by Annie Murray
She wandered for hours, until it grew dark, then quietly went into the grounds of the cathedral and tucked herself into a dark spot up against the side of the building. As usual she settled with her bundle under her head. She was used to the hard ground by now and soon fell asleep. It seemed only seconds later that something hard was nudging at her ribs.
‘Come on – wakey wakey – that’s it, up you get. You can’t stay here.’
The hard thing was a police constable’s boot. He shone his bullseye lamp in her face. Muzzily Hetty got up, too sleepy to care what happened next.
‘Right – you come along with me.’
Gripping her arm with his free hand, the constable led her out to the path, to the light of the dim gas lamps. He was young, his face pinched and mean, like a stoat.
‘Name?’
‘Hetty Barker,’ she muttered.
‘Address?’
‘Ain’t got one.’
‘What?’
‘Ain’t got one,’ she said louder. It felt shameful, like a dirty admission.
‘Right.’ His grip tightened. ‘You’re coming along with me.’
He dragged her roughly so that she was pulled off balance and, in the darkness, she staggered back and forth.
‘You’re too young to be in that state,’ he said with disgust, and for a moment Hetty couldn’t think what he meant. Then she realized: he thought she was the worse for drink. Slyly she kept moving her feet unevenly and stumbling, and let out a hiccough.
‘Bleedin’ vermin,’ she heard him mutter.
She walked beside him, docile while they were still between the railings each side of St Michael’s. He was holding up his lamp and in its meagre light she peered at him sideways, hardly moving her head. He had his lips clenched tightly together in a look of weary contempt. Hatred for him seethed inside her, but she stayed obediently beside him. After a few minutes, thinking her surrendered, she felt him relax a fraction. She twisted abruptly out of his grasp and was running as fast as she ever had in her life before.
‘Oi – get back ’ere, yer little bugger!’ He sounded pompous, like an older man.
Hetty tore down a side street where the shops were closed and deserted now. When she sensed a gap had opened between them she hurled herself into a black doorway and flattened herself against the wall. There was an odd, bloody smell: a butcher’s, she realized. A moment later she heard the constable go charging past.
Go on, you bastard, keep running, she thought.
She slipped out, back the other way, and ran for it, choosing another route, she hardly knew where. Warm trickles of blood were running down her legs. She began to slow, stopped running in sheer weariness. Her triumph seeped away and a bleak feeling of despair came over her. Where was she to go?
Then someone was there, suddenly, blocking her path, and she slammed right into them. For a second she assumed it was the young constable, but immediately her senses contradicted this impression. There was no serge uniform, no stoat-like face in the gloom, instead a smaller, bonier person altogether.
‘Watch it!’ a gravelly female voice protested. ‘You nearly knocked my sodding teeth out!’ Hetty felt her arm grabbed, the girl’s fingers digging in hard as she dragged Hetty close to her. ‘Let’s see yer . . .’
A narrow-eyed face peered at her.
‘How old’re you?’
‘Fifteen,’ Hetty said.
‘Who’re you running from?’
‘The peelers.’
The girl relaxed her grip. ‘You got somewhere to kip down?’
Hetty looked down miserably, shaking her head.
‘Right – you’d better come with me then.’
Which was how Hetty found herself waking the next morning in the attic of a shabby house in Spon End that felt all too familiar, and how she came to meet a girl a few months older than herself, a devious troublemaker called Ethel Sharp.
April 1925
Twenty-One
‘Aggie? Come in here a tick – I want yer.’
Aggie heard her grandmother hiss at her from her bedroom. The door was unlatched and she pushed it open. Nanny Adams was sitting up in her bed partially dressed. The bones of her corsets poked out through her half-buttoned blouse. Aggie caught a glimpse of her grandmother’s wrinkly chest above it. Nanna’s lower half was covered by the faded green eiderdown. Her white hair was plaited, not piled on her head as it was in the daytime. Aggie liked seeing Nanna in bed. She looked softer somehow and welcoming and there was something reassuring about her musty, lavender, ‘mother’s ruin’ smells that were so familiar. The house felt so sad and strange with Dad in the hospital, but at least with Nanna there, they could still feel safe.
