Following the day’s route the words repeated often in Saran’s brain.
‘build yourself a life that will take you from the smoke and grime o’ this town’
A few weeks ago it was all she wanted, to leave Wednesbury and search for her mother and Miriam, but how could she do that now . . . how could she turn her back on Jairus who loved her, on the Elwells who already depended upon her . . . and Luke, how could she see him give up the job he so evidently enjoyed, for he would leave it, he would not let her go from the town alone.
Brook Cottage, her bread round, the Elwells, Jairus and old Ezekiel. One by one they had fastened about her life, shackling her will, holding her ever more tightly to Wednesbury.
Her final call being the Coronet Tube Works she handed the gatekeeper the sandwich she always made for him, asking he pass another to Luke for his midday meal. Bent over the small cart, straightening the spotless white cover, she added, ‘Would you be kind enough to pass a message to Mr Newell?’
‘Tell ’im yourself, wench, since he be ’ere watchin’ you as he does every mornin’ you comes.’
Limping off towards the wide entrance to the factory the gatekeeper grinned at Gideon.
‘You have a message for me?’
Why did the presence of this man always hinder her breathing? Saran fussed a little longer with the cover of the cart.
She had to stop behaving like a child, he was no different to Jairus or any other man; this breathless feeling, the rapid thumping of her heart was all her own doing . . . apprehension of yet another quarrel was the only reason her nerves jarred whenever he looked at her.
‘Yes . . .’ she forced herself to stand upright but her glance stayed on the cart, ‘yes, I do. Livvy and Edward would like you to call, they wish to thank you for helping Joseph.’
She had not looked at him! Gideon’s mouth tightened. Brook Cottage was her home, it was not necessary for him to meet the Elwells there, she made it plain any visit of his was an intrusion.
‘Thank you for delivering the message,’ he said abruptly, ‘I will ask Luke to bring my reply.’
His boot crunching on the hard earth brought Saran’s glance darting upward.
‘Can’t I take it?’
Already several yards from the gate Gideon paused then turned, his eyes hard as his mouth.
‘I would not put you to the trouble, Miss Chandler!’
Didn’t he trust her, did he think she would distort his words? Angry both at the thought and at the silly churning of her insides, Saran glared at the handsome face.
‘I can deliver a message!’ she answered sharply. ‘I am no fool!’
‘Neither am I, and I can read the message you send each time we meet, a message which says I am not welcome. Therefore I will meet with the Elwells at some other place.’
What had happened to her heart? Saran felt the kick of it travel to her throat, robbing her of her breath, leaving a sick trail throbbing in her chest.
‘Joseph,’ she pushed the word out as he turned away a second time, ‘Joseph, he . . . he too would like to see you, but he . . . he is not yet well enough to leave his bed.’
What had rushed those words from her as if her life depended on them being said, why had she lied about Joseph when the boy was already up and about?
‘But you, Miss Chandler . . .’ tall and straight as a young oak, his glance never wavering, Gideon Newell stared back at her, ‘do you want me to visit Brook Cottage?’
Did she? Did she want a repeat of the turmoil going on deep within her, did she want to feel the breath stolen from her, the nerves of her whole body leaping as they were now? Lowering her glance she nodded.
‘Then say it!’ Hard as granite his words struck the space separating them. ‘Look at me and say it!’
With a swift flush burning her cheeks Saran lifted her head, her gaze reaching to the vivid eyes resting on her. ‘Yes,’ she whispered, ‘I want you to come.’
It was inconceivable! It wasn’t true . . . it couldn’t be! But the boy would not lie. Scarcely knowing where her steps led, Saran ran along Lower High Street towards the White Horse inn. ‘The London coach don’t call ’ere no more, not since they built that there new ’Olyhead Road,’ Ada Mason had told her as she had burst into the kitchen of the Turk’s Head. ‘You wants to go to Brummajum then you ’as to board the coach there, though were it me, wench, I would—’
Whatever it was Ada had intended to add had not been heard for Saran was already half across the wide cobbled yard, running for the street.
