A Whisper to the Living

by Ruth Hamilton

  Had I really lived in a house as small as these were? Had I really played in those narrow, cobbled backs with open middens so close and never noticed the smell?

  Our own midden up Long Moor Lane was now a coal shed, while the building that had once housed the tippler was used to store tools and Eddie Higson’s buckets and leathers. Oh yes, we had come a long way up in the world, but what price were we paying? And would I have to tell in confession that my mother had taken my beating and that I wanted Eddie Higson dead?

  I stopped at the mill gates as I pondered, realizing after a few minutes that, yes, I would indeed rather live in Ensign Street without him than up Long Moor with him. Perhaps we could leave him and go back? But no, even after the beating, she would never leave her new bathroom. And, of course, as a Catholic, she could not abandon her husband no matter what he did to her.

  I clutched in my hand the envelope that held a sheet of lies, a tissue of total fabrication that would protect Eddie Higson. Shouldn’t I tell somebody the truth? Instinctively, I knew that in order to protect my mother, I could never, ever tell anyone about what had happened in the house. Someone had to look after her. It would have to be me. And how many more times would she have to ‘fall downstairs’? Was that the price she would have to pay for her bathroom and electric light? And what would he do to me once she went back on evening shifts? Would he beat me too? Would I need a note to say I’d fallen down the stairs?

  It was all too much to worry about, so I snapped out of my trance; if I stood here much longer, I’d be home late and I didn’t want to have my mother worrying. And I needed to get back to make sure he didn’t beat her again, because if he did, I would surely be there to find a way of hurting or even killing him.

  Six flagged steps led up to a side door and I pushed this open to find before me another flight of stone stairs which I climbed until they turned to yet another flight. Up and up I went until I found a huge door with a large white number two painted on to it. This I had to push hard, for it was very heavy and had a spring to keep it shut.

  I stepped through that doorway and into a hell on earth that almost knocked me back out again. The noise was incredible. Row upon row of frames filled the room. The workers, sandwiched between the machines, obviously got as little consideration here as they did at home, where the mill-owning landlords packed them into hovels, dozens to the acre.

  Each spinning-frame was covered in what appeared to be a million moving parts, rattling and clanging, spools filling with cotton, filling so quickly that the women had to run to keep pace with the work.

  I watched them for a few moments, fascinated by their deftness as they doffed the full spools and replaced them immediately with empty ones, each time feeding the cotton through a maze of metal rings. Even from the doorway, I could see the sweat pouring from the women’s faces, could make out vast damp patches on their clothing as they moved swiftly up and down the frames.

  The air was wet and heavy; the temperature in the room must have been hotter than the hottest days I could remember, days when tar melted and pavements became too fierce for thin soles, let alone bare feet. This was where my little mother had spent her life since she was but six years older than I was now. I felt my own sweat pricking my eyes as it ran down from my hair; after one minute I was wet to the skin, clothes sticking to my back, palms slick with moisture.

  A man came forward and dragged me back out on to the cool landing where the sudden quiet was almost deafening.

  ‘What do you want here then, little lass?’

  ‘I’m looking for Mr Bradshaw, my Mam’s boss.’

  ‘That’s me.’ Bright blue eyes twinkled and he brushed a hand through his light brown hair. ‘It isn’t every day a bonny lass comes up here and asks for me. I think my luck must be changing. Now, what’s it all about?’

  ‘It’s about my Mam.’

  ‘Eeh well. You’re Nancy’s lass aren’t you? I can see the resemblance now. I wondered where our Nancy was tonight. Nothing up, I hope?’

  I handed him the note and he tore at the envelope swiftly. It was not from the doctor at all – I recognized my own mother’s writing.

  Ernie Bradshaw leaned against the wall before speaking again. ‘Tell her the job’s safe. I just hope she is, that’s all. And you can tell her . . . well, tell her Ernie sends his best. How is she?’

  ‘She’s hurt.’

  ‘I know that. What’s your name now – Annie, isn’t it?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Well, Annie, you tell your Mam as Ernie will be up to see her. Tell her that if . . . if he’s in, then she must leave a sign. Now, let me think a minute.’ He paced about the landing, all the while stroking his chin and I thought what a nice man he seemed, friendly-looking, easy to talk to.