‘That’s it,’ Freda Adams said, with an air of mystery. ‘Shut the door, bab. Now – I’ve got a little job for yer.’ On the chair by the bed stood her precious hip flask with its well-polished silver cup. Beside it were a number of scraps of paper. She handed one to Aggie, folded over.
‘See this? Now, you take this along to Sawyer and Hewlett’s – you know where it is, don’t yer? Other side of the Stratford Road. You go in and say to the man, “This is for Mr Martin” – he’s one of the gaffers there – “it’s from Mrs Adams and she wants me to wait for an answer.”’
Aggie nodded, uncertainly.
‘He’ll know who it is – I’ve known Joe Martin since ’e were in short trousers. He’ll find some work for us. Now you’ve all broken up for Easter, you can make yourselves useful. And I’ve asked him a question on there – you bring me back an answer.’ She nodded at the paper, reaching over for her hip flask. ‘Go on, bab – and come back quick. Tell May and the others to come up to me if they want anything. And Aggie – mind the horse road while you’re at it.’ She raised her flask as if in a toast, then took a sip. ‘Aah. There – go on. You still here?’
It was eight in the morning. As she went downstairs, she heard her mother call, ‘Aggie – that you?’ from the back.
Jen was sitting by the table, looking queasy. She’d got the kettle on and looked as if she was gathering her strength.
‘I’ve got to go out – for Nanna,’ Aggie said, holding the note behind her, though she didn’t know why.
Mom frowned. ‘Come here – what’s going on?’
‘Nothing,’ Aggie said. ‘She asked me to go and see a Mr Martin, that’s all.’
‘Oh, did she now,’ Jen said, even more suspicious. ‘And what is it you’ve got to see him about?’
‘I dunno,’ Aggie said truthfully.
‘What’s that you’ve got?’
Aggie held out the little note and Jen took it. When she’d read to the end of it, she gave a small groan and leaned forward, resting her head in her hands. She seemed to be thinking, but then, shaking her head and without looking at Aggie, with a resigned look she held the note out to her.
‘All right. Run along then, if you have to. And mind the horse road.’
It was drizzling outside. At least, Aggie thought, looking down at the dreaded cut-off boots, they wouldn’t look so horrible in this weather. Mom had trimmed down the mouldy old pair of wellingtons so that they came to just above her ankles. They had once been black but the colour was almost leached out of them, and they were all rough at the top. They looked terrible and they weren’t a bit comfortable. The insides were perished and Aggie didn’t have any socks to wear. She hated them. They were the ugliest things she’d ever seen, much worse than the Mail boots. But she knew if she said anything to Mom about them at the moment she’d get short shrift.
All the same, she liked being out with an errand to run, especially without May tagging along. She could go at her own speed and not have to worry about whether May was keeping up or running out into the road just when a horse and cart was coming. And the street was full of people – already a lot of children were playing out because the schools were on holiday.
It was a good chance for spying, too. Just as she left the house she saw the shambling, unmistakable
figure of Mary Crewe ploughing along the street, cursing at anyone who got in her way. She never looked where she was going as she was mainly talking to the bundle in her arms. The boys often called out rude things to her but she took no notice, just cursed everyone through the cigarette which drooped at the left side of her mouth. ‘Damn you!’ was one of her favourites. ‘Damn you and blast you!’
Aggie fell in behind Mary. She was a very stout woman with stringy brown hair, darkened by grease and hanging loose and matted on her shoulders. She always wore a coat buttoned tightly round her and big brown boots, summer and winter. A thin trail of smoke always followed her. Aggie thought she looked like an old woman and a little girl all rolled into one. It was impossible to hear what she was mumbling in the noisy street.
I wonder where’s she’s going, Aggie thought. And the idea came to her that Agnes Green: Spy would follow Mary Crewe one day, on a proper spying mission. But not today – now she had Nanna’s mission instead.
Crossing the Stratford Road, she walked along until she could see the premises of Sawyer and Hewlett, a firm making buttons, hooks and eyes, snap fasteners and hairpins. Aggie’s stomach felt jumpy with nerves.
