Alley Urchin

by Josephine Cox

  The girl, Molly, had known no other family than the woman they called old Sal, and she loved her with a fierce protectiveness. But, though the old woman would always hold that special place in her affections, many had been the time when Molly had craved to know who her real family was. During these times she had asked countless questions, to which Sal would always reply, ‘Yer ain’t got no family but me, child. I’ve telled yer afore how the little people sent yer to me . . . found yer in the gutter I did . . . wi’ that very watch as yer wear round yer neck. Oh, an’ yer must never sell that pretty trinket, Molly gal . . . not even if yer close ter starvation! It belongs ter the little folk, d’yer see? Just like you do!’

  Molly didn’t share old Sal’s eccentric belief in ‘the little people’, mainly because she had seen no evidence of them, and perhaps because she knew instinctively that old Sal was different from most folks, in that she often lived in a strange little world of her own. The watch though, which Sal had entrusted to her, was solid and real to Molly, a link with her past and a pointer to her future, she knew. But whenever she looked at it in secret, she felt afraid. It had always remained a mystery to her. Who had treasured it before her? Could it possibly be her own mother, or father; or did it in fact not belong to her at all? Was it instead something that had been dropped by a stranger and come across by Sal, at the same time as Sal had come across the tiny bundle of rags that was Molly?

  There were things written on that watch, things that would tell Molly of its background, if only she could understand them. But they might as well be written in Latin for all the sense they made to her, because she had never learned to read. Sal couldn’t teach her, for she couldn’t read either. Molly was desperately afraid to show the tiny, delicate watch to anyone else, lest they steal it away forever. No, she must keep it safely hidden inside her vest, touching her skin. At least until she could find a way to master the art of learning words.

  ‘Come on, young ’un!’ Old Sal had hobbled down the steps that led from the dilapidated house, and now she was standing in the backyard, making frantic efforts to put a lighted match to the baccy in her clay pipe, and loudly cursing when the cutting January breeze snuffed it out. After a while she gave up trying and rammed both matches and pipe into the pocket of her long, grubby skirt. ‘Come on, come on!’ she called as the girl came to the steps. ‘If we don’t find somewhere ter lay us heads fer the night, we’ll freeze for sure!’

  ‘You go on . . . I’ll catch up in a minute, Sal,’ Molly told her, turning on the top step to secure the door. ‘When it’s quietened down in a few days,’ she called after Sal, who was already shuffling her way out into the cobbled alley, ‘we might be able to come back and get the stool and a few other things.’

  ‘Aw, bugger ’em!’ yelled Sal. ‘There’s none o’ that rubbish worth coming back fer.’

  Molly didn’t agree. There was the stool, a little cupboard she’d made herself out of an orange-box, and that picture of a sailing ship that she’d found aside somebody’s midden. Then there was that old brass clock which had been in this derelict house when they first came here some two months ago. Two months! That was the longest they’d managed to stay in one place and, even though Sal had always told her never to look on any place as permanent, Molly had a special feeling for this house; although it wouldn’t be long now before they pulled the street down. The folks had all been moved out long since, and there was talk of a mill being built here.

  As Molly closed the door and turned away to follow Sal, she made herself a promise that when it was safe she would come back for those things she couldn’t carry now. Oh, but first they had to find somewhere to live and that wouldn’t be easy.

  ‘Where’s your little people now, Sal?’ Molly called out as she ran after the bent and ragged figure. ‘If you’re so pally with ’em . . . ask ’em to find us a place to live!’ She lapsed into a fit of giggles when back came the answer, ‘Don’t be so cheeky, yer young bugger! Ye’ve got more tongue than what the cat licks its arse with!’

  When the girl caught up with old Sal, she hitched up the cumbersome bundle to a more comfortable position across her shoulders and slipped her small hand into that of the woman. ‘I wish we could have stayed here for a while longer,’ she said wistfully, ‘I liked it here.’

  ‘Aw, bless yer ’eart, luv,’ replied old Sal fondly, squeezing tight the small fingers clutched to hers. ‘We’ll find us a place, you’ll see.’ When she glanced down, it was to see a more contented look on the girl’s face. What would she do without the lass, Sal thought as they trudged along towards Angela Street and the canal. The young ’un had been such a companion to her, such a comfort, and she loved the bonny lass, even if at times she were a right little sod! All the same, never a night passed that Sal didn’t thank the little people for bringing her such a treasure. In the same prayer when she gave thanks, old Sal whispered a more fervent one, asking that young Molly should never be parted from her because the very thought of such a thing sent her straight for the gin bottle!