‘A woman . . . it were a woman, said her ’ad been bought from a man.’
Her heart, already thumping painfully with the effort of running, twisted again as Joseph’s words blazed in her mind. She had returned to Brook Cottage when her bread delivery round was finished. The kitchen had been filled with sunlight streaming through its small windows, the aroma of yeast and newly baking bread delicious on the warm air. She had thought for several moments the house was empty, then, hardly disturbing the silence, the quiet voice of the Elwell boy had sounded. She had smiled to herself while washing her hands in the scullery prior to beginning the mixing of another batch of bread. The Elwells had settled into the house alongside the large barn and already several nailers brought their week’s work to sell to Edward, while Livvy had proved invaluable in helping with the bread . . . if only their little girl and her own family—
The thoughts had stopped there. Breathing in short rapid gasps Saran leaned for a moment against a wall of the Quaker Meeting House. The thoughts had stopped as Livvy’s agonised cry rang through the bedroom and down to the scullery.
‘You all right there, missy?’
‘What . . . ?’ Flinching at the touch of a hand she stared vacantly at the kindly face.
‘I asks if you be all right . . . you seemed about to faint.’
‘No . . .’ Saran straightened though her brain whirled, causing her to be unsteady on her feet, ‘I am quite well . . . just a little out of breath running for the coach.’
‘Well ain’t no need to run the rest o’ the way, the coach be standin’ and likely to be for a minute or two yet if I be any judge o’ that driver . . . likes his tankard, do old Jem.’
‘Thank you.’ Saran’s gaze followed the road to where a coach stood, dark-green paintwork almost lost beneath a thick film of grey dust.
‘You be goin’ to London?’
The question floated unattended on the surface of Saran’s mind; only when the man’s apology for asking it began did it register.
Free of a shawl her fair hair caught the gold of sunlight, trapping it among silken folds, while hazel eyes, still dark with the horror of minutes ago, turned again to the kindly face.
‘No,’ Saran shook her head, ‘I’m going to Birmingham.’
‘By yourself !’ Eyes bright with interest swept the street behind Saran. ‘If you don’t mind a piece o’ advice, missy, that don’t be altogether the safest thing these days . . . you never knows who you might come up against on the road.’
‘The coaches are safe—’
‘Oh ar, they be safe enough.’ The bright eyes fastened on her with the quick interruption. ‘But that ain’t always so with the folk as rides ’em; cutpurses, kidnappers . . . I tells you it don’t be safe for a young woman to travel alone.’
The advice was probably sound and definitely well intended but she had to get to Birmingham.
‘I be going to that town meself.’ Raising a tall hat, the slightly corpulent figure smiled. ‘Should you care for it to look as if we be travelling together then nobody will bother you.’
Wedged against her self-appointed companion Saran felt the press of his thigh against her own and a brief moment of unease tickled her nerves. Enoch Jacobs had pressed himself against her in just such a way whenever opportunity presented itself. But this was different, she glanced at the other occupants of the coach, each person squeezed tightly against the next; the man whose body was hot against her own was most li
kely as uncomfortable as herself. Soothed by the realisation, Saran released her mind and immediately it flew to Livvy.
The woman’s cry, filled with pain, had rung through Brook Cottage and she had dropped the cloth on which she had been drying her hands and raced upstairs. Livvy had stood in the centre of the small room which Luke had allowed her son to sleep in; her fingers pressed to her mouth she had been staring at the boy who talked softly on.
‘’E had sent for me times afore . . .’
Held by a quiet magnetism, Saran had remained in the doorway of the small sun-filled bedroom.
‘. . . always to ask did I like what I seen . . . did I want to stay? And always the woman would giggle; the woman were worse’n ’im, ’er goaded ’im on in all he done, even the whip . . .’
Livvy’s stifled cry had wafted to the open doorway but held by unbreakable bonds Saran had stood motionless.