As well as the main entrance to the works there was a side door, standing open. Timidly she went in and to her left there was a counter, about level with her nose. She thought no one was there for a second, and then a man shot up behind it, crying, ‘Ooh! ’Ello, bab. Didn’t see you down there!’
Aggie nearly jumped out of her skin. The man was mousey haired, gangly thin and wore a brown holland overall.
‘Not after a job at your age, are yer?’ he joked. ‘What d’you want?’
‘I’ve to give you this,’ Aggie said, passing the note over.
He read it, squinting. ‘Mr Martin, eh. Well well . . . Hang on a tick, bab, you’re in luck – I think he’s about.’ And he vanished through a door at the back.
Aggie looked about her but there was nothing to see except the counter and the wall. She could hear muffled sounds from behind the door. A moment later it swung open and a much smaller man with black hair slicked back each side of a bald pate leaned over the counter.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘You Freda’s little ’un? You’re a chip off the old block, I’ll say that!’ He laughed as if this was the best joke ever told. ‘So, she wants some outwork – you going to help, are you?’
Aggie nodded.
‘I’ve know your nanna since her hair was the same colour as yours,’ he said, laughing uproariously again.
Aggie smiled because he looked funny. She thought the man was nice but she still didn’t know what to say.
‘All right.’ He stood up straight again. ‘You wait there a minute – I’ll get you a box to take home. You’ll have to get your own needles and thread . . .’ He leaned forward and said, ‘Now, as for the other thing. You tell Mrs Adams to come in and see me in person and we’ll see what we can do.’
Twenty-Two
The box was not very heavy, but heavy enough, and by the time she got back to Lilac Street Aggie’s arms were aching and her feet were burning and sore. She had been hurrying faster and faster and she was in a world of her own. She was just turning in to the road when she realized someone was talking to her.
‘You’re in a hurry, Aggie!’ Looking up, she saw Mrs Southgate with Lily.
‘Hello, Aggie,’ Lily said, beaming. She always looked up to Aggie.
‘Hello, Lily,’ Aggie panted.
‘That looks heavy, dear,’ Rose said. ‘Are you going home with it?’
Aggie nodded, her arms feeling like lead.
‘Let me take it – I’ll come back with you. You look as if you’re about to drop it. I know it’s not far now, but it’s a big box for a little girl like you to manage.’
‘Thanks,’ Aggie said, her arms suddenly feeling as if they wanted to float up now the box was gone.
They walked along side by side, though it wasn’t far. Aggie prayed they wouldn’t notice her horrible boots.
‘Not a very nice day, is it?’ Mrs Southgate said, noticing them and thinking it was a shame. ‘When’s spring coming, that’s what I want to know?’
But she didn’t really sound as if she minded. In fact, she sounded happy. Aggie glanced up at her. Mrs Southgate was looking even more pretty than usual. She had on her blue coat and lovely cloche hat, and today her cheeks were pink and there was a glow about her. Under the hat’s narrow, curved brim, her hair was arranged in little kiss curls along her forehead and Aggie thought it looked lovely. She’d seen her a few times lately and twice been to her house for the afternoon. Mrs Southgate had stuck a new picture in her book, of a beautiful ballerina called Anna Pavlova. Aggie had stared at her for nearly as long as she had at Mata Hari.
‘How’s your mother, dear? I hope she’s feeling better.’
‘Yes,’ Aggie said. ‘Well – no. Not really.’
‘Oh, dear,’ Rose said. ‘And your poor father?’
Aggie shrugged. She couldn’t look at Mrs Southgate. Her cheeks were burning and a lump rose in her throat. They had reached number nine and she hesitated.
‘Oh, dear,’ Rose said again. ‘Well, look, just a couple of things, dear. I thought you and your little sister – May – might like to come and see us on Sunday again? Lily would like that, wouldn’t you?’
Lily nodded, jumping up and down, and Aggie grinned. ‘Yes, please, Mrs Southgate – if that’s all right.’
‘Yes, dear, quite all right. And the other thing is – about your mother – I should so like to help her if I can. D’you think she’d mind?’