  ‘I know,’ he said suddenly, turning in mid-stride. ‘Tell her if he’s in she must leave a small stone on the front doorstep. Now, can you remember that?’ This man seemed to know and understand my attitude to Eddie Higson, otherwise he would not be confiding in me now. Was he a friend and not just a boss to my mother?

  ‘Yes, I can remember that, Mr Bradshaw.’

  ‘Call me Ernie. Everybody else does. Now, can you keep this secret?’

  ‘Yes, I can, I’m good at secrets.’

  ‘You won’t tell your Dad?’

  ‘He’s not my Dad. I tell him nothing.’

  ‘Aye, so I’ve heard.’ He grinned at me. ‘I’m very . . . fond of your Mam, Annie. If anything ever . . . well, if anybody ever hurt her . . .’

  ‘She fell downstairs, Ernie.’

  ‘Aye.’ He waved the note. ‘So it says here. And I’m a monkey’s uncle.’

  So it looked as if my mother had confided in this man, had told him that she was unhappy with Eddie Higson, that all was not well up Long Moor Lane. Well, I wasn’t surprised; this was a man you might take to, confide in and trust.

  ‘Give her . . . my love, will you, Annie?’ He pressed a half-crown into my hand. ‘And that’s for you, for being such a bonny lass. Don’t forget now. The boss sends his love.’

  ‘Oh thankyou, Ernie, I’ve never had a whole half-crown before.’

  ‘You deserve it, love. Now get off home and see you look after that Mam of yours. Ta-ra now.’

  ‘Ta-ra, Ernie.’

  Once outside, I looked back at the building, craning my neck to see the top of the stack where thick smoke was belching forth into the sky. She had been right. I would never want to set foot in there again. Except for one reason. I’d like to see more of Ernie Bradshaw.

  I got the chance to see him again, not just once, but many times. The first few visits he paid us were during the school holidays and the three of us spent long afternoons laughing and joking in the kitchen.

  On the third occasion I was sent out to play and to keep an eye out for Eddie Higson in case he got home early; when I came back into the house my mother, whose face was healing nicely, looked flushed and happy and she had changed her dress.

  ‘Where’s Ernie?’ I asked innocently.

  ‘Oh he’s . . . in the bathroom. He won’t be a minute.’

  ‘I wish we could swap Eddie Higson for Ernie,’ I whispered.

  ‘Keep your thoughts to yourself, Annie . . .’

  My mother’s affair with Ernie Bradshaw was beautiful. During those summer months she blossomed into her old self again, began laughing and singing ‘Burlington Bertie’ like she had used to, wore cheap, pretty clothes and make-up, bought some bright clip-on earrings and coloured beads.

  She was quiet when Eddie Higson was around though, and so was I, because I knew too much to say or do anything that might puncture the frail bubble that was her happiness.

  I learned to knock at the door before entering if there was no stone on the step, learned to watch in the back street for the familiar sight of Higson’s ladder as it bobbed its way home on his shoulder, learned to live with my sins by framing my confessions carefully and rehearsing my piece each time before chanting my list of error
s through the grille.

  Ernie and my mother spent many afternoons together and although I was often excluded, they sometimes took me out to the Jolly Brows and once to Southport on a charabanc. What the neighbours must have thought I never knew; certainly my mother was not aware, in her bliss, of anything beyond the fact that she was infatuated with this man, that she had to be with him at every opportunity. But I knew in my bones that we were living on a knife’s edge, that sooner or later Eddie Higson would find out and we would all suffer as a consequence. But it was no use; when I voiced my fears, she simply refused to hear me.

  Once she returned to her evening shifts, my mother made arrangements for me to sleep at Rita Entwistle’s house, nominally to keep Rita company as she, too, was an only child, but really to keep me away from Eddie Higson. Rita’s mother and my mother worked together and although Rita was never a really close friend, she was, at least, clean and generous with her toys.

  My friendship with Josie remained close and constant and I visited the Cullens whenever I could, was still happier in their house than I was anywhere else.

  I was also receiving regular letters and parcels from Tom in Philadelphia, so my life, apart from the great worry about my mother and Ernie, continued on an even keel for several months.

