by Betty Annand
THE GIRL FROM
Old Nichol
Betty Annand
Amberjack Publishing
New York, New York
Amberjack Publishing
228 Park Avenue S #89611
New York, NY 10003-1502
http://amberjackpublishing.com
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, fictitious places, and events are the products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places, or events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Betty Annand
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, in part or in whole, in any form whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data
Names: Annand, Betty, author.
Title: The Girl from old Nichol / by Betty Annand.
Description: New York [New York]: Amberjack Publishing, 2017.
Identifiers: ISBN 978-0- 9972377-9-5 (pbk.) | ISBN 978-0- 9972377-8- 8 (ebook) | LCCN 2016941246
Subjects: LCSH Great Britain--History--Fiction. | Women--England--Fiction. | Historical fiction. | Love stories.| BISAC FICTION / Historical.
Classification: LCC PS3601.N5551 G57 2017 | DDC 813.6--dc23
Cover Design: Red Couch Creative, Inc.
Printed in the United States of America
Dedicated to Art, my soulmate forever.
Life isn’t about finding yourself. Life is about creating yourself.
—George Bernard Shaw
Chapter One
It had been a good day. The Tunners’ cart was loaded with junk and they were almost home. The temperature had fallen below zero and the cobblestones were as slippery as a bed of wet seaweed. Wrapped from head to toe in layers of ragged coats and scarves, Tonnie and Bert were unrecognizable as they pulled their cart through the littered streets. Most of their neighbours, unfortunate enough to live in the district, were huddled in their hovels around whatever heating apparatus they owned. By the end of winter, there would scarcely be a piece of wooden furniture left; firewood being more a necessity than a comfort.
Raising their heads at the same time, the couple gave each other an encouraging nod. It wouldn’t be long before their nagging thirsts were quenched, and their cold hands warmed in the nearest pub. Suddenly, Bert dropped her handle and grabbed her swollen belly, almost upsetting the load. “God, it’s comin’! We ’as to leave the cart ’ere, Tonnie. Go fetch that Sally woman.”
“Can’t just leave it ’ere! Some bloody thief’ll take it—and the cart as well.”
Another pain brought on a scream. “I don’t give a damn if they takes the lot! Now go an’ get ’er!”
Tonnie left reluctantly while Bert made her way home through Old Nichol Street Rookery as quickly as her condition and the icy cobblestones would allow. Later that evening, the 29th of January, 1829, Bert gave birth to Gladys Tunner, the only child she and Tonnie would have. It was a bleak and unsteady welcome for Gladys, into one of the worst slum districts in London’s East End.
Luckily the cart and the goods within were intact when Tonnie returned to pick them up. He didn’t dare tell Bert that he’d taken time to find a boy to watch over it before going for the midwife.
__________
Bert had suffered three miscarriages and, convinced that this pregnancy would be no different, was unprepared for the arrival of a healthy, six-pound baby girl. Two years before, both she and Tonnie would have been delighted with such a blessing, but both their lifestyle and personalities had suffered with time, and now neither appreciated the added burden. Sally Tweedhope, who was kind enough to act as midwife in the neighbourhood, hadn’t delivered such a beautiful and healthy baby since she had moved to the slums.
Perspiration ran down Bert’s face as she raised herself up on her elbows and watched Sally lift the baby from between her legs. She wasn’t surprised when it showed no signs of life and for half a second experienced the usual feeling of sadness—even more so when she saw that this little one was fully developed. Then a deep sense of relief overtook her, and falling back on the pillow, she uttered a tired and silent “Thank you.”
Suddenly, the infant emitted a loud cry and began kicking its legs and waving its tiny arms. Shocked, Bert bolted back up crying, “It’s alive!”
“Of course she is,” Sally replied, smiling.
“No, it can’t be! It’s too late,” Bert protested, but judging by the lively sound of the baby’s cry, this baby had come to stay. Bert covered her face with her hands and began to cry.
Sally was too busy tending to the infant to be of any comfort, but when she had the baby wrapped in the cleanest blanket she could find, she carried her over to the bed and laid her gently beside Bert, saying, “There now, Mrs Tunner, you should be happy. You have a beautiful little girl.”
Bert kept her hands over her face mumbling, “No, it’s too late.”
“Of course it is not too late. Just have a look at her.” When Bert refused, Sally pulled her hands away from her face and demanded, “I said look at her!”
