Sixpenny Girl

by Meg Hutchinson

  Saran was not there! His eyes, used to the long hours spent alone in the workhouse, had quickly adjusted to the darkness and he had found no difficulty in going through those tiny rooms. Stood once more in the communal yard, Luke tried to think. Edward Elwell could be looking for work, p’raps he had walked to Brummajum, gone to see the nail master he sold to, gone to ask if would he let ’im have a load of iron on tick . . . not that there was much likelihood o’ that by what Edward had said last night – nail masters allowed no credit; maybe Livvy had found summat, some cleanin’ job or the like and teken the little ’uns with her . . . But that didn’t tell why Saran weren’t here.

  ‘Ain’t bin nobody in that ’ouse since the mornin’.’

  Covered from chest to ankle by a scorch-marked black cotton apron, a hessian sack tied with rope about her middle, a gaunt-faced woman shook her head at the lad who had knocked on her brewhouse door.

  ‘The bums come round early and turned ’em into the street, said the ’ouse were needed for a family as could pay, d’ain’t give ’em no time to pack anythin’ . . . not that them poor souls ’ad anythin’ to pack.’

  The bailiffs had chucked the Elwells out! Luke tasted a sourness in his throat. No matter they hadn’t nowheres else to go, they’d been put on to the streets.

  ‘’As a young wench called since the Elwells were put out?’

  ‘You means the one as left along o’ yourself this morning?’ The woman shoved an inquisitive toddler behind her. ‘No, ’er ain’t bin back, not as I’ve seen.’

  Saran had not been at the house since early morning. Luke walked slowly back along the Shambles and into the market square. There was nothing to be teken from that, her walked the streets all day askin’ for work an’ enquirin’ after her family, but each evenin’ her had been alongside o’ that house waitin’ of him comin’. So why not tonight . . . why was Saran not there . . . where was ’er?

  Questions tumbling his mind like acrobats he watched a heavy cart rumble past. The Turk’s Head! Had Saran gone there, for all he’d asked ’er not to? That was unfair. He pushed the thought away. ’Er wouldn’t never do anythin’ ’er promised otherwise; besides the woman in the kitchen would ’ave told ’im.

  So what else to do . . . who to ask if they had seen ’er? Suddenly conscious of the lumbering wagon, one possible answer leapt at him. Carters passed lots o’ folk, mebbe that one might remember seein’ a young wench on ’er own.

  Sprinting after the cart, Luke called his question.

  ‘Young wench, you says . . .’ Pulling on the reins, a bewhiskered man looked down from the driver’s box. ‘Could ’er be the one laid in the back there, one I found as I passed along the Bilston Road?’

  He had made a bargain and it would be kept. The chatter of his mother going over his head, Gideon Newell stared into the fire. The delivery would be made and he would be given the reward spoken of. Young Luke Hipton’s look had been full of curiosity, the youngster had longed to ask where it was he had been those hours he had been gone from the tube works, but they had parted company for the night with the lad being none the wiser. What he did not know he could not prattle about. Gideon watched the sparks from settling coal shoot into the black vacuum of the chimney. Gideon Newell’s business was his own and he meant to keep it that way. News of what he had been about earlier in the day would be abroad soon enough.

  ‘I’ll be off, then, to take a cup of tea with Ginny Trotter but I’ll be back afore it be time for bed.’

  ‘No need to rush.’ Gideon rose to his feet, smiling at his mother throwing a shawl about her head. ‘I know well my way to upstairs and I’ve long since stopped being feared of monsters lurking underneath my bed.’

  Her own smile fond, his mother tied the shawl beneath her breasts. ‘Ar, you be a man growed an’ like your father – God rest ’is soul – you be feared o’ nothin’, and honest as the day. Gideon Newell be a son any mother could be proud of.’

  Settled once more in his chair Gideon returned his gaze to the crimson heart of the fire. Charity Newell knew her son, but even she did not know his dreams, the hopes of a future that would take him out of this cramped little house. ‘Get it for me, bring me what I ask and you’ll not go unrecognised.’ Those had been the words said to him, the promise he was given.