  When my mother began to get fat, I took little notice. Some people were fat, some were thin; nobody bothered much about shapes and sizes in those days. It was Mrs Cullen who inadvertently told me the reason for my mother’s increased girth. We were sitting out at the back of the house enjoying a sunny September afternoon. Around us were piles of ‘clear-outs’ among which the little kids played while we elders – Josie, Allan and I – sat drinking dandelion and burdock with Mrs Cullen.

  ‘What dost want then, a brother or a sister?’ Oh no, not again. Surely there were not going to be eight Cullens? I noticed that she was not looking at Josie or at Allan as she spoke.

  ‘Are you talking to me, Mrs Cullen?’

  ‘I am that, lass. Did you think I were askin’ our Josie? Don’t you think I’ve done my share then? Nay, I’m ’avin’ no more. I’m even thinkin’ o’ sendin’ George off ter Siberia ter mek sure.’ Her great belly shook with laughter. ‘But it’s time you got a little playmate, isn’t it? Eeh, I can see yer now, pushin’ yer pram round Long Moor. Aye, it’s not before time. ’Ow old are you now?’

  ‘Eight and a half,’ I answered, hoping I didn’t sound too stunned.

  ‘Big gap, that. Still, never mind, eh?’ She was staring hard at me now. ‘Eeh lass – didn’t you know, ’aven’t they told you?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Well then, tek no notice o’ me, I could be wrong. It’s just I’ve ’ad so many meself I recognize t’ symptoms, if yer get me meanin’. She might just be puttin’ a bit o’ weight on, luv.’

  I was trying to organize my thoughts. A brother or sister, a baby in the house, how did I feel about that? I concluded that my feelings were mixed. With a new baby about, Eddie Higson would be pleased and would perhaps take even less notice of me – that would be a good thing. But a baby would take my mother’s attention too, leaving her with less time for me. And what about poor Ernie? She wouldn’t be able to have a lie down with him in the afternoons any more, not with a baby to feed and change. Perhaps Ernie would go elsewhere now and we would both miss him.

  ‘By the way, Annie,’ said Josie. ‘We’re moving, you know.’

  Oh no, not again! Mrs Cullen laughed at the expression on my face.

  ‘We’re movin’ across the road from you, Annie,’ she giggled. ‘You’ll be able ter stick yer ’ead out o’ t’ winders an’ yell across at us.’

  Thank goodness for that, at least. ‘We’ve got a swap for a four bedroomed,’ said Allan. ‘Though I think the real reason is the council wants to get at this lot and clean it up.’

  Mrs Cullen roared with laughter. ‘Aye. ’Appen they’ll move us every time as t’ garden gets full!’

  ‘When are you moving?’ I asked, just for something to say, something to take my mind off the possible changes at home.

  ‘Couple o’ weeks,’ answered Mrs Cullen. ‘Now you get off ’ome an’ see is yer Mam needin’ you. If she’s the way I think she is, she’ll be needin’ all the ’elp she can get. Oh, before you go – come ’ere a minute.’ I bent down so that she could whisper in my ear. ‘Tell ’er to go careful wi’ that Ernie feller. Don’t worry, I won’t say nothin’ ter nobody. I saw ’em together in Town last week an’ once before at your door. Tell er . . .’ Her voice dropped even lower. ‘Tell ’er ’e’s wed wi’ three kids of ’is own.’

  I fled homeward, my face burning with shame. I’d begun to pick things up at school, dirty words about what men and women did together, stories of bad women who would ‘go’ with anybody, even married men. Although I wasn’t yet fully aware of what it all meant, I didn’t want my Mam to be a bad woman.

  When I opened the front door, all was quiet, yet the air seemed to crackle with an atmosphere, a bad feeling that soaked out of the living room, through the front room and right into the vestibule. I opened this second door quietly and stood rigid, waiting for I knew not what.

  ‘You filthy bitch.’ His voice was ominously quiet. ‘Trying to pass it off as mine, were you?’ I flinched as I heard flesh strike flesh. ‘I’m sterile, you dirty piece. Sterile, do you hear me? My chances of fathering a child are about a million to one, they told me that in the hospital.’

  He hit her again and I heard her moan of pain before she spoke between gasps. ‘But . . . there is a slight . . . chance of you . . . isn’t there? And there’s been . . . nobody . . . nobody.’