Aggie hesitated. You never knew with Mom.
‘Well,’ Mrs Southgate said, sounding unsure. ‘I suppose there’s no harm in asking. Can you tell her I’m here?’
Aggie took the heavy box and put it on the table. ‘Mom – Mrs Southgate wants you.’
Her mother was washing up in a bowl at the table. ‘Who? Oh – what does ’er want?’
‘She said she wants to help you.’
‘Well, tell her to . . . No, don’t, hang on . . .’ Hugging herself defensively, Jen went to the front door. Aggie listened from behind her.
‘Yes?’ Jen said, rather forbiddingly.
‘I was only thinking,’ Aggie heard Mrs Southgate say timidly. ‘If you’re still feeling poorly – well, you’ve got an awful lot to do – more than me with me only having the one. I’d be glad to come and help if you’d like.’
Jen leaned against the door frame, stern with pride. ‘Help with what?’
‘With – well with, you know, the meals you do – the children . . .’
‘D’yer think I can’t manage then?’
‘Well, no, but, what with you being poorly at the moment . . .’
‘Tell yer what,’ Jen said, backing into the house again. ‘When I want help, I’ll let you know – all right?’
Aggie felt a burning blush move up her cheeks. She almost felt like crying. ‘Mom!’ she protested. ‘She was trying to be nice!’
‘Huh,’ Jen said, going back to the kitchen. ‘I’ve had more than enough interference from your grandmother for one day without that one poking her nose in an’ all!’
Nanna was in the back as well. She beckoned to Aggie.
‘Well?’ she whispered. ‘D’yer get them? And what did he say?’
Aggie glanced at her mother.
‘You might as well speak up,’ Jen said wearily. ‘I know what you’re up to.’
Nanna made one of her faces at Aggie, lips pursed. I’m in trouble now, it said.
‘Mr Martin said you’re to go and see him and he’ll see what he can do,’ Aggie reported.
Nanna looked pleased. ‘Hear that, Jen? At least someone thinks I’m not just fit for the knacker’s yard yet!’
Jen shook her head despairingly and left the room.
Alone in the front room, Jen opened the box which Aggie had brought home. A dull metallic gleam came from inside, from thousands of wire hooks and eyes. She ran t
he contents through her fingers. Tucked to one side were the little cards on which they had to be sewn to sell in the shops.
Jen sat down with a sigh. Grudgingly she had to admire her mother, but it drove her mad the way she took over. Having her living with them was a great help in many ways but it was always going to be a battle of wills as well.
‘Oh, Tommy,’ Jen said, looking down at her stomach. Her body felt battered from being sick, as if someone in hobnailed boots had given her a good kicking. She had been so ill that she was thin as a rake and there was very little sign of any swelling yet.
Just for a second, in spite of it all, she smiled. Twins – imagine. What if it was? How Tommy’d love that! He’d feel it would make a proper man of him. Two of the little buggers running about! And it was true that she’d never had it this bad before. Her smile faded as another pang of nausea seized her. God, it didn’t bear thinking about, none of it.
Last Sunday she had at last managed to see Tommy in the hospital. She’d gone the week before, carted all the way over to the Fever Hospital only to be told that they’d moved him to the hospital in West Heath. When she heard she’d been furious, but saved her tears of rage and frustration until she got outside into the rain.
‘How was I s’posed to know they’d moved him?’ she wept.
She hadn’t been able to get to West Heath that day. It was too far away and too late by then, so she waited and worried for another week. At last she’d made her way over there. Standing outside the red-brick building she’d been full of fear and misgiving. But nothing would have stopped her from going in.
When she got to the ward and recognized his dark hair on the pillow and the smile that crinkled up his face when he saw her coming along, it was worth every minute.
‘ ’Ello, my little babby!’ he said, delighted, trying to sit up and sinking back in a storm of coughing.
‘Oh, Tommy!’ She sat beside him, with no interest in the other beds and what might be going on in them. She had eyes only for him. ‘Oh, look at you – so clean and tidy. What’ve they been doing to you!’ She leaned down once he’d recovered, eager for a kiss.
