The River Folk

by Margaret Dickinson

  Bert spread his hands. ‘Bessie, my angel, a chap’s got to play the game, y’know.’

  Now both Bessie’s eyes flew wide open. ‘You mean you did?’

  Bert shifted uncomfortably. ‘You’ve got to be sociable with the chap.’

  ‘You may have to be, Bert Ruddick, but I certainly don’t. Not if he knocks his missis about and clouts that bairn of his.’

  ‘Are you sure about that, Bess? I admit I was a bit wary of ’im at first – after what you’d said. But I have to say, he seemed a nice sort of a chap.’

  Bessie snorted. ‘Well, he would be, wouldn’t he, Bert Ruddick, if he bought you a pint?’ Then she smiled as her husband had the grace to look sheepish. She cocked her head on one side, listening. ‘Mind you, I don’t hear any thumps and bumps from next door now, so mebbe I’ve got it all wrong. Mebbe that little woman really did fall over a tea chest like she said.’ She shrugged her well-rounded shoulders. ‘And as for the bairn, well, kids is always getting bumps and bruises, ain’t they?’

  Bert nodded, watching Bessie as she levered herself out of the chair. ‘Come on, Bert. Time for bed.’ She held out her hand and hoisted him to his feet. Then she smiled coyly down at him. ‘Feel like a bit of a cuddle, Bertie?’

  Bert shook his head. ‘Oooh, Bess, light of my life. Now be gentle with me. I’ve got a headache . . .’

  Bess gave a deep-throated chuckle and pulled him towards her, clasping his face to her bosom. ‘It’s not ya head I’m after, Bert Ruddick.’

  It was a ritual they often played when alone and, giggling like two young lovers, they climbed the stairs to their bedroom.

  It was two thirty in the morning when they heard the sounds coming into their bedroom through the thin wall. First a thud and then a woman’s cries. A man shouting and then the chilling sound of a child’s high-pitched screaming.

  ‘I’m not having this,’ Bessie muttered, throwing back the bedclothes and heaving herself out of bed. ‘Bert – get the boys up. All of ’em.’

  ‘Aw, Bess, do you think you should interfere? The feller’ll be drunk. Why not wait till morning?’

  Bessie rounded on him. ‘Listen to that bairn. By morning, she could have been knocked into the next world. And if she hasn’t, then that poor little woman probably will have been.’ She wagged her forefinger at him. ‘I’m not having it, Bert. Not in our yard.’

  Bessie was pulling a shawl around her shoulders over her long nightdress and thrusting her feet into well-worn slippers. In the moonlight, shining fitfully into the room, she fumbled to light a candle.

  ‘Are you shifting, Bert Ruddick, or do I have to face him on me own?’

  Bert sighed and rolled out of bed. There was no denying his Bess. Every time she got into her battling mood, part of him shrank away, but the other half of him admired her spirit and wished he was more like her.

  ‘Shouldn’t we get the police?’

  ‘Huh!’ Bessie was scathing. ‘What can they do? You know they don’t like interfering. A man’s home is his castle and all that rubbish. No, Bert, it’s up to us to sort it out.’

  Bert shrugged and gave in. Not for the first time, he smiled ruefully to himself as he opened the bedroom door to carry out his general’s orders and marshal the troops.

  The yard was alive with activity as if it were the middle of a busy day rather than halfway through the night. Candles flickered, sash windows were thrown open and heads peered out. Doors opened and men, dressed in vests and long johns, shouted, ‘What’s all the racket?’ ‘What’s going on?’

  Only Amy Hamilton’s house remained in darkness.

  From her bedroom window, Minnie Eccleshall shouted gleefully. ‘It’s our Bessie. Battling Bessie’s on the warpath again. Eeh, but yon man doesn’t know what’s going to hit him.’

  Gladys Merryweather was already at her door. ‘She’s got all her lads with her an’ all. And Bert.’ She raised her voice. ‘You there, Phyllis? This’ll be good.’

  The Ruddick boys and their father formed a semicircle around Bessie as she thumped on the door of the neighbouring house. ‘Come on out here, Sid Clark.’ She waited and, for a moment, there was silence in the yard, as everyone seemed to be holding their breath. Then into the quietness came the rasping sound of a window being pushed upwards and, above their heads, Sid’s slurred voice asked, ‘Wha’d’you want?’

