Martha showed no sign of regret. Instead, she stood stiff and unyielding with bright angry eyes which continued to stare at her husband unflinchingly. He also showed no remorse for the heated argument which had raged between them, nor did he make any move towards her.
In the hallway outside the room the boy, Edward, sat on the stairs, quietly crying as his parents ranted and raged at each other. Now he got to his feet as his father came from the drawing-room, a look of utter desolation on his face when he saw the boy there. ‘Oh, Edward! Edward!’ he moaned, quickly covering the boy’s head with his two hands and pulling him tight into his body. ‘What must you think of us?’ he asked in a voice which betrayed his shame. When he received no answer, he went down on his knees and looked into his son’s face, seeing the terrible anguish in those dark green eyes, knowing that he had caused it. ‘I’m sorry, son,’ he said with a sad apologetic smile. ‘I’d rather you had not heard all that. But she’s wrong, you know . . . your mother. I won’t let you down, I promise.’ Still there came no acknowledgement from the boy, who had lowered his gaze and seemed unwilling or unable to raise it to Silas Trent’s concerned face. After a while Silas released the boy and got to his feet. For a moment longer he looked down at his son’s bowed head, then, ruffling the dark hair with the tips of his fingers, he said with a small laugh, ‘I’m off to turn our fortunes round.’ When there was still no response, he said in a quieter voice, ‘Take care of your mother.’ In another moment he was gone. Still the boy did not move, his dark head bent to the rich, floral-patterned carpet with the tears falling down his face.
When he sensed a movement close by, Edward lifted his eyes to see his mother standing in the door of the drawing-room. Her face was smudged with tears and there was a look of bitterness in her brown speckly eyes, as she told him through gritted teeth, ‘Get upstairs to your room, and don’t come down until I send for you!’ With a heavy heart he did as he was told. Behind him Martha Trent angrily issued instructions to their one and only servant, a young woman of stocky build whose blue eyes showed no surprise. ‘Master Trent and I will be leaving for Breckleton House straightaway. I dare say we shall be away for several weeks,’ adding in a tone too low for the servant to hear, ‘and probably for good!’
The maid gave a hurried little curtsy. ‘Yes, ma’am,’ she acknowledged, thinking as she went about the business of packing how she wouldn’t mind being left alone in the house for weeks on end; indeed, if anything, taking into account her mistress’s dreadful disposition, she much preferred it. But her heart went out to that poor little lad, dragged from pillar to post and never a friend to call his own. And that tutor who came in of an afternoon to teach him his lessons, well, he were a miserable old bugger an’ all. On top of which, the lad were expected to work twice as hard when he got back from these frequent trips to Breckleton House. It were no wonder the poor little blighter looked like he’d got the weight of the world on his shoulders. Still, the lad seemed to have a right fondness for his grandad, Caleb Crowther, and by all accounts that surly-faced fellow had an unusually soft spot for his only grandson, so that was one blessing, thank the Lord.
All was still and pitch black outside Breckleton House when the small figure clothed in night attire rose from his bed. Cautiously opening his bedroom door, Edward Trent listened intently and was pleased to hear no sound other than the slumbering tick of the wall clock on the landing. He knew that his grandfather had gone away on his legal duties, and his grandmother had long ago retired to her bed. Softly now, he crept to his mother’s room, peeped inside and satisfied himself that she was sound asleep. Afterwards, he went back to his own room, put on his breeches, with a clean white shirt and green corduroy waistcoat, pulled on his kneelength socks and lace-up ankle boots, which he loosely fastened. Then, grabbing his cap and fixing it securely on his head, he took the handful of coins from his cash-box, and went softly down the stairs and out of the back door.
As he stumbled across the fields, then through the narrow cobbled alleys of Mill Hill, fearful of the strange shadows and of where the dark alleys might lead him, yet even more fearful of his father never coming back, the boy began to sob. He had never seen them fight as fiercely as that before, and it made him unhappy. He didn’t want to stay in the house without his father, and even though he liked his grandfather, he also frightened him a little.
He was going to find his way back to Liverpool, to the docks where all the big ships came in. He would find his father’s ship, and steal on board. The thought cheered him and he hoped he was going in the right direction, because he did not intend to be left behind again. He hoped that the Stirling had not already sailed for Australia. That awful possibility spurred him into a little run when, time and time again, he stumbled on the sharp, jutting cobbles. In the pitch black of the early hours, when he was imagining some kind of monster in every dark, terrible corner, his courage began to desert him. Faster and faster he ran, convinced that he could hear the soft thudding footsteps of his pursuers. When a large shadowy cat crossed his path suddenly, he actually screamed out loud in terror.