‘. . . liked the whip, he did,’ Joseph had gone on, ‘liked to hear it crack, to see the way folk jumped when it sang along of their ear, to hear ’em scream when it cut into their flesh. It were late that night when the scullery woman come to the cellar to say I were wanted upstairs, her said her were to tek me herself cos the other were busy wi’ the baking. My eyes wouldn’t properly show me the way after days locked in darkness and the scullery woman, ’er helped me up them stairs . . .’
Caught by the words echoing in her mind, Saran was barely aware of the driver calling West Bromwich and the people disembarking at the town.
‘They was there, together on the bed, the man who said I’d been bought and paid for, him lying there naked, the woman nearly the same ’cept for the paint on ’er face . . .’
Bought and paid for?
The nerves in her body had pricked like knives yet still she had been powerless to break the spell the boy’s voice had thrown over her.
Bought and paid for as her mother and sister had been!
‘. . . told the scullery woman to get out ’e did.’ Binding in its quietness the boy’s voice had gone on. ‘’Er looked at me, seeming unwilling to leave me but then the whip . . . it cracked, catchin’ ’er about the shoulders. I don’t blame ’er for goin’, I would ’ave done the same meself.’ He had taken a long breath then, his small frame juddering at the pictures which must have been etched on his brain. ‘“Come close,” he said, “come see what lads who do as they be told gets to play with.” When I made no move the woman giggled and said p’raps they should show me what it was. The man laughed and stood up, pulling her up along of him, then one by one took her clothes away . . .’
Livvy had gasped at that but her son had talked on, as if saying what he did was the cure for both body and mind.
‘. . . that were when I seen, all but for the painted face, there were no difference atween the two, both had the same atwixt their legs as any man. “Come and share,” the older one said, “come and share this.” That were when he dropped to his knees, kissing the other man’s stomach, tekin’ ’im into his mouth.’
‘No more! For God’s sake, no more!’
Livvy’s tear-filled eyes had pleaded with her son but the cry of her heart went unheeded.
‘The painted one laughed telling him he was a naughty boy behavin’ that way, yet made no move to stop it and when the other got to his feet again said he should let me suck. The old ’un said I was to do it, and when I said no he grabbed me about the neck, forcing me to kneel, holding my head up while the other ’un pushed hisself into my face, pressed so ’ard I couldn’t breathe ’til I opened my mouth . . .’
Livvy’s sobs had bubbled into the room, her worn face twisting with the horror of what she was hearing.
‘. . . I were forced to open my mouth, that were when they both laughed, the painted one touching my lips with . . .’
Livvy’s cry had rung out but the boy went on.
‘. . . I opened my mouth and while he laughed I bit . . . I bit hard and listened to his screams. It were worth what ’appened after that, worth bein’ tied to the bedposts while that whip laced across my back. I belonged to Zadok Minch was what were shouted with every lash; I would do as he said. I don’t know ’ow many times that leather cut into my back, I were near unconscious when the bonds about my wrists and ankles were cut and the scullery woman were tellin’ me to run. When I thought later, mekin’ my way ’ome, I remembered Minch staggering against a table wi’ blood running down his bare flesh and a knife in the scullery woman’s hand, but the painted man bein’ no longer in the room.’
Zadok Minch! The name! She had heard that name before! Watching Livvy gather her son into her arms, Saran had been snatched back to a heath wreathed in darkness, to a bush growing beside a canal glittering molten gold in the moonlight, to herself yoked by the neck, her hands and feet bound by the same rope.
‘’E’ll find ’ishelf another Zadok Minch.’
The hated voice had slurred in her memory, the picture of a drunken Enoch Jacobs filling her inner vision.
Zadok Minch was the name Enoch had in his stupor let slide from his mouth, the name of a man who had bought her mother and sister.
‘bought and paid for’
The words danced in her brain.
‘I puts another shillin’ on my offer . . . ye’ll get no more from the men as teks their ale in the Navigation.’
