by Annie Murray
One afternoon, when Hetty was coming back from the laundry, a cooling breeze blowing through her sweaty clothes, she saw someone walking towards her. The woman seemed familiar, even in the distance. As she drew near, Hetty grew more sure. The woman was a young, tired and preoccupied-looking matron, carrying a plump baby on one arm. She did not look twice at Hetty.
‘Nancy?’ The word slipped out of her mouth, almost unbidden.
The woman turned, eyebrows rising in surprise. The baby jiggled on her arm in pleasure as if a game had begun.
‘You are Nancy Barker?’
‘I was – I’m Nancy Pearson now. Who . . . ?’ She peered closer. ‘Are you . . . ? Is it . . . ?’
A smile broke across Hetty’s face. ‘It’s Het, Nancy. Your sister Het!’
‘Well, I . . .’ Nancy seemed quite affected. She laid a hand on her chest. ‘Look at you, you’re all grown up. Where’re you living now?’
‘Not far,’ Hetty said evasively. She felt her face grow serious. ‘Have you been to our mom’s?’
‘No,’ Nancy said. ‘Mom passed on a year ago or more now. She had a growth. And the old man – well, ’e was nowhere to be seen.’ She saw Hetty’s enquiring expression. ‘You were best out of it, Het. I couldn’t do much, out there on the farm. They took ’em all away in the end. The young ’uns went to the Industrial School and some of them’ve fended for themselves.’ She half turned away for a moment and when she turned back, Hetty saw tears in her sister’s eyes and felt them fill her own as well. They each blinked them away.
‘This is Susan,’ Nancy said, hitching up the child on her hip. She was a healthy-looking little thing with a cap of brown hair. Hetty took her hand and made a fuss of her.
‘I only come ’ere once in a while, to see Mrs Brannigan.’ The name brought back a dim memory to Hetty as one of the neighbours. ‘So it’s surprising I should see you. How’ve yer been, Het – did they treat you all right?’
It seemed aeons to Hetty since she had left home. She couldn’t think where to begin, so she just nodded.
‘Look – I’ve got to go, Het. But come out and see us, eh? It’s not far. Come to Brandon – ask for Leofric Farm, anyone’ll tell you. You’re always welcome.’
Hetty could see that Nancy was caught up in her new life, but she meant well. Smiling, she came and embraced Hetty with her spare arm. ‘Look at you! You’ve grown up nice,’ she said with sudden fondness. ‘You always were a good kid. Come any time – Leofric Farm – remember? We’re sisters, after all.’
Hetty stared after her as she left, with a sudden feeling that her chest was going to split open with the need to weep and weep. Grown up nice, Nancy had said. If only Nancy knew! Hetty didn’t feel ‘nice’ at all. She felt dirty and spoiled and she wouldn’t have told Nancy where she was living now, not for anything.
Thirty-Eight
Gradually, after Hetty found her job at the laundry and was out of the house all day, she noticed that when she was back indoors with Ada and Ethel, things had changed. The two of them seemed to have drawn closer. Sometimes, Hetty got back to find them sitting together, often with a bottle of hard stuff on the go, and giggling. When she came in they’d go quiet and look at her, as if they’d been talking about her. As soon as Hetty got paid, Ada and Ethel were keen to lift her money off her. Hetty had a little rag tied under her clothes with the money in that she was keeping back and she never let go of it and made sure she kept it well hidden from Ethel.
They started ordering her about more, making her do all the work in the house when she was there. Ethel, on the other hand, seemed to be doing nothing very much these days, now there was another source of income.
‘If you’re too good to work on your back,’ Ada said nastily, ‘you can at least give us a reason to keep you. You’re only here because we let yer.’
So a lot of the cooking fell to Hetty. Ada lived in such chaos of odd moods and drink and sickness that she was hardly ever in a state to do anything.
One hot, still afternoon she came home to find the two of them, Ada and Ethel, sitting at the table, thick as thieves, a stronger than usual stench in the dingy little room. Along with the harsh-smelling drink, she recognized the odours of men, of bodily intimacies, which made her screw up her face in disgust. As she came in, Eddie ran up to her and threw his arms round her legs. He had grown fond of her and she liked the feel of his scrawny little body pressed against her.