The boy’s scream echoed against the high, smokecoated buildings which rose up about him like the walls of a prison. The disturbance created more disturbance as alarmed cats, rats and other creatures of the night fled to safety.
Yet if it alerted some night marauders to run away, it alerted others to stay and watch, in the happy event that it might be turned to their own advantage. Such a pair were engaged in the unlawful entry of a darkened warehouse in this isolated area, but, on hearing the scream close by, promptly abandoned their efforts in the hope of better pickings. Careful not to utter a single word to each other, and using a well-developed system of sign language, they crept from the backyard and out into the alley. At once they heard the frightened figure of Edward Trent running towards them, his boots playing out a tune on the cobbles, and the coins in his pocket chinking frantically against his leg.
Quickly, the two shadowy figures slithered back into the recess of the wall, waiting for the very second when the approaching figure would be so close that they could leap on it from behind.
Edward Trent never even knew what stopped him in his headlong flight. One minute he had been determined to reach the end of the dark, terrifying alley, so that he might come into a more open and less threatening area. In the next minute, the ruffians had pounced on his back and wrenched him sideways; his head smacked hard against the brick wall, and he crumpled to the ground, a pool of blood trickling from the back of his head to the cobbles, where it congealed to form a dark, sticky stain.
‘Bloody ’ell, yer fool!’ cried the smaller and younger one of the two in a forced whisper, as he touched his fingers to the stain, promptly snatching them away when the liquid clung to his fingertips. ‘Ye’ve killed ’im, dah.’
Quickly now, the older fellow struck a match and held it over Edward Trent’s face, which, in the eerie glow of matchlight, looked a sickly shade of parchment. ‘It’s a brat,’ he remarked with surprise. ‘Can’t be above a couple o’ years younger than you, what . . . ten or eleven.’ Here he gave a gasp of astonishment as his eyes roved over the prostrate figure, which had not moved even an inch nor shown any flicker of life. ‘T’ain’t no ordinary brat neither! Look at the cut of ’is togs . . . this ain’t no street urchin. This is a bloody gentry, I’m telling yer.’ He was all for making good his getaway the minute he had emptied the victim’s pockets. But his companion had other ideas.
‘’Elp me strip ’is togs off!’ The younger one began tearing at the blood-stained waistcoat. ‘These buggers’ll fit me. Me an’ this feller are about the same size . . . just shows yer, don’t it, eh? I bet I’m a good three years older, but no bloody bigger . . . ’cause ’e lives on the best, an’ folks such as us . . . we live on the soddin’ dregs.’ There was a deal of hatred in his voice as with the help of the older fellow he viciously stripped off every last garment from the boy, and afterwards, without compassion – but with every intenti
on of fooling whoever came across the lifeless body, and also of diverting suspicion – dressed it up in his own filthy flea-infested clothes. When he prepared to exchange boots though, he realized Edward Trent’s were far smaller than his own, so he thought better of it.
‘Now, let’s get the ’ell outta ’ere,’ instructed the older one. In a minute they had fled without a second thought as to whether the boy might be dead, or still alive. It mattered not anyway, because folks hardly ever came this way, and if he wasn’t a gonner now, he would be by the time he was found. The younger ruffian was all for rolling the body in the canal because ‘it’s nobbut a stride away’. But he was dissuaded. ‘We ain’t got time. An’ somebody might come along. The feller’s ’ad it anyway.’
So they fled, with only each other and the night as witness to their awful deed.
Chapter Seven
‘Well I’m buggered, Molly lass,’ cackled Sal Tanner as she watched the girl strip-wash over the bucket of canal water, ‘yer nobbut comin’ up twelve year old . . . an’ already ye’ve got pointed little tets!’ When Molly looked at her in disgust, with a deep uncomfortable blush spreading over her lovely face, Sal rocked with laughter. ‘Don’t be embarrassed, gal,’ she told her, ‘at lest, not ’till yer get ter my age, an yer tets ’ang down ter yer knees like withered balloons!’ She roared again, when Molly hurriedly finished her wash, quickly replacing her panties and misshapen grey dress, which came down to the top of her boots in a ragged, uneven hem. The boots she pulled on had also seen better days, the laces being too short to do up the top eyelets, and the toe of one boot having come slightly apart.
Taking her wooden bone-toothed comb, Molly raked it through her short black hair until it shone blue as a raven’s wing. ‘I ain’t taking no notice of you, Sal Tanner,’ she said with a toss of her head, ‘you’re just trying to rile me, and it won’t work!’
