Alley Urchin

by Josephine Cox

  Sure enough, Nelly was right. As Emma stared in the direction in which Nelly was rushing her at great speed, she too saw the group of swimmers in Bathers Bay. There must have been upwards of ten men, all shouting and frolicking one with the other, and all stark naked!

  ‘Nelly!’ Emma forced them both to a halt. ‘We can’t go down there. You can’t go down there.’ She saw the defiance in Nelly’s eyes that told her the temptation was much too great to resist, and to hell with the consequences. Yet Emma was equally adamant that they would about-turn and make off in the opposite direction. ‘Don’t be a fool, Nelly,’ she told her. ‘You were warned that if you were brought before the Governor just once more, you’d be thrown in the lockup.’ By this time the men had seen them, and had grown even more excited and rowdy. ‘Come on, girlies . . . take a look, we don’t mind,’ one of them yelled, clambering from the water and brazenly displaying himself. Whereupon the others laughed encouragement that they ‘needn’t be shy.’

  In a minute, Emma had succeeded in dragging the reluctant Nelly away and out of sight of the bathers. ‘Cor, bugger me, gal,’ protested Nelly, ‘it wouldn’t have hurt to watch from a safe distance.’ Emma made no comment. Instead, she hurried towards South Bay. Once there, she sat down in the sand, with Nelly sitting cross-legged beside her, irritatedly clutching up fists full of sand and throwing it into the air, where the light breeze caught it and deposited it back into their laps.

  After a while, when Nelly’s attention was taken with the lapping of the water against the sand, Emma lay back, settled herself comfortably and closed her eyes. Of a sudden she was back in England, and her heart was gladdened by warm, if painful, memories. The image of Marlow filled her being and she was standing beside him on the colourful barge which had been his home. Oh, how plainly she could see him: that strong lithe body so often stretched to breaking point in his labours at the docks. In her mind’s eye, Emma ran her fingers through his thick dark hair. She lovingly returned the smile from those black passionate eyes which had always seemed to see right into her very soul. Now his arms were about her. His warm tantalising mouth brushed her hair, her ears and, in one exquisite moment, he was kissing her with such ardour that made her tremble. With a shock, Emma sat up to find that, even in the heat of the evening sun, she was shivering violently. Both Nelly and she had been disturbed by an intruder.

  When that intruder stepped forward, it was with a feeling of disgust that Emma recognised the tall handsome figure of Foster Thomas. He was not alone. Quickly, Emma got to her feet. ‘What do you want?’ she demanded, at the same time shaking the sand from her skirt and casting her angry grey eyes over his two rough-looking companions. One was tall, painfully thin and had an old jagged scar from eye to ear; the other was of medium height, stocky with a dark surly expression. Both had thick bushy beards, both wore flat wide-brimmed hats and chequered shirts, with dark serviceable trousers. ‘Swag men,’ thought Emma, as she met their arrogant stares unflinchingly.

  Foster Thomas twisted his mouth into a crooked smile. ‘Me and the blokes . . . we reckoned you and Nelly might be glad of a little company,’ he said with a low laugh, at the same time reaching out to rest his hand on her shoulder. As he leaned forward with the intention of encircling Emma’s tiny waist with his arm, the smell of stale booze on his breath was nauseating. His deep blue eyes were little more than slits as they bored down on her, betraying his lecherous intentions and instantly putting Emma on her guard. ‘You’re drunk!’ She spat the words out vehemently, at the same time twisting away from him with such speed and agility that she caused him to lose his balance. When the two bushmen thought it so amusing that they began sniggering and pointing to Foster Thomas as he struggled to remain upright, the smile slipped from his face and was replaced with a particularly determined and vicious expression. ‘You little bastard!’ he snarled, lurching forward to grasp at Emma’s swiftly departing figure.

  In her indignation and urgency to get away, Emma lost sight of Nelly. Pausing to look back, she was horrified to see that her hapless friend had made no move to follow her, but instead was shamelessly taking delight in having all three men dance attendance on her. Foster Thomas, in particular, was handling Nelly with a deal of intimacy, which was greatly intensified when he saw that Emma was hurriedly making her way back towards them.

  ‘What in God’s name are you thinking of?’ Emma demanded of Nelly, whom she thought seemed to be as intoxicated as the men when she began blushing and giggling at Foster Thomas’s over-amorous advances.

