The Silent Lady

by Catherine Cookson

  ‘Aye, it’s early enough,’ she replied; ‘early enough for you to get to Robson’s and see if you can bring some decent stuff back. I don’t mind yesterday’s but not the day before’s lot. Give Pimple Face a kick there. He’ll sleep until he dies, that one.’

  Now the other man grunted, then stretched his limbs, gave a loud yawn and sat up, saying, ‘God! What I’d give for a cup of char.’

  ‘You’ll have it after your first run. You know the ropes you should by now.’

  ‘You’re a hard woman, Bella.’

  ‘I’d be harder still if I left that bloody gate open at night, wouldn’t I? Because they’d be lyin’ on top of you, two double, and you know it.’

  ‘I’ll just have a swill, Bella; I’ve got a stinkin’ head.’

  This came from the big man who seemed to tower over the small fat woman, and Bella said, ‘Do that, Joe, but don’t make a bath of it, because you know what Robson’s made of. He’s as likely to hand some of the offshoots to the others who’ll pay a penny a box extra. We made a deal, but I don’t trust him. And, the both of you, I want this yard cleared up before you get anything to eat or a kip tonight.’

  ‘What if, when I get to the warehouse, Baker has a job on for me? How about it then, Bella?’

  ‘Well, it’s up to you,’ and she grinned, ‘whether or not you eat and kip here tonight. As for you, Pimple Face, I think it’s about time you gave up that whistle you play on the streets or learnt a few more tunes on it. Your takings would hardly keep a hen in corn. There are bound to be some jobs left that don’t end in gaol.’

  ‘Oh, Bella.’ The smaller man shook his head. ‘We’ve been over this, haven’t we? I’ve been there once, I’ve told you, and I’m not going back again. Anyway, if I can give the cops the tip-off I’ll get more than coppers.’

  ‘Aye, you’ll get more than coppers,’ the woman said now, ‘but as like as not you’ll get a slit throat as well. The villains’ll be on to you, I’m sure. Anyway, get moving.’

  The two men did as she said, and pushed a long barrow through the iron gate. The woman followed them; then she turned and locked the gate again, before returning to her front door and opening it with a Yale key.

  Once inside, she took off her coat and the man’s cap she was wearing, and hung them on a mahogany coat-stand by the side of the door. Then she walked across the sizeable hall, which was covered with brown linoleum, past the foot of a flight of broad stairs, one side of which was open to the hall and its banister supported by a stout mahogany pillar, then through a door into a large kitchen, which was warm and surprisingly comfortably furnished. An ornamental wood-framed sofa-couch stood against one wall, and there were two easy chairs which, like the couch, were covered with faded, worn tapestry. A wooden table stood in the middle of the room. The fireplace was a large open fire with an oven at one side and a boiler at the other. To the right of this was a Delft rack on which stood an assortment of odd pieces of china. There were four wooden rail-backed chairs tucked under the table, and to the side stood a basket chair, the seat well sunken with use. At the far end of the room was a larder with a marble-topped shelf running along one side, with, next door to it, a walled-off scullery area. Opposite was a door, which the woman opened and, switching on a light, passed through. She went down a flight of stone steps into what appeared to be a huge cellar, and which, fifty or so years ago, had been the kitchen of the house and the place for the servants below stairs. Like many such apartments for the lower classes in those days, it was not only below stairs but below ground and exceedingly damp.

  The little fat woman now walked past the large disused rusty stove and the various cupboards going off the wall to her right side, and through another door and into a large back-yard. This had no boxes or stinking fruit lying about, but in it was built a modern flush closet. While she sat on the wooden seat there she wondered yet again, as she so often did, what could be done with the yard and the cellar. Of course it would need money, and although old Ham had been kind in leaving her the house, he hadn’t left her any money, thinking that she could make a living from the business he had started long years ago of the fruit stall outside his house. Of course he had been right. She did make a living of sorts from it, but the extras had to come from other sources. Risky odds and ends, such as harbouring Mr Weir’s vans in this very yard at night sometimes.