  Chapter Five

  At half-past four on a sultry July afternoon, Molly straightened up from her labours, wiped the sweat from her eyes with coal-smudged fingers, and leaned the shovel against the black, shiny mound of newly delivered coal. ‘I think my back’s broken,’ she laughed.

  ‘I’m not surprised, young ’un,’ chuckled the thin, wiry fellow who had been working alongside. ‘By! You’ve done the work o’ ten your size, an’ that’s the truth on it. Call it a day . . . here.’ He propped his shovel against the gas-lamp nearby, then he dipped his fingers into the pocket of a grubby cord coat which was lying beside it. ‘Tek your wages and get off home,’ he said, counting out a number of coins from the pocket, and placing them in Molly’s outstretched hand. ‘Wash that coal dust off your face an’ all . . . I’m blowed if yer don’t look like one o’ them dark wandering minstrels.’ His face creased into a grin as he regarded her more closely. She’s a grand little worker, he thought, a feeling of hopelessness surging through him. He might have offered the poor little bugger a home on his barge. But she’d only grow up to be a woman. And he couldn’t abide women, not at any cost! Give him a dog every time . . . they were less trouble.

  Molly was more than glad to call it a day because there wasn’t an inch of her body that didn’t hurt. The sight of those four shilling pieces resting in the palm of her hand made her feel good inside. They were worth all the coal shovelling, and wouldn’t Sal be pleased, she thought. ‘Thank you kindly, Mr Entwistle,’ she said, her mucky features breaking into a happy smile, and her small even teeth appearing brilliant white against the dark background.

  ‘Bugger me, if you ain’t flashing like one o’ them there beacons!’ chuckled the little fellow. ‘You’d give anybody a real fright if they wuz to meet you down a dark alley, an’ that’s a fact!’ He was still chuckling as Molly put away her shovel on the barge and went on her way, whistling a merry tune.

  ‘’Ow much did ’e pay yer, gal?’ Sal wanted to know. ‘An’ don’t expect any tea, ’cause I ain’t got no money!’ she grumbled, before Molly could answer her question.

  ‘We shall both have us tea,’ Molly retorted goodhumouredly, ‘because Mr Entwistle paid me four whole shillings.’

  ‘Four . . . Well, the mean old sod!’ Sal had been sitting on the bank with her cumbersome skirt drawn up to her knees and her legs dangling towards the canal water some three feet further down. In a minute she was scrambling up to confront Molly with a look of disgust on her face. ‘Ye mean ter tell me as the bugger had yer working all day . . . an’ only paid yer four shillings?’ She shook her fist in the air and took Molly by the shoulder. ‘You come wi’ me, lass,’ she exclaimed, beginning to propel the girl at a smart pace towards the ramshackle wooden hut which they had commandeered as a home. ‘Get thi’ face washed an mek yerself look respectable, ’cause we’re gonna have a few words with your Mr Entwistle!’ She gave a loud hiccup and excused herself most profoundly. ‘I ain’t been drinking,
neither!’ she bluntly informed the amused Molly. ‘So don’t think I have!’ Whereupon she promptly lost her footing and grabbed at Molly for support.

  ‘Oh, Sal . . . as if I would,’ said Molly with mock seriousness. ‘O’ course you haven’t been drinking. You told me yourself that we can’t have anything to eat, because there’s no money. And, if there’s no money for food, then there’s no money for booze . . . ain’t that right?’ With Sal’s fingers clutching her shoulder tightly, and having to pick her way carefully over the rubble and boulders strewn hereabouts, Molly couldn’t afford to glance up at Sal’s face, but she felt Sal’s round violet eyes turned on her. ‘I think Mr Entwistle paid me a good day’s wage,’ she said. ‘He’s a nice fella . . . and he always has a good word to say about you.’ At once, she was brought to a halt.

  ‘About me?’ Sal demanded, a little smile teasing the corners of her mouth. ‘What does he know about me, eh? I don’t know the bloke . . . do I?’ Her deep, ruddy forehead was creased into a multitude of wrinkles as she struggled to place the name in her mind. ‘How come this Mr Entwistle knows me, eh?’ She was puzzled. ‘An’ where might I have made the fella’s acquaintance, I wonder?’

  ‘I don’t know, but he mentioned summat about a public house,’ lied Molly, manufacturing a suitable expression of bewilderment. ‘I think it was the Sun.’