  ‘This girlie knows how to be grateful for a man’s attentions,’ he sniggered, holding Nelly closer and winking knowingly at the other men, who appeared to be thoroughly enjoying themselves.

  ‘That’s right,’ rejoined the stocky fellow, sidling up to Emma and running his tongue round his dry lips. ‘Like a dog going for a chop,’ thought Emma as he stood, legs astride in front of her. ‘Now then me beauty . . . how about you showing me what you’re made of, eh?’ In a minute he would have had her fast in his grip, but in that same instant Emma had swung her arm out sideways and, before he realised her intention, had brought her fist across his ear with a resounding thud. As he staggered back, his hand clapped to his throbbing ear and a string of foul language issuing from his mouth, the second man ran forward to lock his two arms about Emma and swing her bodily into the air. ‘She’s got spirit, has this one!’ he laughed. ‘She’ll do fer me!’ No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Foster Thomas had landed his fist in it. ‘Take your filthy bloody paws off her!’ he yelled, as the fellow released Emma and, confronting his assailant with a furious expression, he invited in a low growl, ‘So! That’s the way, is it? . . . C’mon then, me bucko . . . let’s have it out!’

  In a minute the two of them were locked in combat, the one pounding his bunched fist time and time again into the other’s stomach, and the other with his fingertips digging into his opponent’s fleshy eyeballs with every intention of gouging but his very eyes. The third fellow, having miraculously recovered, was hopping up and down, screaming encouragement, first to one, then the other. Nelly did the same.

  Never one to miss an opportunity, Emma lost no time in grabbing hold of Nelly who, by the degree of resistance she put up, would much have preferred to stay and watch the fight than run away with what she considered to be the cause of it. ‘Ye slapped him good, Emma!’ she cried, jubilantly lashing the air with her fists. ‘Fetched him a right bleedin’ clap aside o’ the ear, y’did.’ She was beside herself with excitement, and though Emma made every effort to remain above it all, she could only sustain her indignation as far as the old cemetery, when she paused, breathless, against some unfortunate soul’s headstone. ‘Oh, Nelly, Nelly!’ she said, the smile already creeping into her eyes and lifting the comers of her mouth. ‘I’m supposed to be the sensible one, who keeps you on the straight and narrow.’ The smile broke into a small laugh.

  ‘And you do,’ Nelly assured her, pausing to catch her breath from the fast and furious pace with which Emma had propelled her from the fracas on the beach. ‘It’s just a bloody shame that being kept on the “straight and narrer” don’t allow fer a bit o’ fun! Just now and then . . . I might like ter throw caution ter the wind and join forces wi’ the devil.’ When Emma rightfully reminded her that in encouraging a grog-sodden lout like Foster Thomas she was doing just that, Nelly retorted, ‘Handsome devil, though, eh?’ And in her twinkling brown eyes was a deep thinking expression which Emma had not seen before.

  Nelly’s remark both astonished and disturbed Emma very deeply. But she made no comment, other than to say it must be coming up to curfew time and they should be on their way.

  No sooner had Emma made the observation than the curfew bell rang out, warning all bonded persons that they must be off the street. Emma hoped she and Nelly would not be challenged by an officer because, while she herself was able to show her ticket-of-leave, Nelly was already under suspicion, and being caught out even one minute after curfew coul
d well cost her dear. As the two of them hurried towards Thomas’s store, Emma led the way round the back streets, fearful that at any minute an officer would come upon them. Every now and then there would ring out the challenge, ‘Bond or free?’ as others, less artful, were stopped in the busier streets adjacent. Only when Emma had manoeuvred Nelly on to the porch of the store did she breathe a sigh of relief.

  ‘You really do play fast and loose with the law, don’t you?’ came the thin, tired voice from a wicker chair in the far corner where the trellis was much higher. Mrs Thomas was very rarely persuaded to come and sit out of an evening, but, when she did, it was on three conditions: it had to be past curfew ‘when the criminals amongst us are safely out of the way’; it had to be almost twilight so she could sit in the shadows; and, her high-backed wicker chair had to be positioned securely in that particular corner where the trellis was highest, so the shadows would be that much deeper. Now, when her voice piped out on the sultry evening air, Emma gave a start . . . her heart still beating fast from the fear that she and Nelly would be stopped after curfew.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Thomas!’ she gasped, putting her hand to her heart. ‘You gave me a fright.’