‘bought and paid for’
‘bought and paid for’
It rolled again and again in her mind. Could the man in that tavern, the one who had offered five shillings for her be the same one who somehow had bought Livvy’s son? The question danced in her brain, weaving itself with another, one which had set the world tipping around her. Could this same Zadok Minch possibly be the man who had earlier purchased her mother and sister in that tavern in Walsall?
From downstairs had come the call of her name, spinning her back to the moment. Edward Elwell had called to speak with her of the day’s business with the nail-makers.
‘Zadok Minch.’ He had frowned on hearing the question she had flung at him. ‘Ar, I knows Zadok Minch, so does many another nailer in Wednesbury; he buys from them at a lower price and sells them the next batch of iron strip at a ’igher one. Be a man it be in the best interests not to know, but folk ain’t never had the chance until you set up as nail master . . .’
‘But do you know where it is he lives?’ The abruptness of her second question and the sharpness of her tone had deepened the frown settled between greying eyebrows, and Edward had answered quickly.
‘Brummajum . . . Zadok Minch belongs at Brummajum.’
‘That be better, now we can be a bit more sociable can’t we, my dear.’
His breath fanning warm against her cheek and a hand turning her face drove the pictures from Saran’s mind. The coach was empty of all passengers apart from herself and the man who had spoken to her beside the Quaker Meeting House.
‘You knowed which coach to take, the one old Jem drives; turns a blind eye, do Jem.’
She frowned, not yet entirely free of the thoughts that had held her. Why was this man touching her face, had she been so absorbed she had travelled beyond her destination?
‘Have we reached Birmingham?’ She edged along the leather-covered seat, her spine resting against its lacquered frame.
The face that had looked so kind while in Wednesbury now showed an altogether different side. Eyes that had smiled now gleamed with a light she had seen before, the mouth which had seemed so gentle now stretched in that same lascivious grin, the lips wetted by the lick of a tongue.
‘Not yet.’ The answer was husky, the hand that had touched her face snatching at her shawl, fastening over the tight breast beneath. ‘We still have time to conduct a little business.’
The fear she had experienced whenever Enoch Jacobs had looked at her in the way this man was looking at her swept over Saran. ‘Please . . .’ She pulled at the hand holding so possessively to her breast.
‘Manners pretty as the face, I likes that.’ Glistening lips fastened l
ike leeches to Saran’s mouth while the hand moved to her skirts, dragging them up over her thigh.
‘Lie you down.’ His strength belying the mark of age he had appeared to carry, he dragged Saran down until she lay beneath him. ‘Lie you down and spread your legs . . .’
‘Let go!’ Her mouth freed of the clinging lips, Saran tried to twist from beneath the weight holding her to the seat, her effort answered by a thick laugh.
‘turns a blind eye, do Jem’
Fear turned momentarily to panic as Saran remembered the words. These two were obviously in league with each other; one took his pleasure, the other his payment. It would do no good to scream, for no help would come from the driver.
She must help herself. Holding to that one thought she forced her panicking mind to still. Maybe if she agreed . . .
‘You are so heavy . . .’ she smiled at the heavily flushed face still so close to her own, ‘I can’t remove my underwear unless you allow me to move.’
She must be careful, there would be no second chance. Keeping the smile on her lips, holding those hot eyes with her own, Saran slid to her feet as he moved aside. One chance . . . it beat in her brain . . . one chance and no more.
As her fingers released the button of her skirt she hid the disgust the sight of his naked throbbing flesh evoked.
One chance! Holding tight to the waistband of her skirt she raised one foot, jabbing a boot hard into the pulsing crotch.
27
‘The decision has to be your own for were it otherwise your heart would not be rested.’
The decision had to be his! Gideon Newell stared into the fire that warmed the tiny cottage. But the promise had been his also, the promise to take his mother from this house, to make her life more comfortable, yet . . .
Sixpenny Girl Page 27
