to you as it does to me, I have no right to sell it—’

  ‘You ’ave as much right as need be.’ Luke’s quick reply cut short her self-recrimination. ‘After all, I’d look a right pansy seen wearing that, what would Gideon Newell think o’ me then!’

  Gideon Newell! Saran’s teeth closed on her lip. Why did that man figure so much in her thoughts and, it seemed, in Luke’s?

  ‘I don’t want that thing,’ Luke laughed, ‘you do what you wants wi’ it, though it would look right pretty pinned to a Sunday frock.’

  But she had no Sunday frock and Livvy’s children would soon be put to the workhouse; even if this trinket fetched no more than pence that money would delay their parting for another day.

  Catching her hand Luke held it so the light from the moon glistened on the stone’s green centre.

  ‘It do be pretty the way the light sparkles from that bit o’ glass.’ He looked at her, smiling as he folded her fingers over the bauble. ‘Try askin’ Kilvert will he swap that for a coat somebody’s pawned an’ never had money enough to retrieve.’

  ‘I don’t want a coat, neither do I want the money . . . But it was almost dishonest of me to even think of acting without first asking you.’ It was not the thought of Luke’s eyes upon her brought the blush as she bowed her head but the memory of those others, the hardness that had glittered in them as Gideon Newell had turned from her.

  ‘T’ain’t that I would call dishonest,’ Luke answered as she finished speaking. ‘Nor will it give me any heartache. You was acting for the good o’ others an’ that be as I would want. But Saran . . .’ he caught the hand she had withdrawn as she had talked, ‘one thing I would tek ’ard, that be if you should leave me wi’out a word.’

  Saran heard her own swift intake of breath. She had said nothing of that part of her intention . . . had he guessed . . . did he already know her so well? The heat in her cheeks intensified and her own words drowned in the emotion that welled up in her. Luke had spoken with more than his voice: he had spoken with his heart.

  ‘You will tell me, won’t you?’ Luke went on though his throat was husky. ‘You’ll tell me when you get fed up o’ my bein’ with you, you won’t just turn your back, leave wi’out a word?’

  Swallowing hard against the lump in her throat, Saran drew him close. ‘I won’t ever not want you with me, Luke,’ she whispered, ‘remember what you once said to me . . . we be together, we stays together.’

  That was not what she had told herself minutes ago! Returning the brooch to her pocket, the promise she had made, and had been so determined to keep, echoed again in her mind, she would quit this town without his knowing . . . but as she looked at
Luke now, saw his young face smiling in the moonlight, she knew she could never go through with it.

  ‘Ain’t doin’ no good to stand ’ere witterin’, all we’ll get from that is like to be a grievance o’ the lungs, let’s get you along to the place Gideon spoke of.’

  The night air was still treacherous, the chill of winter apt to return a sting to it at a moment’s notice, bringing a cough to those forced to stand in it; but even recognising the common sense of the lad’s words, Saran hesitated. She did not want to seem ungrateful yet the pain of what she had seen earlier in that cramped little house overrode all else.

  ‘Luke,’ she asked as he turned away, ‘will you be taking a bed at this house you speak of?’

  ‘Ain’t no need, I can climb into a hayloft somewheres, there be plenty of ’em along of the taverns.’

  What he really meant was the money he spent on himself could be kept against another night’s lodging for her.

  ‘I can climb into haylofts every bit as easily as you can.’ She tried to sound amused but the words were tight, sharp almost, and when Luke swung quickly to face her she dropped her glance.

  ‘There be more to this than that brooch, you bin actin’ strange since gettin’ ’ere. What be goin’ on!’

  He was bemused but at the same time adamant. Luke was not going to be consistently put off hearing what still bothered her. Swallowing hard, screwing together her courage, she lifted her glance to a face now devoid of its smile. She could only say what she felt, only hope he too might be of the same mind.

  ‘Luke,’ she began quietly, ‘I know what it is you are doing for me, I’ve known that ever since our first meeting and I appreciate it, truly I do—’

  ‘But?’

  It seemed a world of sadness was reflected in that one word, a fear that all he held dear was crumbling away before him.

  ‘It . . . it isn’t that . . .’

  Taking her hand as she stumbled over the words Luke was once again the man, older in mind, wiser in heart. ‘Saran, there ain’t nothing you can’t say to me, nothing you needs hide; we be friends, don’t that be enough?’