  The bargain had been made. Leaning back in the chair Gideon closed his eyes. The first attempt had borne no fruit, but that did not mean the tree was bare. He would try again, soon!

  Saran was dead! Numb with shock, Luke stared with empty eyes at the cloth-wrapped package clutched forgotten in his hands. He ’ad thought ’er careless wi’ time and all the while ’er ’ad been lyin’ in that wagon covered by the driver’s coat! Saran, the wench ’e had come to love, Saran was dead!

  ‘Give them to me, lad, I’ll warm a couple in the oven and set the rest in the cupboard for mornin’.’

  Hardly aware of the words, Luke offered no resistance to the sandwiches being taken from his grasp.

  ‘Go wait you in the loft . . . the landlord’ll ’ave no knowledge o’ your bein’ there, my Ben’ll see to that; I’ll fetch your bread an’ meat across to you soon as I gets a minute.’

  The carter had driven into the yard of the Turk’s Head tavern and, at the request of the serving woman, Ben the ostler and the carter had between them carried the limp form up into the hayloft.

  The woman who had asked no question slipped quickly into a side room, emerging with a blanket. ‘Best tek this,’ she said, hustling him from the kitchen. ‘The carter’ll be wantin’ ’is coat so cover the wench wi’ this an’ then wi’ straw, my Ben’ll ’elp you do it.’

  Luke was blind and deaf to all but that one horrifying thought, and his fingers refused to hold the blanket until a sharp slap caught against his cheek.

  ‘Sorry, lad . . .’ the woman whispered, thrusting the blanket at him, ‘but this be no time to stand gawkin’, the landlord could be out ’ere any minute and if ’e finds that wench then we’ll all be forrit.’

  This woman had shown them kindness before and she was showing the same again, but what good would a blanket do? The slap having brought him to his senses Luke kept to the shadows, slipping soundlessly across the cobbled yard. What good was a blanket to a dead girl!

  Huddled into a corner of the loft Luke listened to the sounds of night dying on the street. Men leaving the tavern calling raucous goodnights, feet rapping on the footpath and occasional carriage wheels rattling on the cobbled road, and all the time the figure beneath the blanket was still and silent.

  ‘knocked about . . . bruised summat bad . . .’ He had heard the muffled whispers of the carter as he had helped carry Saran into the stable. But who would do such a thing . . . who would want to hurt a wench who had never harmed so much as a fly? Resting his head on his knees Luke let the tears flow. He had vowed he would never love anyone again after his mother had died, vowed never to let anything mean so much that losing it would break his heart a second time . . . but he loved Saran Chandler, and losing her was breaking his heart.

  ‘You promised,’ he sobbed quietly, ‘you promised not to leave wi’out sayin’ . . . you promised, Saran . . . you promised.’

  ‘Her ain’t broke no promise, lad.’

  As a hand touched his shoulder Luke lifted his head, meeting the sympathetic eyes of the ostler, a small candle lantern held above his head.

  ‘You be wrong if ’n you be thinkin’ the wench be dead, her be unconscious an’, for all I knows, ’urt worse than them there bruises shows but her ain’t dead.’

  ‘Saran ain’t . . . her ain’t . . .’

  ‘No, lad.’ The hand on his shoulder gripping more tightly held Luke back as he made to scramble to the side of the still figure. ‘Leave the wench lie ’til we be sure no bones be broke, but as for bein’ dead then ’er ain’t; so you eat what the wife ’anded to me an’ there be a cup o’ summat to wash it down. I’ll leave the lantern, the tavern be all but bedded for the night so nobody will be usin’ th
e stables afore mornin’ and a light little as that won’t be seen across the yard.’

  Saran was alive. The ostler gone, Luke moved carefully to her side, the lantern’s weak flame lighting a pale face, one cheek marked with a dark bruise.

  ‘knocked about . . . bruised summat bad . . .’

  The words returned clearly to his mind but this time no horror followed in their wake. Hanging the lantern on a nail protruding from a beam he lay beside the sleeping girl, touching one hand gently to the blanket. Cuts healed and bruises faded . . . He smiled a prayer of thanks already on his lips. Saran was alive . . . she was alive!