Sal had been making a determined effort to chew the small slice of apple which she had just pared with her penknife. Fast losing patience at her inability to enjoy the juicy apple, because it was difficult to chew with your gums when all your teeth had fallen out, she spat it out through the hut window and threw the remainder of the apple after it. ‘Sod an’ bugger it!’ she yelled. ‘As fer you, Molly lass . . . yer gerring too bloody big fer yer boots. Aye! Too cheeky, an’ too ’igh an’ mighty by ’arf.’
Molly paid no heed. She knew that Sal had to take her frustrations out on somebody, and as she was the only other one here, then it might as well be her. ‘I shan’t wash in the hut anymore,’ she told Sal Tanner, at the same time picking up the handle of the bucket and lifting its considerable weight off the floor. ‘If you’re gonna make fun of me, I’ll wash by the canal.’
‘Oh aye? That’ll be a grand idea, won’t it, eh? Gi’ the passin’ barges a right old treat . . . show them yer little pointed tets, why don’t yer?’ Her humour having returned in the face of Molly’s innocent remarks, Sal Tanner threw her two arms up in the air and began rocking back and forth in a fit of helpless laughter, her toothless mouth wide open and her legs the same. Molly patiently shook her head, gave out a little laugh at the merry sight, then went down to the canal and emptied the bucket into it.
When she returned to the hut, she found Sal in a worse state, filled with panic and trying desperately to cough up a chunk of apple which appeared to have lodged itself in her gullet. It took a few frantic minutes of pushing, pulling, thumping and shaking, but eventually the offending piece of apple was dislodged and thrown out of the window to follow the rest. ‘Have a little sleep, Sal,’ encouraged Molly, who had suffered quite a fright at the sight of Sal choking.
‘Only if yer promise ter wake me up at midday, when I’m off ter the Navigation fer a tipple,’ replied Sal, carefully sipping the water which Molly held up to her. After a couple of sips she thrust it from her, ‘Bloody ’orrible stuff!’ she moaned, pulling a wry face. ‘Did yer save it from yer washin’-up water?’
When Molly assured her that she had done no such thing, Sal gave a little chuckle and winked a cheeky violet eye at the girl. ‘Course yer didn’t!’ she told her. ‘But yer will wake me up at midday, won’t yer, eh?’Cause I’ve a feller ter see!’ She winked again, ‘A proper gentleman friend, an’ I’m fotchin’ the bugger back ’ere . . . fer a little . . . quiet session, just the two on us. So mind yer gives us an hour or two on us own, won’t yer lass?’ She insisted, ‘Ye’ll do that fer yer ol’ Sal, won’t yer?’
Molly didn’t mind, because she’d promised herself to go fishing down the quiet end of the canal. She had even collected a few juicy worms and got her willow stick all ready, with a good strong twine and a bent nail. All the times she’d been trying, and never once had she caught a fish. Today was going to be different, Molly felt sure. Today, she would catch a fish. It must be a lucky day, because at long last Sal had a boyfriend.
Sal’s face crinkled into a multitude of crevices as she smiled into those big, wonderful black eyes. ‘Yer reckon yer gonna catch us a fish, d’yer?’ she said. ‘Wi that bent nail an’ balin’ twine? Well now . . . won’t that be a celebration, eh? Fresh caught fish fer us tea!’ She didn’t laugh at the idea, but kept on smiling.
‘You’ll see!’ returned Molly. ‘You’ll see!’ Then off she went to get everything ready for the big event, quietly closing the door behind her while Sal swung her legs up on to the mattress and settled into the bolster for what she considered to be a well-earned nap. ‘Got ter be bright an’ fresh fer me new feller,’ she chuckled, pulling the shawl about her and folding her arms over her breast. Soon the little hut was filled with the echo of her contented snores. In the heat of a lovely September day, the tiny enclosed hut was also filled with the rancid aroma which rose up from Sal’s unwashed body and dirt-laden clothes. But deep in her amorous dreams, Sal was blissfully unaware of such trivialities, because at last she had a fellow to call her very own. Her last thought was of him as she murmured, ‘Thank the Lord he ain’t one of them particular kind.’
At four minutes past midday, Molly duly shook Sal awake, made her a brew of tea and persuaded her to polish off just one jam butty. But try as she might, Molly could not persuade Sal to dip her hands and face into a bowl of hot, soapy water. ‘Gerraway wi’ yer!’ Sal was horrified: ‘Time enough fer soap an’ water, when I’m laid out an’ ready fer the knacker’s yard. I expect the buggers’ll throw a bucket o’ the wet stuff o’er me then . . . when I ain’t in no position ter argue, eh? Till then, I’ll thank yer kindly ter keep the disgustin’ tack away fro’ me!’ However, she did allow Molly to comb her wispy grey tufts of hair, saying with a mischievous wink, ‘Yer never know, Molly lass . . . me feller might just want ter run ’is fingers through me lovely locks.’ Then she rolled about laughing, and couldn’t resist adding, ‘There’s about as much chance o’ that . . . as you catchin’ fish!’