‘Got a pong under your nose, ’ave yer?’ Ethel demanded. Her hair was hanging limply round her face. ‘Don’t like the smell of people earning their living then?’
‘What d’you think I’ve been doing all day?’ Hetty demanded. Not for the first time she asked herself why she was in this house with these women. She had been so lost and desperate that it had been a haven at first. She would have put up with almost anything and it had been easier to stay. But now she was working, maybe she could get a place of her own. She would bide her time, wait until it was right to go and she had enough pennies saved . . .
‘Thinks she’s too good to lie back and spread her legs,’ Ada said. ‘But I’ll tell you summat.’ She sat up, waving a finger at Hetty, the drink making her speak too loudly, slurring her words. ‘Mr Lavender’s been asking after you, Het. ’E likes the look of you, ’e does – and I’ve said ’e can ’ave yer, he’s welcome!’ She let out a nasty burst of laughter.
‘No!’ Hetty said. ‘I’m not doing it . . . I’m not! Why can’t Ethel . . . ?’
‘Oh, Ethel’s doing ’er share,’ Ada said. Her hair was straggling all over her face and her eyes were moving strangely. Hetty looked at Ethel, who was smirking horribly at Ada.
‘Don’t think we can’t make yer!’ Ada said, and the two of them rocked with drunken laughter.
Hetty backed away. She was frightened by the way they were together. ‘I ain’t doing it. I’m doing my share. I ain’t staying ’ere if you’re gonna keep on about doing that. And then you won’t have my wages neither.’
She was always on edge after that. The atmosphere in the house had turned. Ethel and Ada seemed to grow closer and the mood became more poisonous by the day. Ethel grew more mean and aggressive, always out to pick a fight.
‘’Ere comes Miss Hoity-Toity,’ she’d say when Hetty got in from work. Sometimes she pinched or slapped Hetty, out of nothing but spite.
Hetty tried to ignore it, not wanting to get into a three-way fight with Ethel and with Ada, who could rouse herself to a flaming temper. But everything she did now was wrong. Ethel had been difficult enough before. Now she and Ada were ganged up against her. They kept on talking about her going with Mr Lavender. Hetty dreamed more and more of getting away from them. She would walk out of there, find somewhere else to go . . .
But it happened soon after that, one afternoon, the way she fled from there. The night before, a Saturday, Ethel had been to the market and scrounged or bought leftover veg which they cooked up into a thin stew.
Ada sat watching impassively from the bed, her legs drawn up under her. Even when there was food to be had she barely ate. She’d got a bottle from somewhere, fetched by Ethel from the Outdoor no doubt, and she drank steadily until her eyes were glazed over. She was in a nasty, snarling mood, her face drawn and sour in the candlelight. Hetty thought how little life Ada had in her for someone not very old. Even her own mother had been more alive than that. Ethel was starting to drink more and more as well.
The air crackled with resentment. Hetty held Eddie on her knee, rocking him. She’d grown fond of the neglected little boy, who reminded her of her own brothers. But she’d never taken to Alf and left him to Ethel.
‘Well, don’t just sit there,’ Ethel snapped. Her scrawny form was bent over the pan, stirring it on the fire.
‘I’m not just sitting here – I’m nursing Eddie.’ No one else ever bothered.
Ethel muttered curses, her rat face tight and resentful. There were only two plates in the house so she dolloped out the food on to them, took one to Ada, w
ho put it on the bed beside her and looked indifferently at it, and the two girls shared the other one, feeding the babies from their own helpings. Whenever Hetty went to help herself to a mouthful, Ethel spitefully pushed the spoon away with her own.
‘Stop it!’ Hetty said. Ethel was like a five-year-old sometimes. ‘Leave me be!’
Then Ethel punched her shoulder, hard. Her eyes were narrow with spite.
‘What the hell’s got into you?’ Hetty got up and moved away, barely fed. ‘You can sodding well feed ’em then.’
She went upstairs and lay down on the mattress. It was the last night she was to spend in Spon End.
