When she heard the soft knock on the door she smiled, glad of the prospect of company. Both Mrs Simms and Mrs Casey had been marvellous over the past few days – she didn’t know what she would have done without their help and support. Smoothing down her grey corded dress she called out, ‘Come in, it’s open.’
When the door was pushed open and Teresa walked timidly into the room, Maggie’s mouth opened in surprise.
‘Why, hello, Teresa,’ she stuttered awkwardly. ‘I didn’t expect to see you. Liz, Liz, look who’s here,’ she said loudly, her mind whirling in alarm. Although Liz worked with Teresa, she wasn’t the sort of girl her sister would choose for a personal friend, and certainly not the kind of person she would encourage to visit whatever the reason.
Forcing a smile to her lips she said lightly, ‘Can I get you a drink, Teresa, something hot? You must be frozen.’ Her eyes dropped to the dirty, bare feet and Maggie felt again a surge of pity at the life this young girl was forced to endure.
‘No fanks, Maggie, I can’t stop, me muvver’s waiting for me to get ’ome. ’Ello, Liz, ’ow you feeling?’ she called out to the figure silently sitting in the armchair, her fingers nervously plucking at the filthy, tattered piece of black cloth that passed for a shawl as she studiously tried to avoid meeting Maggie’s anxious gaze.
Maggie saw the furtive actions, and trying to stem the tide of alarm that was rising in her chest she asked quietly, ‘What is it, Teresa, is it about Liz’s job? Is that why you’ve come?’ She watched as a deep flush rose over the girl’s face, and put her hand to her throat waiting for the words she knew were coming.
‘I’m sorry, Maggie, I didn’t want to come,’ she answered, her embarrassment making her head bounce wildly on her shoulders. ‘But the fing is, well…’ She broke off for a moment. Then, hanging her head, she whispered, ‘She’s been given ’er notice, Maggie, the gaffer sent me round to tell ’er and give ’er wot’s owing to ’er. We all ’ad a go at ’im, ’onest, but… but ’e only got nasty and said if we didn’t mind our own business we would join ’er. I’m sorry, Maggie, reely I am, but there’s nuffink we can do.’
Gulping twice Maggie tried to keep calm. Taking a deep breath she said, ‘I thought you had a union now, I remember Liz telling me about it after the strike.’
‘We ’ave… well, sort of, and like I said, we all tried to keep Liz’s job for ’er, but the union don’t want anovver strike, a lot of the women are still trying to make up the money they lost in the last one.’
Seeing the girl’s evident distress and knowing it couldn’t have been easy for her coming here, Maggie said gently, ‘It’s all right, Teresa, don’t upset yourself, it was good of you to come.’
Her mission over, Teresa turned to leave, anxious to get away, only to turn back suddenly, her hand flying to her mouth as she exclaimed worriedly, ‘Eh, I nearly forgot to give you Liz’s money, ’ere it is, Maggie.’
‘Thanks, Teresa.’ The money lay on the table, and Maggie didn’t even look at it.
Taking her leave, Teresa glanced over her shoulder to the huddled figure in the armchair. Eh, she looked stuffed, nothing like the girl she had worked with for so long, it was scary. She wouldn’t fancy being shut up with her all day, not like she was now; poor Maggie. Still, couldn’t spend your life feeling too sorry for other people, it was hard enough work living your own. Just before the door shut behind her she caught a glimpse of Maggie’s face. The look of desolation in the large brown eyes sent a shiver down her back and hurriedly pulling the black shawl up and round her face she walked up the basement steps.
* * *
‘I’m hungry, Maggie.’
Charlie sat at the table, his hands splayed out in front of him and stared into the brown eyes so like his own.
‘I know you are, love, we all are,’ Maggie answered patiently. ‘But you know how things are. I’ve only got enough potatoes and cabbage for one more meal and I’m saving that for tomorrow.’
‘But I’m hungry now, Maggie,’ came the plaintive reply. ‘I feel sick, and my stomach hurts. Please, Maggie.’