  ‘You. That’s who!’ Bessie folded her arms as she looked up at him. ‘Get yourself down here and open this door. I want to know if that kiddie’s all right.’ Her voice dropped a little as she added, ‘And ya missis, too, if it comes to that.’

  ‘’Tain’t none o’ your business.’ He shook his fist, not only at Bessie but at all the watchers around the yard. ‘Get back to your beds all of you and mind your own business.’

  Then he slammed the window closed and wrenched the thin, tattered curtains together but at that moment Bessie, close to the door, heard the child whimpering on the other side.

  She knocked on it again, but this time quietly so that the man in the bedroom above would not hear. ‘Mary Ann? Open the door, love.’ Bessie tried the doorknob, but the door was locked. ‘Unlock it, lass. Can you?’

  There was a moment’s pause whilst they all heard her fingers struggling with the lock. Then there was the sound of a key turning. Bessie tried the door again and it opened. Dressed only in a vest and knickers, her thumb in her mouth, the girl was shivering and sobbing quietly, trying, Bessie guessed, to keep the sound low so as not to anger her father more.

  ‘Aw, me little love . . .’ Bessie gathered her into her arms and, though Mary Ann was no longer a small child, Bessie picked her up. The girl wound her arms around the woman’s neck and buried her face in her shoulder. For a moment, Bessie patted her back soothingly, rocked her and murmured, ‘There, there. It’s all right. It’s all right.’

  There was nothing else she could say, though even to Bessie the words had a hollow ring. Now, inside the darkened house, Bessie could hear the man lumbering down the stairs and through the rooms towards the back door, knocking furniture over in his path. Bessie prised Mary Ann’s clinging arms from around her neck and handed her to Dan.

  ‘Tek her into our house, Dan. Out of his way.’

  Dan reached out, gathered the girl into his arms and carried her away. As he went, Bessie heard him murmuring to her, ‘You come with me, little ’un. I’ll soon razzle up the fire in the range and you can have a nice drink of hot milk . . .’

  Bessie turned to face Sid Clark, who was now standing in the open doorway, swaying from side to side, his hands against the doorjambs on either side for support.

  ‘You interfering owd beezum. I’ll have the law on you for this. Ab . . . abduct . . . abduction, that’s what it is.’

  Bessie spoke loudly and clearly. ‘And I’ll have the law on you. Knocking your missis about and frightening your lass half to death. Have you touched her, ’cos if you’ve laid a finger on that bairn, I’ll . . .?’

  ‘Oh aye.’ The man was smirking now, confident of his ground. ‘And what do you think the law’d do, eh? They can’t touch a man in his own home. Not for chastising his own, they can’t.’

  ‘Oho,’ Bessie said sarcastically. ‘You know all about it, don’t you? Had the coppers round to your house more than once, I bet.’

  The man glowered. ‘I told you – mind your own business.’

  ‘If a child’s getting hurt, then it is my business. I’ll make it my business.’

  ‘Well, she ain’t. I never laid a finger on her.’

  ‘What about your wife?’

  ‘That’s nowt to do wi’ you. A man’s got a right—’

  ‘No man’s got a right to belt anybody,’ Bessie thundered, her voice carrying through the black night and echoing round the yard to the listeners. ‘Least of all, a little thing like her, who can’t stand up to you.’

  ‘Like to take me on yourself, would you?’ the man sneered. ‘Reckon you could, do you, missis?’

  Bessie pushed
up the sleeves of her nightdress. ‘Oho, wouldn’t I just, mester . . .’ she began, and took a step towards him.

  ‘Bess . . .’ came Bert’s warning voice, but either side of her, her two remaining sons moved closer.

  The man blinked, and glanced around at the menacing faces. Swiftly, he stepped back and slammed the door. From behind its comparative safety he shouted, ‘I’ll have me day with you, missis, you see if I don’t.’

  ‘Not if I see you first, mester, you won’t,’ Bess shouted back and gave the door one last thump, whilst Bert shook his head worriedly and muttered, ‘Leave it now, Bess.’

  ‘But I want to see his wife’s all right, I—’

  ‘You’ve done enough, lass,’ Bert said firmly. Then beneath his breath, he added, ‘More than enough.’

  Four

  ‘You go back to bed, all of you. You too, Bert. You’ve all got work in the morning. I’ll stay down here with Mary Ann. I’ll make her a bed up on the couch in the front room and sit with her.’