  ‘You go to your work, lad, you be goin’ to need the coppers you earn.’ It had been a battle between himself and the ostler’s wife, she saying Saran would be safe with Ben and herself, while Luke wanted to stay by her side.

  ‘There be naught you can do,’ the woman persisted. ‘Be foolish to lose a job you’ve only just got.’ She had smiled then, her voice softening. ‘Go you on, lad, the wench’ll be well cared for, you ’ave my word.’

  ‘I be waitin’ on that one . . . wake up, lad, this be no place for daydreamin’!’

  The irate shout rang above the hiss of spitting crucibles and clang of tubes being hoisted into piles. Jerked back to the present Luke grabbed a lump of iron but not before he caught the rapid turn of Gideon Newell’s head and the immediate alert glittering in his sharp eyes.

  Running with a wheelbarrow filled with iron ore Luke fed it into the red-hot crucible, turning still at a run to fetch more. They had not spoken with each other this morning. With the hooter already sounding he had dashed into the works, going to his place with only a brief nod to Gideon; and in the half hour given for the midday meal he had sat alone, his thoughts with the injured girl lying in that hayloft.

  She had murmured several times during the small hours. He had held her head, offering her the milk Ben’s wife had sent from the kitchen, but she had turned away each time with a cry of fear . . . and the name she had murmured . . .

  ‘What be wrong wi’ you, lad . . . be you moonin’ after some wench? If you be wantin’ to see ’er agen you’d best keep your wits about you. Remember, tekin’ advice after trouble be like tekin’ medicine after death, it don’t be a lot o’ use!’

  Garnishing his words with a cuff to the head, the workman muttered on angrily about ‘kids . . . useful as a boil on the arse!’ before nodding to a second man, the two of them grabbing the carrying poles holding a second crucible and taking it to the moulds, filling each with molten iron.

  Somehow the day had ended. Luke breathed a sigh of relief at the blare of the hooter indicating the finish of his shift. Grabbing a piece of rag he rubbed it over his hands, removing some of the dirt before reaching for his jacket. One worry was over but the next had already taken its place. ’Ad the landlord of the tavern discovered the wench in his hayloft . . . where was her gone if ’n ’e had . . . and more than that, ’ow could Saran be fed wi’out money? The woman at the Turk’s Head couldn’t go on smugglin’ stuff out to that barn wi’out somebody gettin’ suspicious.

  Enmeshed by the strings of thought twisting and winding about his brain Luke was unaware of the tall figure stood watching him until it spoke.

  ‘Is something wrong, Luke?’ Gideon Newell eased his own jacket over powerful shoulders.

  ‘Should there be?’ The answer incisive, Luke turned away.

  Men hurrying past – each tired face telling they also were relieved to have reached the end of the working day – called their goodnights, Gideon replying in kind.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said as the last man stepped through the wide doors into the yard. ‘I’m asking you . . . is something wrong?’

  Was something wrong! The cold tip of anger which had pricked in the dark hours when Saran had cried out, stung again. Gideon Newell could ask that, knowing what he did!

  ‘Nothing!’ he answered savagely. ‘There be nothing wrong.’

  ‘Then why the frost . . . why no word the whole day?’

  Leaving the works, crossing the yard to the street, Luke knew he must control the feelings inside him until Saran was well enough to talk, to tell him if the anger bubbling like the molten iron in those crucibles was justified.

  ‘I . . . I just be tired, that’s all.’ It was not a total lie; afraid Saran might need him he had tried not to sleep.

  ‘I know you didn’t go to the house we spoke of . . . did you spend the night with the Elwells?’

  Why had he asked that? Luke’s lips firmed together. What did it matter where the night had been spent?

  ‘Luke!’ Receiving no answer Gideon reached for him, spinning him about. ‘Luke, what the hell is wrong with you . . . or is it Sa— Miss Chandler? Is she ill? Tell me, Luke, is there anything I can do?’

  Twisting free of the restraining hand, Luke looked into the strong face. Had he been fooled by this man, was his friendship a sham, a means to an end?

  ‘No,’ he answered quietly. ‘Saran be fine and so do I. We can manage without help . . . from anybody.’

  Feet drumming on the cobbles, he raced away along the High Street.