Sunday was a hard-working time for Ada, so Hetty took herself off the next day, even though it was a grey morning, spotting with rain. By now she knew a bit about some of Ada’s customers. She’d see them coming along the road, men who came ambling along pretending they were out to get some smokes. There was pasty-faced Mr Lavender with his cap on, who made Hetty’s flesh creep, and the respectable Quiet Gentleman who barely ever said a word. He was a dead cert for Sunday morning. They knew he had a family somewhere, that was all.
‘Most likely packs ’em all off to church,’ Ethel said dryly once.
Hetty had nowhere particular to go. She had her little stash of money tied into her waist, never trusting Ethel or Ada an inch. It amounted to few shillings by now. One day, she thought, she’d walk out to Brandon to see Nancy, but today looked too grim and wet. She hung about, went to the river, through the town and when she thought it would all be over she headed back again.
There was nothing amiss outside, no indication then of what had happened. As she went to the door, things were unusually quiet.
She would never be able to burn the sight from her mind. Everything was very still. The room, usually so grey and drab, was daubed with red. There was blood seeping across Ada’s pillow and her pale, bare flesh. The two little boys were on the floor, limp as dolls, both with their red life seeping from their heads. The only movement was the convulsive heave of Ethel’s shoulders as she knelt by Ada’s bed, holding her hand, begging and begging her not to die.
Possessed by panic and horror, Hetty had no thought in her mind but to get out and as far away as possible. She hurled herself out of the house and along the street, only stopping for a moment by the Spon Arches to check that her money was still in place at her waist, then tore onwards, at first not knowing or caring where she was going.
But somehow a plan was forming, one which had been a germ before: her way of escape. She made her way to the railway station.
Running to the window of the ticket office, she panted out the words. ‘A single to Birmingham, please.’
Thirty-Nine
‘Aggie, let Mrs Sissons in!’
Aggie had already run to open the door that Saturday morning as soon as she heard the knocking. Mrs Sissons, a rounded, soft-cheeked lady, well into middle age, was on the step in a clean pinner. Her hair was kirby-gripped into a loose bun and kindly eyes greeted Aggie from behind her spectacles.
‘Morning, Agnes,’ Mrs Sissons said. She was the only person who ever called Aggie by her proper name, but Aggie didn’t mind. Mrs Sissons, who lived just round the corner on Turner Street, was well known in the district because for a modest fee, she helped people with laying out a body or birthing a baby. Mrs Sissons had once been a nurse and would help if called upon. When Dulcie Skinner told her that Tommy Green had come home in such a poor state, she had called round.
‘I’ll help you, bab, if you want me to,’ she told Jen gently. ‘I only wish you’d called on me before.’ Jen wept with relief and worry.
‘I should’ve got the doctor for him before,’ she said, sobbing out her worries to the kindly woman. ‘But he wouldn’t have it – he’s so set against them . . . I defied him, once he came home, and called in Dr Hill, but he says there’s nothing more they can do for him now . . . I’m at my wits’ end. I don’t know how to manage. I’ve another one on the way – and we’re relying on my old mom . . .’
‘Don’t you worry, bab,’ Mrs Sissons soothed her. ‘I’ll help you. You don’t have to pay me right away if you can’t manage.’
‘That’s ever so good of you,’ Jen said. ‘But you’ve got to eat like the rest of us.’
Mrs Sissons chuckled. ‘Oh, I don’t think I’m about to waste away, do you? Any road, you think about it – everyone needs a bit of help and succour at a time like this.’
And Mrs Sissons gave it with practical generosity. Aggie beamed, seeing the woman’s comforting shape on the step. It was lovely to have her dad home, but it was so frightening and sad to see him the way he was.
‘How’s your grandmother going along?’ Mrs Sissons asked, as she came in. Her face furrowed with concern. Everyone seemed to know that Nanna was out at work now. She hobbled home exhausted every evening after a day turning out press studs. ‘Someone’s got to bring in some wages,’ she kept saying. But the house felt wrong without her.
‘The old girl’s getting on all right, ta!’ Nanna’s voice boomed from the back. She was resting in the chair by the range.
Mrs Sissons made a comical face at Aggie, who couldn’t help smiling back.
‘Glad to hear it, Mrs Adams,’ Mrs Sissons called to her.