  ‘Tell that to the cat, you stupid bag. How often have you let me at you lately, eh? And do you think I’m blind, with your new frocks and your earrings, walking round like a bloody tart? That is not my kid. Whose is it? I’ll beat it out of you, I will, I will . . .’

  Now the sounds were different. This time it was not flesh on flesh, but something solid hitting something soft. I didn’t know what to do, where to turn. For what seemed like hours I remained riveted to the spot, sweat and tears pouring down my face. He was speaking again as he kicked her.

  ‘I used to say she’d ruined you, didn’t I? Well that was just a joke, you see, just a joke. I’m not joking now though, oh no . . .’

  Suddenly galvanized, I shot through the house and into the living room. My mother lay at his feet in front of the range as he drove his foot again and again into her belly which she was trying to shield with very bloody arms. So involved was he in his task that he did not notice me as I crept behind him and brought the rolling-pin crashing on to the back of his skull.

  He went down like a stone and I raised my hand to strike again, would have finished him off there and then, but my mother, raising herself slightly said, ‘No, Annie. Get the doctor. He’s killed my baby.’ I noticed then that the rug beneath her was soaked bright red, that her skirt was sodden with blood, that more blood was pouring down between her thighs.

  Instinctively, I grabbed some towels from the pulley line and packed them as tightly as I could between her legs, then I flew out of the house, not to the doctor’s, but back to Mrs Cullen. She would know what to do. Mrs Cullen always knew what to do. Within minutes, Allan had been despatched for the doctor, Josie put in charge of the household, while Mrs Cullen and I ran, as fast as her bulk would permit, back to our house.

  There was no sign of Eddie Higson. Obviously, I had not hit him hard enough, I thought viciously as I looked down at my mother whose lifeblood seemed to be covering the living-room floor.

  ‘Get down to the prefabs, Annie,’ said Mrs Cullen. ‘They’ve got them fancy fridges, ask for ice. Go on, ’urry up.’

  I picked up a bucket and ran down the backs until I reached the prefabs where I disturbed half a dozen residents with my screaming. They piled the ice into my bucket and, not thinking to thank them, I sped back home. But I was too late, for my mother was already being lifted into the ambulance. Mrs
Cullen held me back, because I was all for getting in the vehicle too and I heard myself screaming my mother’s name as the driver slammed the door and shot off at great speed.

  ‘Is she dead?’ I moaned.

  ‘Nay, lass. She’ll be alright in a day or two. Are you stoppin’ at Entwistle’s tonight?’ I shook my head. ‘No. Rita’s down with the chicken pox. I’ll have to stop . . .’ Oh no, I couldn’t bear it. ‘I’ll have to stop here.’

  ‘Did ’e beat ’er up, luv?’

  ‘Yes,’ I answered flatly. ‘But she’ll say she fell downstairs.’

  Mrs Cullen shook her head. ‘That’s what they always say. There must be more folk fallin’ donw t’ bloody stairs than there is folk walkin’ up ’em. Now listen, Annie. Like as not that bugger’s gone off down the pub for the night. ’E’ll be terrified o’ what ’e’s done, you see. With any luck, ’e’ll not be back till late. If you get worried about yer Mam, I’ll send George down the Infirmary, see ’ow she is. You know where I am. If you need me, just come down. You stop ’ere, see if the doctor brings any news. ’E’s a nice feller is Dr Pritchard, go an’ see ’im a bit later on. Are you alright now?’

  I nodded, unable to speak. Mrs Cullen wobbled away, turning as she reached the edge of the pavement. ‘Don’t you worry now. Come round later if you like.’

  I was frantic after she’d gone, driven almost out of my mind, pacing about the house like a caged animal, couldn’t sit down, couldn’t stand in one place for two seconds at a time. What should I do? What could I do? Panic flowed over me in waves, a blind, unreasoning feeling that was not really connected with what had happened, because my mind would not, just now, fix on any of it. This was fear in its purest sense, for I could not discover its real source. Yes, my mother was hurt, yes, I feared for her life – somewhere inside me I knew all that. But it was as if I were facing a tiger, a wild beast with an unpredictable nature that might pounce at any time and I ran from this invisible animal, room to room, storey to storey, until dusk fell and I knew that this house could no longer contain me.