  ‘knocked about . . . bruised summat bad . . .’

  The words matched the rhythm of his feet but those Saran had cried in the night hammered in his heart.

  ‘I don’t have it . . . I don’t have it, Gideon.’

  13

  He had told Gideon Newell of that night out on the heath. As Luke ran the length of the High Street low-fronted shops still hoping for customers spilled light in pale pools while wagons and men pushing handcarts moved busily along the road, winding up their own day’s business. Mindless of irate protests as he dashed past, Luke let the thoughts he had fought all day run wild and free in his mind. He had told Gideon of that accident with a coach, of the man trapped beneath it, of the woman whose child Saran had helped birth and the brooch . . . he had told him of the brooch. What a fool he had been, what a stupid, stupid fool!

  His breath painful in his chest he slowed, passing the George Hotel at a walk. That place was where Saran should be, in a warm comfortable room, not holed up in a stable loft like some criminal hiding from the law. Saran had committed no crime, that was him, Luke Hipton was the guilty one; he had let his feelings run away with him, he had taken a liking to Gideon Newell, had told him everything . . . had trusted him . . .

  A peal of laughter catching his ear, Luke glanced at the couple emerging from the columned entrance of the hotel. One day Saran would dress like that. She would wear silk gowns and fur-trimmed capes and be accompanied by toffs in fancy waistcoats, with cape and top hat and gloves.

  Watching them climb into a waiting carriage then drive away, the harshness of reality closed around him like a winding sheet stifling tomorrow with today. Why had he let his tongue run on like a bolting horse; if he had held it still Saran wouldn’t be lying injured . . . wouldn’t have been attacked. It must have been the brooch – but why, when the thing was practically worthless? Every thought giving rise to another he walked slowly across the fast-emptying market place. Then a thing worth only pennies was a treasure to somebody who had nothing, somebody who was starving. But Gideon Newell was far from starving!

  Yes, Gideon Newell! Lifting his head, as if only now recognising that one thought which had hovered the whole day on the verge of reason, he stared into the evening greyness. He it was had been told all, he it was had been absent from the tube works yesterday for an hour or more, he it was knew Saran kept the brooch, and he had seen her in the line, had seen her standing there beside himself, so Gideon Newell would recognise her! What more evidence was needed! The tip of anger burying itself more deeply, Luke turned into the yard of the Turk’s Head tavern, the truth blinding him with its clarity. Gideon Newell was the culprit, Gideon Newell had attacked and beaten Saran!

  She had not seen her attacker, not known anyone was near until a hand had closed over her mouth from behind and she had been forced to the ground. She had run as
far as breath would allow, following the way she thought the carter to have taken. Leading out from Wednesbury the Bilston Road had become no more than a trackway threading between fields of high-sprouted corn, a trackway that held no sign of a carter’s wagon. The day had been so bright. Eyes closed, Saran remembered . . . So bright and still, the fields devoid of workers making it seem the world was empty. But it had not been empty. A man had lain hidden among the corn . . . waiting.

  ‘Hand it over.’

  Words more painful than the bruises marking her body played for the thousandth time in her mind.

  ‘I know you haven’t pawned it.’

  Fear had kept recognition of what it was the man was demanding from registering, and as he pressed her harder on the ground she had tried to tell him she had no money. He had struck her then, a heavy blow to the head sending her senses reeling.

  ‘It isn’t money . . . I want what you be taking to William Salisbury, that which his wife gave you; now where is it, you bitch! Where do you have that brooch hidden?’

  Another blow knocking any words from her, she had been twisted on her back, a hand viciously gripping her chin.

  ‘I mean to have it, even supposing I have to rip it from you.’

  It seemed the words were being spoken again, the eyes above the scarf tied about the lower half of the face glittering maliciously above her own, and her lips moved with the cry she had tried to utter then, ‘I don’t have the brooch.’

  Her jaw was held so tightly the words could not have been intelligible yet somehow her attacker must have gathered the meaning for he had rained several blows to her face before savagely tearing at her clothes. A fruitless search building frustration into anger he had snatched her to her feet, shaking her so her head had snapped on her neck, then a closed fist had sent her sprawling into merciful blackness.