  ‘And you gave me a right turn an’ all!’ joined in Nelly, whose face had gone an odd shade of parchment.

  ‘Well now, I am sorry,’ laughed Mrs Thomas, and Emma likened the sound of her laughter to the soft tinkling of the water in the Leeds and Liverpool Canal back home; that gentle, delightful sound that was made with the smooth passage of a laden barge as it gently churned up the water beneath. But then, everything was ‘gentle’ about poor Mrs Thomas. She was a tiny pathetic creature now, sitting in that high-backed chair like a duchess of old, or a china doll who was much too frail and exquisite to play with. Emma thought that Violet Thomas must have been a very beautiful lady when she was young, for she had finely sculptured bones and long delicate fingers. Her hair, though snow-white now, was still rich and thick with deep attractive natural curls, which even the scraped-back and severe hairstyle could not disguise. Her eyes were large and soft, as blue in colour as the sky, but they were filled with sorrow, always heavy with pain, and something akin to tragedy perhaps, a kind of deep inner suffering almost as though, even when the finely etched wrinkles on the face were lifted in a smile, the eyes remained haunted.

  ‘Are you all right out here on your own?’ questioned Emma, not liking the idea of leaving her seated here alone. ‘Where’s Mr Thomas?’ she added with concern, at the same time coming closer to assure herself that the thin little figure was encased in a blanket, for there wasn’t enough fat on Mrs Thomas’s bones to keep her warm . . . sunshine or not. She needn’t have worried though because, as always, Mr Thomas or Rita Hughes had taken good care of the lady’s needs. There was a rug carefully draped about her legs, and a soft shawl wrapped about her small shoulders.

  ‘Please . . . go to your beds.’ The long, fine fingers waved into the air in a gesture of dismissal. ‘Mr Thomas will be here presently, and I would rather you didn’t fuss.’ Her voice was sharper now, and the words came in short, tired little bursts. Emma sensed that, as always appeared to be the way, she and Nelly were not wanted by Mrs Thomas. That invisible barrier, which she so cleverly created, had been drawn up between them. They were being sent on their way and, not for the first time, Emma suspected that it was because they were convicts. Although Violet Thomas had never made or intimated the slightest complaint of such a nature regarding the two assignees who worked about the house and shop and who resided in the room behind the stables, her strong condemnation of ‘the criminal element thrust among us’ was well known. Emma therefore went out of her way not to antagonise her employer’s wife, and she implored Nelly to do the same.

  Emma would have liked to have been on closer terms with Mrs Thomas, because she knew her to be a lady, and she also felt something of the other woman’s deep desire to go home to England ‘to live out my days under a cloudy sky and to sup afternoon tea in a more genteel atmosphere’. Many times she had been heard pleading her cause to her husband and, as many times, Mr Thomas had been heard to promise, ‘Soon, Violet, soon . . . When we’ve made our fortunes, for I’m sure you don’t wish to starve under a cloudy sky, do you now, eh?’ His wife never gave an answer, nor did she make any response within his hearing. Instead, they seemed to converse less, to drift further apart, and to execute a strange verbal dance whereby each might broach a subject close to their hearts; he of his store and business, she of England and her desire to return. Then the other would nod, smile and make meaningless noises, after which a great painful silence would envelop them, as they each retreated into their own precious dreams. Emma thought it sad that they could not find it in their hearts to share the same dream. However, she sympathised with Mrs Thomas’s obsession to return to England, because Emma herself had been possessed of that same obsession ever since being so cruelly and unjustly taken from her old homeland. Yet she had never once allowed this obsession to become so deeply rooted that it ravaged her entirely, as was the case with Mrs Thomas. Emma had deliberately thrown herself into her work, always striving towards that ultimate freedom which she knew must one day be hers. In so occupying her mind and thoughts, she had deliberately suppressed her heart’s desire, always aware that it was futile to dwell on it too deeply in the early years. Now though, with seven years of her sentence behind her, the realisation of once more being in charge of her own destiny was in sight.