  Funny that. He was the only man she knew who hadn’t a nickname, and he was always referred to, by his van men or those about, as Mr Weir. He was an unknown quantity, old Ham had said. They were the words he had used, Weir was an unknown quantity, and that was many years ago, because no one had ever seen him. But whoever he was he still owned remainder warehouses and sometimes dealt in questionable goods, and used more yards than her own for storing these last. However, he paid well and she couldn’t but say it was a godsend at times; even though she was always glad to come down of a morning to do her business and see the yard empty. She hadn’t given his main driver a key for the back door to the cellar – there was no need to. The stuff in the vans was a varied assortment of goods, cheap and otherwise, but one thing she wouldn’t allow, she had stuck out against it, and that was letting them have the cellar for storage. No! She could talk herself out of a police raid by saying that she had no knowledge of what was in the vans that spent the night in her yard, but she would never get away with the same tale about her cellar, which was a part of her house . . .

  By eight o’clock she had her fruit stall in place in front of the window to the right of her front door. The window had a deep sill, and boxes of fruit were piled on it. On the two front shelves of her narrow stall she had arranged various fruits. To the side stood a sack of potatoes and two orange boxes, their divisions now filled with leeks, carrots, turnips, cabbages and bunches of radishes.

  There were four other decaying houses in the short street known as The Jingles, and each was used as a business of sorts. The front room of the one next to Bella’s was a cobbler’s shop. Next to that was a butcher’s, which, it was rumoured, sold only horse meat. The fourth had been turned into an outdoor beer shop, and the ground-floor rooms of the last house held an assortment of second-hand – or you could say fourth, fifth or sixth-hand – clothing, but in them could be found something to suit all ages from the cradle upwards. It was a Paddy’s market, all right, and well patronised.

  The patrons of this little side-street, as one could imagine, were the lowest in the human scale, yet the businesses in it provided their owners with just enough sustenance to live. It was also frequented by those who had no money with which to buy: they came either to beg or to steal; those deciding on the latter course were naturally good runners.

  On a Friday and Saturday Big Bella’s stall could be cleared by dinner-time, but on Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday half her goods would find their way at the end of the day into the side-yard, which once had housed a horse, carriage and tack room with a groom’s quarters situated above. These uses had long gone and there remained now what had been the wash-house, and was still the wash-house.

  Today was a Friday, and the boxes her boys had brought her from the market were naturally all seconds or, you could say, thirds, but in their way they were good and there was little she’d had to pick out, and even that could be sold for a copper later in the day. So now she sat on her stool, which today, because the air was sharp, was placed just within her partly open front door.

  She was not afraid, while attending her stall, to leave her door a little way open for, should anyone try to push it further, it was so arranged that it would knock over an old ship’s bell, and this was always a deterrent more telling than a police whistle.

  So her day began. She would leave the stall at ten o’clock when she would go indoors to make a drink; and again at twelve midday till half past when she would make herself a meal. At these times the stall was taken over by one-arm Pegleg, a description that spoke for itself. He was a ‘remnant’ left from the Boer War, who had taught himself to read and write;
he could also count, so in different ways he was invaluable to the small business people of The Jingles. Moreover, he was known to be trustworthy. However, by seven o’clock that evening Bella was sitting comfortably in the old basket chair in her kitchen with a glass of porter at her side on the table. The day’s takings had been gone over and found to be satisfactory. She’d had no stuff to throw into the yard, only empty boxes; and now she was giving herself a half-hour’s break before she started cleaning the room, which, keeping to the pattern of years, she did every Friday night. She was looking through the pictures in an illustrated magazine. The ‘boys’ always brought in any picture paper they came across because they knew she liked to look at them.