  Bert knew there was no sense in arguing, so he reached up to kiss his wife’s cheek and then pattered back up the stairs to his cold bed. He hated sleeping without his Bess beside him. Her presence was warm and comforting. His sons, too, yawning now that the excitement of the night was over, went back to their beds.

  The child was soon drifting off and Bessie watched over her, tenderly stroking her hair and carefully removing her thumb from her mouth. When Mary Ann was asleep, Bessie tiptoed back into the warm kitchen to sit in her armchair by the glowing coals. She left the door between the two rooms open so that she could hear the child if she stirred. Bessie leant her head back and closed her eyes. She sighed heavily. She knew Bert didn’t agree with her interfering, but she could not stand by and see a child at risk. Nor that poor woman if it came to that, although where she was concerned Bessie felt a trace of irritation. Why did Elsie put up with such treatment? Why didn’t she up and leave him and take her child with her?

  Bessie’s innate honesty answered her. You’ve never been in that situation, Bessie Ruddick, nor are you ever likely to be, so don’t judge others till you know how you’d be yourself. ‘I know one thing, though,’ she murmured aloud. ‘I wouldn’t put up with it.’

  The following morning, when the menfolk had gone to work, including Sid Clark, Bessie wrapped the child in a shawl and took her next door.

  ‘You there, Mrs Clark?’ When no answer came, Bessie opened the door and walked into the house.

  Smashed crockery littered the floor of the scullery. As Mary Ann still had no footwear, Bessie lifted her over the sharp slivers of pottery and moved towards the living room. There she glanced around her and then shook her head in disbelief. The contrast between this house and her own home was stark.

  Bessie kept her house lovingly polished and although it lacked natural lighting, like all the houses in the yards, which were hemmed in by other buildings, Bessie’s home was never gloomy. In some houses, the front door led straight into the main room of the house. In the early days of their marriage, however, Bert had built Bessie a scullery, so that entry into the Ruddicks’ house was through this and then into the kitchen. Here, her family had their meals at the table in the centre of the room and sat around the warm fire in comfortable easy chairs in the evening. Beyond the kitchen was Bessie’s front parlour, used only at Christmas and on special occasions. In this room were Bessie’s family heirlooms. A glass-fronted china cabinet holding her treasures. A grandfather clock in a mahogany case with a brass face and a pendulum that swung with a comfortingly dependable rhythm. On the sideboard was Bessie’s most prized possession; a model of a keel with its one large, square sail and smaller topsail, patiently made by Bessie’s own father.

  But in this house, where Bessie was standing, looking about her with growing unease, there were no such comforts, no family possessions of any kind. The grate in the range was cold and the few bits of furniture scattered about the room looked as if they had come straight from the scrap heap.

  ‘Mebbe they have,’ Bessie murmured, shrewdly.

  She set the child gently on the one sagging armchair and straightened up. Then she glanced at the door she guessed led to the stairs. Was the woman still in bed? Bessie bit her lip, wondering if she should venture upstairs. She glanced down at the child, but Mary Ann had curled up and fallen asleep again.

  Bessie opened the inner door and peered up the stairwell. ‘You there, missis?’ Silence. Bessie frowned. ‘Mrs Clark?’ Still no answer, but as she put her foot on the first step and took hold of the banister, she heard a movement above and glanced up to see Elsie Clark approaching the top of the stairs. Relief at seeing the woman alive and on her feet flooded through Bessie. ‘I’ve brought your little lass home.’

  The woman was hiding her face with her hand and her voice croaked as she said, ‘Thank you.’

  Bessie sighed. ‘Come on down here, love, and I’ll make you a cup of tea.’

  ‘There’s no need. I’m fine.’

  ‘You don’t look it,’ Bessie said with blunt kindness. ‘’Ow about I put the kettle on while you get dressed.’

  Even from the bottom of the stairs, Bessie heard the woman’s heavy sigh. Flatly, Elsie said, ‘No point. I’ve no tea or milk or sugar. I – I’ll be going shopping later. Just moving in, an’ that. Y’know . . .’

  Her voice trailed away and now, as if she could not be bothered to hide the truth any longer, her hand fell away from covering her face. Bessie, in the light from the window near which the woman was standing, could see her bruised and swollen cheek, one eye almost closed.

  ‘You get dressed, love, and let me have Mary Ann’s clothes. Then you’re both coming round to my house.’