  ‘Naw, I don’t fancy that place too often these days . . . not since the landlord said I were blind drunk and fit fer nowt but causing trouble.’ Sal gave a little chuckle, before resuming a serious face. ‘Well . . . I might a’ been just a bit tipsy . . . but there were no call fer the bugger ter set his dog on me!’ She fixed her round, marble eyes on Molly’s upturned face and, even though they were shot through with tiny pink blood vessels and appeared vague from drinking, Molly thought what a pretty violet colour they were. ‘The Swan!’ Sal exclaimed, seeming pleased with herself. ‘I bet it were the Swan e’ were talking about. What do he look like, this fella?’ When Molly gave a deliberately inaccurate description, for fear that Sal might still track him down and cause a rumpus, she jubilantly slapped Molly on her back, and grinned broadly, saying, ‘There! I’ve a feeling I know the bloke . . . played cards with him, I expect. And, who knows, it’s likely we’ve supped many a pint together!’ She put her hands on her hips and surveyed Molly in the closest manner. ‘Yer an ungrateful child!’ she scolded in her most serious voice, broken by a series of loud hiccups. ‘Four shillings is a very generous wage! An’ I’ll thank you not to call a drinking pal o’ mine a “mean old sod”. I’m surprised at you, Molly gal. C‘mon . . . get orf home an’ clean yerself up. Then well away ter the Navigation fer a pie and a pint. We’ll mek a little hole in Mr Entwistle’s four shillings, eh?’ She laughed, swaying until Molly was sure she’d fall over.

  As they wended their way along the canal bank towards the hut, Molly kept tight hold of old Sal’s hand, because the way the old one was swaying and stumbling, it was likely that she’d lose her balance at any minute. When she did, and the two of them ended up fighting to stay upright, Sal erupted in a fit of cackling and shouting. ‘Did yer see that, young ’un?’ she laughed, setting her booted foot forward again. ‘Yer nearly went arse over tip an’ dragged ol’ Sal with yer! I reckon you’ve been at the gin bottle, yer little sod!’

  Molly felt herself coming out in a cold sweat when she thought how Sal had been sitting over the canal bank, with her legs dangling down. It was painfully obvious that she’d been drinking, after she’d promised not to! What will I do with her, agonised Molly as she took a tighter hold of Sal’s meandering figure. Get her back to the hut, and get her to sleep it off, that’s what! Oh, and what a good job she’d had wit enough to mislead her about poor Mr Entwistle, for Molly was well pleased with her wage and she knew it to be fair. Besides which, if Sal had gone back and caused trouble, he might not have given her any more work, and that would have been a bad thing because honest work was getting harder and harder to come by.

  The hut which was now home to Sal and Molly was situated at the widest area of grassy bank, and was half hidden in the undergrowth. There was a tall stone wall immediately behind, and directly behind that, the vicarage. This fact had given old Sal a great deal of pleasure as she told one and all: ‘What more could a body want, eh? . . . I’ve got the ale house down one end, and the vicar at the other. If I’m tekken bad after a jolly night out, I have only ter whistle and the vicar’ll come a’runnin’ with his Bible. He’ll get me ter the gates o’ Heaven right enough. Drunk or sober, the good Lord won’t turn me away, I’m thinking!’

  When they had first come across the dilapidated workmen’s hut, there were chinks between the weathered boarding ‘wide enough ter drive a horse and cart through’, as Sal had complained. Now, however, the chinks were stuffed with moss which Molly had painstakingly gathered, and the wind couldn’t force its way in so easily. On a hot day like today, though, the air inside the cramped hut was stifling. ‘Bloody hell, lass . . . prop that door open with some’at!’ instructed Sal as she fell on to the narrow bed, this being a scrounged mattress set on four orange-boxes, the whole length of which swayed and creaked beneath Sal’s sudden weight.

  In no time at all, Molly had filled the pan from the wooden rain-bucket by the door, and brought it slowly to the boil on the oil-lamp. She might have brought some wood and lit the rusty old stove, but it was such a lengthy palaver and, anyway, it was too hot a day. When the water had boiled, Molly tipped a spoonful of tea-leaves into each of the two cups, put three spoons of sugar into both and topped them up with the boiling water. She threw out the milk, which had gone sour. ‘Come on, Sal,’ she said, fetching one of the cups to where Sal was lying flat on her back, ‘you’ll feel better when you’ve had a sup of hot tea.’

  ‘Is there milk in it?’ came a muffled voice from beneath a tangled shawl.