  She was about to take her last mouthful of porter when she heard a dull thumping on the wall to the right side of the fireplace. That meant someone wanted her attention, but why? It was only an hour ago that she had given the men their nightly bowl of soup and a shive of cheese and bread, with the warning that before they turned in they were to get that yard cleaned up as much as they could. If not, there would be no beds for them tomorrow night. With this false warning she had closed the gates on them. But now she felt something must be amiss because only once before had she heard the thumping; and that had been when Pimple Face had the jitters and Joe could do nothing with him. Joe had been concerned for his friend. The closeness of the two very different men had always puzzled her. There was Geordie Joe, all of six foot and Pimple only five foot four. She knew where Geordie Joe had come from: she herself had engaged him when she couldn’t understand a word he said, for he was from the north-eastern end of the country where they spoke a different language. Where Pimple came from in London she didn’t know; she didn’t think he knew himself. Ham had taken him on, likely out of the gutter. At first she used to think they hadn’t a penn’orth of brains between them, but she had learnt differently, for she had found they were both wily, yet also in a way wise, and they weren’t greedy.

  Hurriedly she picked up the keys from a little table standing by the hall-stand, and from there she took her coat, pulled it about her and went out, making sure, as always, to lock her door behind her. When she opened the rusty gates, there they both stood in the dim light waiting for her. ‘What’s happened?’ she demanded.

  It was Joe who answered her in a thick whisper: ‘We’ve got a visitor.’

  ‘A visitor? What’re you talking about?’

  Joe jerked his head towards Pimple, saying, ‘He knows more about her than I do.’

  ‘It’s a woman?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ Pimple was nodding at her, his high squeaky voice now a whisper. ‘It’s the one that’s been knocking around the market for some time. Sleeping rough. She looks like a scarecrow. Well, you’ll see for yourself. We had cleared this side,’ he turned his head towards where the stables had once been, then thumbing over his shoulder, he said, ‘when we heard this rustle in the far corner where the boxes are piled up.’

  Joe put in, ‘We thought it was rats like. We thought we had got rid of them but you never can, not proper like.’

  That word ‘like’ was another thing that identified Joe. Whether it was anything to do with the area he came from, she didn’t know, although she could place many of the lads who came begging by the way they spoke.

  Joe nodded towards the smaller man, who went on, ‘She’s not like the ordinary dossies. It’s her get-up. It’s obviously been classy, but she’s a bit wrong in the head. The market fellows said she was dumb. And she’s not after making coppers on the game because, they tell me, she’s petrified of men. But only yesterday I heard Mickey Robson talking about her. He said a funny thing happened. It was early on and she must have sneaked in in the dark and he caught her taking an apple from a box, and he gripped her hand, saying, ‘What’re you up to?’ And when she dropped the apple he said she shivered like a jelly. He said he had heard of her afore and thought she was one of the meths lot, but apparently she wasn’t. As delicate as she looked she had almost torn one of the men’s eyes out when he tried to get her to the floor. They give her a wide berth down there now. He said he didn’t know where she kips out, but kip out she does, because her clothes are in a mess, but they must’ve been stylish at one time. Funny but stylish. She wears a hat, velvet one with a peak on it like a clerk’s shade.’

  ‘What d’you mean by a clerk’s shade?’ Bella asked abruptly.

  ‘Well, you know, men in newspapers and offices, they wear a greenish eye-shade against the light. Hers is only a narrow brim, yet it covers her eyes. It got round too that she’s dumb, but not deaf because she seems to understand every word that’s spoken. But all the time she looks terrified, Mickey Robson said. He had picked up another apple and handed it to her, and then he found she wasn’t dumb because she muttered very quietly, ‘Thank you’, and as Robson said himself, it was no working lass’s voice that spoke. And then Sullivan, who was there, said he had once seen her go into a pie and pea shop. Somebody, too, must have told the Salvation Army lasses about her and the way she was dressed, and when they came back with one of their officers and he went to take her arm, she thrust him off and ran. And now we’ve got her.’

  ‘What d’you mean, “we’ve got her”?’ said Bella harshly. ‘And how, in the name of God, did she get in here? What have you two been up to? Have you been out and left that gate open?’

  It was Joe who answered: ‘No, Bella. No. Except for a few minutes when I took a barrowload of muck to the tip and I left Pimple here sweeping.’

  ‘It must’ve been then,’ said Pimple. ‘I went into the washhouse for a minute to see if the fire was all right: we had filled a pot of water, we were going to have a swill down.’