‘Oh, for goodness sake, let’s eat it now. Things aren’t going to be any better tomorrow or the next day, so why bother saving it?’ Liz had joined her brother at the table and as Maggie looked down at the pair of them she felt a rush of anger rising in her breast. Tearing her gaze away she stared down at the empty grate, the sight of the bare, iron slates yet another reminder of the plight they were in. It was nearly eight weeks since Liz had lost her job, and she still showed no signs of looking for another one despite Maggie’s urging. Every time she brought the subject up, Liz complained that she needed more time to recover from her illness, professing herself too ill to work. She was quite content to let Maggie take on any menial work she could find in order to support them all. The fact that her sister hadn’t been able to find any work for the past two weeks didn’t seem to bother her. Even when Maggie had told her all the savings were gone and they were two weeks behind on the rent the cloud of detachment stayed in her eyes. It was as if the illness had drained all the life and feeling from her body and mind.
Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear Maggie reflected on the ironies of life. Less than two months ago she had knelt in this room praying and begging for the life of her sister to be spared, now it was all she could do to stop herself from jumping on Liz and pummelling her to the floor.
‘Well, are we going to eat now or not?’ Liz’s petulant voice cut into her thoughts and with an impatient toss of her head Maggie picked up the pot containing the leftover stew and banged it down on the table.
‘There, have it,’ she shouted angrily, ‘but you’ll have to eat it cold. There’s no more coal for the fire, just a few pieces of wood left to boil a kettle for a hot drink later.’
‘I’ll go down the market before school tomorrow and see if I can scrounge some wooden crates off the stalls, all right, Maggie?’ Charlie piped up timidly.
‘You’re not going to school tomorrow,’ she yelled back at him. ‘You can’t last all day on an empty stomach, you’ll likely pass out and you know what’ll happen then? Probably have some nosey parker from the authorities come snooping round here, and that’s the last thing I need right now.’
Charlie lowered his head so that his sisters wouldn’t see the tears that had sprung to his eyes. He had only been trying to help, and he’d still got it wrong. His hand trembling he picked up a spoon and began to eat the congealed mess in front of him. It didn’t taste very nice cold, but he didn’t dare make any comment for fear of a further outburst from his favourite sister. Peeking out from under his eyelids he made sure Maggie wasn’t watching him and quickly wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve. He would go down the market tomorrow, and when he came back with a pile of wood and maybe some bruised fruit and vegetables that had fallen off the stalls and rolled into the kerb, then Maggie would be pleased with him again.
‘I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss,’ Liz was saying as she picked over the food on her plate. ‘Mrs Simms and Mrs Casey always help out, you’ve only got to ask.’
Maggie rounded on her furiously, ‘That’s right, Liz, I only have to ask; me, not you, me. I’m sick of asking for handouts, and especially from people who aren’t much better off than we are. There’s such a thing as abusing friendship, Liz, and I think we’ve just about used up our quota of favours from the neighbours.’ Pulling up a chair she sat down beside Liz, and placing a hand on her arm she asked urgently, ‘Don’t you have any pride left, Liz? How long are you going to sit around expecting other people to
support you without lifting a finger to help yourself?’
For one brief instant, a spark of anger flared in Liz’s eyes and then vanished, leaving Maggie to wonder if she’d imagined it.
Maggie let her hand drop to the table and said bitterly, ‘All right, I’ve done all I can, and I’ll go on trying, but the bits of work I’ve been getting are barely enough to keep us in food. Unless you get up of
f your backside and help, the next step is the workhouse, and I’m not joking, Liz. Right now I can’t see any other way out.’
She had saved the threat of the workhouse as a last resort, thinking that if all else failed the mention of the grim building would spur her sister back to life, but Liz merely shrugged her shoulders listlessly and carried on eating.
Frustrated beyond endurance Maggie leapt to her feet crying, ‘Right then, the workhouse it is. You’d better get your things ready, because when Mr Bates comes on Friday and there’s no money to give him we’re all going to be out in the streets.’
‘Oh, no, Maggie, not the workhouse,’ Charlie screamed, his eyes wide with terror. Jumping from his chair he rushed to Maggie’s side and threw his arms round her waist, his big brown eyes staring up at her in mute pleading. Her throat swelling with emotion Maggie could only draw him closer to her. She wished with all her heart she could say something to take the fear from his face, but it would be cruel of her to fill him with false hope. Picking him up in her arms, she walked unsteadily to the mattress and laid him down gently. And when he tried to plead with her once more, she placed a finger to her lips and shook her head sadly.