  ‘No. It was sour, so I threw it out.’

  ‘Then I ain’t having none!’ came the surly reply.

  Molly knew there was no point in trying to persuade her.

  ‘I’ll go to Angela Street and get a gill from the shop,’ she promised, returning the cup of hot tea to the floor beside the oil-lamp.

  ‘Go on then, and be sharp about it,’ Sal muttered, ‘me tongue’s hanging out.’

  Quickly, Molly took up the pan and went running along the canal. It took only a few minutes to arrive at the shop in Angela Street. It was a quaint little place, filled with shelves of all manner and description, and these in turn were filled with jars, tins and other miscellaneous items. Above the wooden counter hung small hams and strings of onions; on the counter were placed huge cheeses and fresh baked loaves of bread; behind the counter stood a short sturdy woman with a broad, welcoming smile and a white floppy mob-cap on her rolled-up grey hair. She wore a severe black dress with starched white collar and cuffs, and the bodice pulled in so tight at the waist that the poor woman had a permanent red face.

  ‘Well!’ she exclaimed, on seeing Molly’s black face and generally unkempt appearance. ‘You look like you’ve been up the chimney and no mistake!’ She kept smiling all the same and took the pan which Molly offered. ‘Milk, is it?’ she asked. Molly politely requested her to pour in a gill, ‘if you wouldn’t mind, please . . . and a loaf of bread, with a pat of best butter.’ It was done in a minute; the pennies were paid and Molly hurried back to the hut. Sal was fast asleep and snoring loudly, and Molly left her to it. ‘The best thing you can do is sleep it off, Sal,’ she told her fondly, at the same time perching on the stool which she’d rescued from their previous home, gratefully sipping her tea.

  Some time later, Molly went down to the canal and refilled her pan. The month of July had been a dry one and she didn’t want to waste good rain-water on washing. When the water had boiled, she mixed it with a pan of cold water in a tin bowl; she stripped off her dress and undergarments, washed herself first and after dipped the clothes. Next, she laid them over the stool and put the stool outside in the sun. Then, very caref
ully, so as not to wake her, she climbed in beside old Sal. When a long scrawny arm reached out to enfold her, Molly snuggled into it. She was aching all over, and she was suddenly tired. That coal shovelling was hard work, but it wouldn’t stop her from turning up tomorrow. Mr Entwistle would probably be laid up till Monday, but there might be other work to be found. If not, tomorrow was Sunday, and that was the day when most of the gentry took to strolling about in Corporation Park up on the hill. If there was no work to be had along the wharf, it was likely there might be a fat wallet or two just waiting to be separated from its owner. At one time, Molly had told Sal how she thought it was wrong to steal on a Sunday because when, out of curiosity she had taken a peep inside the church, there were ‘all these grim-faced folk sitting there, and a preacher in a long black frock with beads round his waist, talking to the folk in a terrible frightening voice!’

  Molly had never forgotten how he had warned that Sunday was the Lord’s Day and a day when all sinners should repent or go to Hell. It had been a glorious summer’s day one minute and the next, in the very moment when he bellowed out in that fearful voice, the sky went black and there was a terrible clap of thunder. ‘The devil’s coming for me, Sal,’ Molly had run home to tell her with big shocked eyes, ‘the preacher’s sent him!’

  ‘Is that right, Molly lass?’ Sal had asked with a laugh and a twinkle in her eye. ‘Well, the bugger’ll have ter get past me afore he gets ter you! An’ he won’t be the first divil I’ve sent packin’ . . . nor will he be the last!’ But, seeing that young Molly was not convinced, she went on in great detail about how ‘the preacher were warning the folk in the church . . . them with their fancy frocks an’ pretty bonnets . . . ’cause its folks wi’ money as do the most sinning. An’ don’t you worry none about the divil chasin’ yer, Molly lass . . . ’cause the Lord looks after them as looks after themselves. ‘That’s what we do, lass, you an’ me . . . we look after us selves. Ain’t that right?’ Molly couldn’t deny it, so she told the Lord that very night, ‘I hope them rich folk stop their sinnin’ Lord. Me and Sal, we’ll go on looking after ourselves, and thank you kindly.’ Sal thoroughly approved. ‘That’s the way, darlin’,’ she cackled, ‘y’see . . . we’re doin’ these rich folks a favour when all’s said an’ done. The more money we can relieve ’em of . . . the less likely they are to be sinnin’ with it!’ And Molly’s admiration of old Sal was increased tenfold.