  ‘Oh, but I—’

  ‘No “buts”,’ Bessie said firmly. ‘You’re coming.’

  Half an hour later, Mary Ann was tucking into a bowl of porridge whilst her mother sat beside Bessie’s range, holding her hands out to the warmth and gratefully sipping a cup of tea.

  Forthright as always, Bessie asked, ‘Why do you put up with it, love?’

  Elsie’s shoulders sagged. ‘What else can I do?’

  ‘Leave him.’

  ‘Where would I go?’

  ‘Haven’t you any family?’

  Elsie’s head drooped so low, her chin was almost resting on her chest. Her voice muffled, she said, ‘They don’t want to know me. You see . . .’ She bit her lip and then glanced anxiously towards Mary Ann. Her voice little more than a whisper, she went on, ‘They all tried to warn me against him. My mam and dad, even my two brothers and my sister. But I wouldn’t listen. You might not believe it . . . Bessie, is it?’

  Bessie nodded.

  ‘Well, you might not believe it, Bessie . . .’ Elsie Clark shook her own head as if she did not quite believe it herself. ‘But fifteen years ago, Sid was a good-looking feller. A real charmer, smart and, I thought, quite ambitious. He was a drayman for a brewery.’ Her eyes misted over as she remembered her youth and falling in love for the first time. ‘But he didn’t intend to stay a drayman forever, he said. Oh, he was handsome then, Bessie, sat up on the front of his dray, driving them two great horses that were dressed out with horse-brasses and bedecked with ribbons.’ Now she sighed heavily as she dragged herself back to her unhappy present.

  ‘What went wrong, Elsie?’ Bessie prompted.

  ‘The war. That’s what went wrong.’

  ‘Ah.’ Bessie’s tone was suddenly more understanding. ‘Well now, I can sympathize, but only a bit mind you, ’cos even if he has been to Hell and back – and by all accounts that’s what it was for a lot of ’em – it doesn’t give him the right to batter you about.’

  ‘He . . . he had a bad time.’

  ‘So did a lot of ’em. Them that’s lived to tell the tale.’ Briefly Bessie’s thoughts went to Amy Hamilton shut away in her house of sorrow. ‘And a lot never even had the chance to live to remember it. It’s still no reason why you should put up with the treatment he’s handing
out to you now.’ She jerked her thumb towards Mary Ann, still sitting at the table. ‘And what about yon little lass? Does he hit her, an’ all?’

  Swiftly Elsie said, ‘No, no. At least . . .’ Her gaze met Bessie’s momentarily and then fell away again in embarrassment. ‘Not like he goes for me.’

  ‘But he does hit her?’ Bessie persisted, determined to get at the truth.

  Elsie nodded. ‘When she’s naughty.’

  ‘Naughty? Her?’ Bessie was scandalized. ‘I wouldn’t think the bairn’s got it in her to be naughty. Not what I’d call naughty, anyway.’

  ‘Oh, she can be quite a cheeky little madam at times. And disobedient.’

  Bessie sniffed, disbelievingly. ‘Well, personally, I like to see a child with a bit of spirit.’

  There was silence in the kitchen for a moment until Mary Ann pushed back her chair and came to stand beside Bessie. Her thumb in her mouth, she leant against her and rested her head on the comforting shoulder. Bessie put her arm about the child. ‘Now then. Feel better?’

  Mary Ann nodded.

  ‘And now we’d better get you to school, hadn’t we? You’ll just make it in time, if we hurry.’

  Mary Ann’s brown eyes regarded Bessie solemnly. She removed her thumb from her mouth and declared, ‘I don’t go to school.’

  ‘’Course you do. Everybody’s got to go to school.’ Bessie turned towards Elsie. ‘Does she think she’s old enough to leave? She isn’t, you know, because they’ve just put the leaving age up to fourteen, haven’t they? Won’t she have to stay on?’

  ‘I – she can’t go to school. I haven’t had the chance to get her into one. What with the move and everything . . .’ Elsie’s voice trailed away yet again.

  Mary Ann’s voice piped up. ‘I haven’t been to school for a year.’

  ‘Mary Ann – please . . .’ her mother began and then, defeated, glanced at Bessie. ‘We – we’ve been moving about a lot. I had to go where I could find work and since he’s been home . . .’

  She said no more but the unspoken words hung in the air. ‘Since he’s been home, it’s been worse still.’