  Bella was making her way through the debris to the far corner of the yard; and there she stopped and looked down into a white face from which two large eyes, expressing plain terror, stared back at her. The woman’s legs were drawn up under what appeared to be a long dark coat; she looked like a bundle of rags. Bella took a deep breath, then said quietly, ‘It’s all right; no body’s going to hurt you.’

  The two men standing to the side of her exchanged glances; and they were more surprised when their boss, as they thought of her, said, ‘Come on! Stand up! Let’s see you!’

  When the creature made no move Bella put out her hands and, gripping the woman’s shoulders, pulled her to her feet, at the same time being surprised at the lightness of her; the large coat would have suggested quite a big body underneath. When she said, ‘Why don’t you go in a kip somewhere?’ she knew it was a stupid thing to say. If the woman had any money that’s likely what she would have done. She now had to put her hand out quickly to stop the form that was standing lopsidedly before her from swaying.

  Pimple cried, ‘Watch it! she’s gonna pass out.’

  Geordie Joe’s big arms prevented the woman collapsing to the ground again, and as he held her limp body he looked at Bella, saying, ‘What now, eh? What now?’

  ‘Take her to the wash-house.’

  ‘What? You mean carry her there like . . . ?’

  ‘Well, as far as I can see, you big stook, she’s not going to fly, is she? Or trot, or run?’

  ‘She might be lousy.’

  ‘Well, it won’t be the first time you’ve had them crawl over you, will it? So stop your chatter and come on.’

  In the wash-house, Joe hesitated. ‘Where might I put her?’

  ‘Where d’you think? On the floor!’

  So he laid the unconscious woman on the floor, and there Bella leant over her and, pushing the peak of the cap upwards, she touched the fair hair that spread from under the velvet rim. Then, her hand going to the back of the head, and feeling the large pouch there, she remarked, as if to herself, ‘Must have a lot of hair to tuck in there.’

  ‘I wonder where she’s from,’ said Pimple. ‘I wonder what’s happened to her.’

  ‘That’s what I’d like to know too, Pimple. Anyway, she’ll have to stay in here tonight.’

 
‘What? With us?’

  ‘Yes, Joe, with you. That is, unless you’d like to sleep outside in the boxes.’

  ‘Well, from what I hear and Pimple says, she’s scared of men.’

  ‘Then you’ve got to reassure her, haven’t you?’ Bella’s voice had risen. ‘Will you take it on yourself to put her back among the boxes or out into the street? Tomorrow I’ll let you do it. Yes, in fact I’ll tell you to do it. But for tonight I say she sleeps here.’

  ‘There’s no other mattress.’

  ‘As I understand it, Joe,’ said Bella now, ‘you’re sleepin’ on a decent one. Well, you can let her have it for the night. Pimple there kips on two thin pallets; I’m sure he’ll share one with you. That right, Pimple?’

  ‘Aye. Aye, Bella,’ the words were tentative, ‘if . . . if Joe’s willin’.’

  ‘Joe has no option in the matter.’ Bella’s voice was loud now, and it must have disturbed the woman for she put a hand to her face; then, her eyes opening, she stared up again into the face of the short fat woman bending over her and she did not move; that was until her glance turned sideways and, through the light of the swinging oil lamp, she saw the figures of two men, one very big, the other very small. Quickly pulling her legs up under her, she shuffled her body away towards the boiler. Another foot and she would have been touching the fire door, but Bella’s hand stopped her as she warned, ‘Look out, if you don’t want to be burned! Now, it’s all right, you’ve got nothing to be afraid of from these two. D’you hear me? D’you know what I’m saying to you?’ Bella was kneeling on the floor now by the side of the woman and her face was on a level with hers as she said, ‘You passed out, and you’re in no fit state to go trudging the streets tonight. You may stay in here until the morning; and I promise you these two men won’t touch you. D’you hear me? Do you understand what I’m saying to you?’

  There was no vocal answer, but after a long moment the head made a small downward movement, although the eyes still remained full of fear.