The sound of his sobs tore at her heart as she slumped down into the armchair and closed her eyes wearily. How could things have gone so terribly wrong? Just a short time ago life had seemed so bright. Now the darkness was closing in on her, pressing down relentlessly so that her very breath seemed to have been stilled. She would go out again tomorrow like she did every day, and maybe she’d be lucky and find a morning’s work, or even a couple of days’ work. But even if she did what good would it do? The few shillings she could expect to earn wouldn’t pay the rent and keep them in food. Then there was the coal to buy – they hadn’t had a proper fire for days. She had managed to find enough bits of wood and old newspapers lying in the streets to start a blaze in the grate just long enough to cook a meagre meal or boil a kettle, but it wasn’t enough. They were in the midst of winter, and had so far managed to keep warm by wearing two lots of clothing day and night, but they couldn’t go on like this. It would be different if Liz was helping her, but as things stood she was only putting off the inevitable by trying to keep them all together. There was no way she could get enough money together to pay Mr Bates on Friday, no way. Yes, there is, the voice in the back of her mind whispered to her.
The thought that had sprung unbidden to her mind caused Maggie to jump forward in the chair. Running a hand over her face she shook her head in denial. No, dear God, no. She couldn’t do that, she couldn’t. Despite the coldness of the room she found herself sweating as she listened to the voice in her head. It’s either that or the workhouse, which would you prefer? the insidious little voice taunted her. Once you’re inside that building you might never get out, and Charlie will be taken away to the children’s section, you’ll never see him again. All you have to do is go to the nearest pub and wait outside, it’s easy. You’re young and pretty, you won’t have any trouble finding a customer, and it won’t be forever, just a few nights till you get enough to tide you over. She remembered vividly the night when Liz had said jokingly that they were sitting on a fortune. How they had laughed…
The candle flickered and went out, plunging the room into total darkness. She heard Liz say goodnight, and mumbled a reply as she tried to gather her jumbled, confused thoughts into some kind of order. For weeks now she had tried everything she knew to keep them from being thrown onto the streets. Every ornament and knick-knack had been sold; even their treasured clock had found its way into the pawn shop in an effort to keep body and soul together. There was nothing left to pawn – except herself. Rising slowly from the armchair she walked through the pitch darkness of the room and opened the door. A gust of icy wind blasted her body, lifting the top of her shawl from her head, but she scarcely noticed. Keeping a tight rein on her emotions she let her mind go blank and slowly climbed the stone steps. A passing carriage drove over a large puddle, splashing her boots and the bottom of her dress, but she kept on walking, her eyes firmly on the street ahead. Nothing could touch her now; she was past caring.
Seven
Judge Edward Stewart sat at the head of the long, heavily laden dining table, his thick lips pursed with impatience as he waited for his family to finish their dessert. The dinner had been an unusually long one. It had started with game soup, followed by turbot, then a fricassee of chicken and a large side of beef accompanied by an enormous plate of roast potatoes and vegetables. The penultimate course of gooseberry fool and thick cream lay untouched in front of him. The sound of silver cutlery being replaced against glass brought a smile of satisfaction to his lips. There only remained the cheese and biscuit board to be placed on the table, and then he would be free to indulge in a glass of port along with a Havana cigar. While he waited for the servants to clear the dessert dishes, he thought of the reason for the sumptuous meal he had just partaken of and felt a rush of pride sweep over him. It wasn’t every day a man’s son qualified as a doctor, no indeed it wasn’t; and a youngest son at that. Leaning slightly back in his chair he placed his broad hands over an even broader stomach and smiled benevolently.
Edward Stewart was a stout man of medium height in his late 50s. The grey streaked hair seemed to match perfectly the heavy features of his face, a face that was both feared and respected by the people he came into contact with. Respected by his friends and family, he was feared by the never-ending stream of criminals who were brought daily before him. Many a miserable wretch had taken one look into those deep, black commanding eyes and declared himself guilty of all charges, thus saving precious time in the overcrowded, hard-pressed courtroom. Yet for all his sternness, he was considered to be a fair man, willing to hear out any man or woman he thought to be innocent.