‘Have a good time, Sal,’ Molly called after her as she hobbled off towards the Navigation.
‘Aye, I will!’ returned Sal with a naughty and suggestive wiggle of her bum. ‘I’ve caught my bloody fish. So now, you gerrof an’ catch yourn!’ She was singing merrily when she rounded the corner and went out of sight, and Molly’s heart swelled with love. ‘Sal Tanner, you’re as bad as they come,’ she said, shaking her head, her dark eyes smiling contentedly, ‘but I wouldn’t swap you for all the world.’ Then with her willow fishing-stick and a can filled up with fat, wriggling worms, she set off towards the far end of the canal. She had no intention of coming away until she had caught a big, swashy gudgeon to show to Sal!
Molly settled herself in the shade of an old silver birch tree, whose spreading branches gave welcome shade from the hot sun. ‘This is where the gudgeon are hiding,’ she murmured with a rush of pleasure. ‘They’ll be looking for a cool spot, just the same as me.’ In no time at all she had wedged her fishing-stick into the bank and kept a close watch as the baling twine sank deeper and deeper into the water, with the fat worm wriggling on the end of it. Many was the time Mo
lly had tackled Sal and other fishermen about how afraid she was the worms might be terrified when lowered into the water as bait. Her fears had been allayed when she had received the very same answer from one and all: ‘Don’t be so bloody daft, lass . . . ’tis a well-known fact that worms ain’t got no nerves, so they can’t feel owt.’ Molly had been obliged to accept this, but it still made her cringe when the worm went out of sight, because she couldn’t help wondering how she would feel if she were in its place. Molly had decided that she wouldn’t like it at all, no, not at all.
After a while, when she seemed to have been scanning the water for hours, until her eyeballs ached, and the warm, sultry afternoon made her feel tired, Molly wrapped her legs round the fishing-stick and wound the baling twice about her toe, so that if a fish were caught up on the other end she would know about it. She lay back in the grass, feeling wonderfully contented with life, thinking how quiet and peaceful it was here. On top of which, Sal had a feller and he just might be the one to look after them both; although somehow Molly doubted it. There had been other fellers, some long time back, but they never came to anything worthwhile either. She wondered how the two of them were getting along, and she felt sure they must be gone from the hut by now, in search of a card game perhaps? Unless of course they had brought a supply of booze with them, but Molly doubted that as well, because Sal never had any money, and neither did the fellers she picked up. Molly gave a small laugh. ‘It’s a good job I’ve still got a few bob tucked away, Sal darling,’ she giggled, ‘so we’ll not go short of a loaf yet.’
Of a sudden, Molly sat bolt upright as the twine tightened about her toe. ‘Ssh now, gal,’ she told herself, moving with the utmost care as she slid her toe from the loop and put her two hands around the willow-stick, which began bending towards the canal, as the twine was pulled tighter and tighter. In a minute it was all-out war! If Molly hadn’t whipped the stick from the ground and taken charge, the entire lot would have gone flying into the water. Unable now to contain her excitement, Molly began whooping and hollering, giving the line its head, then drawing it back again. Inch by inch she shortened the line and wound it round the stick, bringing her struggling quarry nearer and nearer until she could see the fish-tail thrashing furiously in the water. ‘It’s no good you arguing, you old bugger!’ she yelled. ‘I’ve got you, and I ain’t letting you get away!’ At the right moment, she flicked the stick in the air, bringing both line and fish out of the water. With a soft thud the exhausted fish fell to the grass. ‘You little beauty!’ cried Molly, reverently collecting it up in her hands and gently easing the small bent nail out of its mouth. ‘Oh, you’re a real beauty!’ She gazed in wonder at its small sleek body, its silver colour speckled with gold, and the sheen in its tail and fins almost translucent in the light of the sun. ‘Oh . . . you really are lovely!’ gasped Molly, and she knew in her heart that she could never take its life. She was held fascinated for a moment longer, then, when its mouth gasped frantically and its eyes began popping, she knelt down by the water’s edge and lowered it back in. When it moved away, slowly at first, then in a rush of excitement, Molly was not sorry. She had caught a fish, and her only thought was to tell the world.
Alley Urchin Page 15