Jen was coming downstairs. ‘Mom’s bearing up,’ she said. ‘I don’t know how she does it. She’s strong as a mule and stubborn as one too. I’ve tried to stop her going but there’s no telling her anything . . .’
Mrs Sissons smiled. ‘And how’s the patient?’
‘I’m glad you’re here,’ Jen said tremulously. ‘Come up.’
Aggie crept upstairs behind Mrs Sissons. There were heavy creases in the back of her grey skirt where she had sat and her black shoes were distorted by her bunions. Aggie wasn’t sure whether Mrs Sissons realized she was there, but at the top of the stairs she turned and put her finger to her lips.
‘You stay by the door, Agnes,’ she said kindly. ‘There’s not a lot of room in there.’
Mrs Sissons and Mom stood each side of the bed. Aggie watched, peering round the door frame.
Dad coming back home had been such a happy thing, making things feel more as they should be again. Except they weren’t as they should be at all. Tommy had made a huge, final effort to get back to his own home, but it had drained him utterly and ever since he had been back, he seemed to have been going downhill. The doctor came twice after he got back. Dr Hill was a small chirpy man who Nanna said made her think of a budgie. But when he came to see Dad that time, he was quiet and grave.
‘Just keep him warm and comfortable, Mrs Green,’ he said. ‘Do you have any more bedding?’
Mom shook her head, shamefaced. ‘I could try and—’ she began to say.
Dr Hill held up a hand to quieten her. ‘I think I can help there. Someone will be round.’
True to his word, later that day he sent round the lady who worked at his surgery, with two rugs and a bundle of cleanly folded rags. When Mom saw them, more tears came.
‘You’re so kind,’ she said.
Neighbours were coming in offering things as well and it kept making Mom cry. Dulcie Skinner was in and out whenever she could spare a moment, with odd gifts – a milk pudding or a cake.
Aggie felt a tight, scared feeling inside her as she looked at her father. He had shrunk so thin now that the bones all stood out sharp in his face, which had turned a dull yellow, almost like Mary Crewe’s fingers from all her smoking. When he tried to smile at her, which seemed to take all his strength, she could see the bones moving under his skin and his arms and legs were thin as sticks. He had a little jar that he had brought back from the hospital, to spit up into. Every time Aggie saw him it made her feel queasy and upset.
‘How’re you today, Tommy?’ Mrs Sissons asked. Aggie heard her father give a slight groan in reply. ‘Maybe the little ’un could fetch some boiled water for me,’ Mrs Sissons whispered to Mom.
‘Go and bring us some water from the ke
ttle and one or two of them cloths, Aggie,’ Jen said. ‘Make sure it’s not scalding.’
Glad of something to do, Aggie went back downstairs. Nanna was sitting with her head back, boots off and her feet up on a stool, drowsing. She looked exhausted but resolute as ever.
‘There’s a good wench,’ she remarked, opening one eye as Aggie came in. But soon she was snoozing again.
Aggie poured the water into Mom’s biggest mixing bowl, blowing away the steam, and added some cold so that it was comfortable to dip her own hand in, before carrying it up, the cloths tucked under her arm.
Aggie felt proud to be helping. The others were out playing. She wasn’t sure if any of them understood how poorly Dad was, though she couldn’t see how you could look at him and not know. All the time she felt peculiar, as if living on her nerves. Her body seemed to feel her sadness for her.
Aggie tried to steer her mind on to other things, and one of them was that Rose Southgate kept getting her to run errands. Mrs Southgate seemed to have changed and Aggie wasn’t sure it was for the better. She didn’t have her nice little tea parties on a Sunday any more and she seemed to have forgotten about some of the other things she’d promised, like teaching Aggie to sew. It was as if her mind was always far away. But at least twice a week now, Mrs Southgate beckoned her from her door and Aggie would run over to be invited inside.
‘Now listen, Aggie,’ she said, when Aggie had already delivered the first message to Mr King’s lodgings. She called Aggie in when she got back from school. ‘Sit down – I need to have a serious talk with you.’ This was something new.
They were in the kitchen and Rose pulled out a chair for her, then came and sat opposite. ‘Would you like a cup of tea, dear?’