Happily married for over 30 years and the father of three children, he considered himself a fortunate man, and a wealthy one. When his father, a prosperous landowner, had died some ten years ago, he had left his vast estate to be equally divided between his only son and his two grandsons; of his granddaughter there had been no mention. The generous legacy had enabled Edward to move his family to the imposing four-storey house in Hackney where they now resided, and had also removed the necessity to work for a living. This option he had scornfully rejected, however. He enjoyed his work, and knew himself to be good at the profession he had chosen. Always an active man, he could never have been happy living the life of the idle rich, and he was proud that his youngest son had taken after him in this respect. Lifting his head he let his eyes settle on the two young men seated at the left-hand side of the table and shook his head indulgently.
Nobody seeing the two men together would have taken them for brothers. Hugh Stewart, newly-appointed doctor of medicine, was a quiet, almost painfully shy man who had the unfortunate habit of blushing and stammering on any occasion where he felt out of his depth. Not so his elder brother Harry, who always seemed to be at ease with himself regardless of circumstance. People meeting him for the first time were instantly won over by his friendly, outgoing personality, and he could always be relied on to smooth out any awkward situations wherever they might arise. Unlike his brother, Harry had so far shown no inclination to pursue a career, and at the age of 25, a year older than Hugh, it seemed unlikely he would change at this stage in his life.
Edward let his eyes linger on his eldest son. He felt it impossible to believe that a man of Harry’s depth could waste his life away in trivial pursuits. His irregular lifestyle had caused Edward some concern over the years. At one point he had even imagined Harry to be involved in shady activities, such was his reluctance to talk about his interests and friends. This notion had been firmly rejected by his wife who had scolded him for his lack of trust in his son. She had gone on to say that Harry would find his own purpose in life in good time. Her words had hung heavily on his anxious mind. He loved both of his sons, but he had to admit that Harry had always been his favourite. Maybe Beatrice was right, but t
he latter years had found Edward’s pride in his eldest son being tempered with impatience at Harry’s nonchalant attitude to life.
Not only were the two brothers totally different in character, they also bore no resemblance to each other. Harry was tall and slim with dark brown hair and deep blue eyes. With features too rugged to be termed handsome, his attractiveness came from a forceful personality and casual charm that drew women to his side with no effort on his part. Men too were eager for his company, but his male counterparts saw past the engaging smile and casual manner to the firm jaw and eyes that could turn cold if their owner thought himself slighted. Men didn’t take liberties with Harry Stewart any more than they would have done with his father.
Sadly, Hugh had inherited none of his father’s strength. He had, however, inherited his mother’s delicate features and his late grandfather’s pale auburn hair, attributes that would have been better served upon a woman. With this thought in mind, Edward Stewart turned his attention to his right and looked at his daughter, his eyes clouding over with pity at the sight of the round, painfully plain face, her heavy mannish features framed by a mass of black hair parted in the middle and falling in two bunches of thick ringlets on either side of her ears. On a younger woman the style would have been complimentary, but on Bella it merely served to make her resemble an ageing spaniel. Even the expensive white evening dress cut low across her shoulders and the sparkling emerald necklace she wore did nothing to alleviate the plainness of her face. As if aware of his scrutiny, Bella Stewart raised her head and Edward found himself staring into a pair of small, black eyes. Almost imperceptibly he shuddered: God she was ugly. The moment the thought flashed across his mind he felt ashamed, but feeling guilty didn’t alter the facts. Not only was his daughter ugly, she was also sly and often unpleasant. She had never forgiven her grandfather for leaving her out of his will. Strangely enough, however, she had never shown any rancour towards her brothers, preferring instead to take her anger and bitterness out on her long-suffering parents – parents who had long since given up hope of ridding themselves of their disagreeable daughter through marriage; at the age of 30, Bella was long past the marrying stage. Five years ago, Edward had put aside a large proportion of his wealth for a dowry, but even this tempting enticement hadn’t been enough to lure a prospective suitor to their door. The black eyes continued to stare at him, causing him to drop his gaze. Poor Bella. He could understand her bitterness towards him, for it was his features he had passed on to her, features that on a man like himself portrayed character, had doomed her to a life of spinsterhood.
A Handful of Sovereigns Page 7