  Day and night, Emma’s thoughts had begun to dwell on her freedom. Her heart would tremble at the prospect and her spirit was charged with such great anticipation and excitement that there were times when she could hardly contain herself. At these times, and often in the dark small hours when she was unable to sleep, she would get up from her bed to pace back and forth across the room like a caged creature. After a while, when the desperate emotions retreated and other, more tender, emotions flooded her heart, she would go to the window and gaze out across the moonlit sky. Then tears would flow unheeded down her face. Thoughts of home would storm her senses, pulling her first this way, then that, until she could hardly bear it. ‘Oh, dear God,’ she would murmur, ‘will it ever come right for me again?’ She longed for Marlow’s arms about her, but even if in three years’ time by some fortune or miracle there was the money and freedom to return to England, how would she find him? And, if she did find him, would he still love her? After all, she had deliberately spurned him in favour of another man even though, unbeknown to Marlow, it was for his own protection. Then there was the fact that she was a convict, charged and marked with a terrible crime. Oh, and what of the child she had borne him, and which was lost to them both? How could any man forgive her? The torture never ended for Emma. But she prayed that it would one day, otherwise there was no reason to go on.

  ‘Emma!’ The voice cut sharply across Emma’s turbulent thoughts. ‘Mrs Thomas has a mind to sit out a while longer. You and Nelly get off to bed.’ Mr Thomas had returned from inside and he was quickly aware that his wife was becoming agitated by the presence of the two young women. ‘Off you go,’ he urged as Emma bade his wife a good night. ‘Go on . . . go on. I’ll see to her when she’s ready to go back upstairs.’

  ‘Miserable old bugger, that Mrs Thomas,’ remarked Nelly, pulling off her clothes and getting quickly into her own narrow wooden bed. ‘Anybody’d think we’d got the bleedin’ plague . . . the way she starts panicking every time we get within arm’s length of her!’ She was greatly peeved and Emma’s reply that ‘we must make allowances for her’ made no difference to Nelly’s mood. ‘Well, I ain’t mekkin’ no allowances for the old sod,’ she retorted, blowing out the candle which was on the cupboard by her bed. ‘It were her sort as pushed me into crime when I were a kid. Look down on yer, they do. Won’t give yer no work, in case yer cut their throats at the first opportunity!’ Then her mood quickly changed, she told Emma to ‘sleep tight . . . mind the bed-bugs don’t bite’, and was soon fast asleep, the gentle rhythm of her soft
snoring seeming a comfortable and homely sound to Emma as she lay in her own bed.

  There was no sleep in Emma just yet, only a strange sense of quiet. Sometimes, she wished she could be more like Nelly, because nothing worried her for very long. She had no driving ambitions, no real grudges to bear, and no one person in her heart who could tear it apart. Here Emma checked herself. How did she know whether Nelly secretly loved anybody in particular? What about the way she enjoyed Foster Thomas’s attentions today, and what of the remark she made about him being ‘a handsome devil’? The very possibility that Nelly might be quietly attracted to that man filled Emma with dread. Indeed, it was too horrible to contemplate, for Emma truly believed that such a man as Foster Thomas would take the greatest delight in destroying someone as devoted and vulnerable as Nelly. Emma prayed that, if Nelly really did feel a certain attraction towards him, she would never let it be known to him, or he would likely take her to the depths and leave her there.

  With this disturbing thought in mind and with the intention of warning Nelly the very next morning, Emma leaned over in her bed to blow out her candle. She closed her eyes and forced her mind to more pleasant dreams. Of a sudden Emma realised how tiredness had crept up on her. She was ready for sleep.

  ‘Emma, wake up . . . please wake up!’

  ‘What is it, Nelly?’ Emma was not yet fully awake, but pushing back the coarse grey blanket from her face, she lifted her head and screwed up her heavy eyes to look on Nelly’s frightened face. ‘Have you had a nightmare?’ she asked, not being sufficiently awake to be certain it wasn’t she who was suffering the nightmare.

  ‘No, no!’ Nelly continued to poke and shake Emma until at last Emma was sitting up against the pillow, her eyes almost blinded by the light from Nelly’s candle, which was presently thrust only an inch or so from her face. ‘There’s some’at going on over the store . . . noises there were!’ She was obviously in a fearful state.