The order was given in such an inexorable tone that Bert didn’t argue. Slowly, she looked down at the bundle beside her. A gasp escaped her lips. The baby was so beautiful and perfect she could scarcely believe it was real. Gently, she touched its downy head and then its face; never had she seen such a baby. She was sure there had to be something wrong, and a shiver of fear ran through her as she slowly folded back the blanket. Relieved, she could see that the little body was as flawless as the head and even had the correct number of fingers and toes.
Sally, watching the awe spread across Bert’s face, said, “She is perfect, isn’t she?”
Tears were running down Bert’s cheeks as she nodded. Then she looked up at Sally and tried to make her understand how she felt. “Oh, that she is, but Tonnie an’ me—we aren’t able to look after a young one anymore. The poor little mite would be better off dead.”
Sally was aware of the Tunners’ drinking problems, but she also knew they were both hard workers, and she could tell by the house, as humble as it was, that Bert worked to keep it clean. Therefore, she thought that having a baby might be just what the couple needed to help them mend their ways.
Before she could say as much, the baby began crying, and without stopping to think about it, Bert began nursing her.
Sally laughed and said, “There you go. You are already taking care of her. Don’t you worry now; I think you shall make an excellent mother.”
“Thank you Missus. I ’opes for the baby’s sake you’re right. Anyway, I’m going to do me best, I promise.”
“That is all anyone can do, my dear. Now, do you have what you need for the baby?”
Bert shook her head, and then explained that, because of her past miscarriages, she had not anticipated the baby would be born alive.
__________
It had been over a year since Bert first realized how dependent she and Tonnie were on liquor, and she knew in her heart they were in no condition to be parents. As a result, she began refusing Tonnie’s advances. Luckily, the booze had taken its toll on his desire, and he was easily dissuaded. Then, somehow, in spite of her best intentions, and even though neither she, nor Tonnie, had any memory of intimacy, she found herself with child once more. Although neither had the slightest idea where or when the conception happened, they had no doubt who the father was. Their love for one ano
ther, along with their mutual trust, was the only thing that hadn’t yet suffered from their addiction.
Certain that she would have another miscarriage, Bert didn’t worry too much about things until she could no longer wear her one and only skirt and had to look amongst their rags for another.
It was then that she decided to visit old Murlee, a gypsy woman who lived in the deepest part of the slums and sold herbal remedies for such things. What Bert didn’t know, was that the last two women who had received the old witch’s abortive herbs had perished, along with their babies. Afraid of being found out, Murlee had disposed of her supply of the tansy root powder that she normally used, and sold Bert a harmless concoction of ground liquorice and aniseed powder, telling her it would have the same effect.
__________
When Sally left the Tunners that day, she prayed that Bert would keep her promise. The child might have a chance if she did. The filth and sickening stench inside the homes that she visited were in most cases worse than outside, where the sewers ran alongside the streets. There were times when she was forced to leave and run outside to vomit. It wasn’t difficult to understand why so many of the babies she helped deliver died within a month or two after they were born. As she made her way through the Tunners’ shop, she spotted Tonnie sitting on a stool, sorting junk. He had been at the nearest bar having a drink when the baby was born and hadn’t heard it cry. Now he was hunched over with his head down, and although he flinched a little when she touched his shoulder, he didn’t look up. Instead, in a low and apologetic tone, he mumbled, “It’s not ’er fault, Missus. She’s didn’t want to ’ave a ’nother go at it. It’s me’s to blame. Even if she don’t want a young’n any more, it still saddens ’er when they comes out dead.”
“But, Mr Tunner,” Sally replied, “that’s just it. She’s not dead! You have a beautiful little baby girl!”
Tonnie was having trouble digesting the unexpected news and, looking up at her, stammered, “Are you certain, Missus? I mean . . . Bert . . . you knows yourself . . . she can’t ’ave babies.”
“Well, she has one now.”
Still not sure of what she was telling him, he continued to stare at her until she put her hand gently on his arm and suggested, “I think you had better go in now and be with your wife and daughter, don’t you?”
First he replied with a slow and dubious nod, and then, a wide and beautiful grin lit up his dirty, whiskered face. He jumped up, grabbed her hand, shook it vigorously and said, “Thank you, Missus; you’re a proper angel, you are!” Her depression vanished as she watched him give a little hop, smack his thigh with his hand, and exclaim, “Jaysus, I’m a bloomin’ da, I am!” She couldn’t help but laugh as she left to inform the neighbours that Bert was in dire need of baby necessities.
Tonnie pulled back the old, grey wool blanket, so full of holes it did little to separate the bedroom from the rest of the house. In his excitement, he forgot to duck, and the sound of his head smacking the five-foot door frame along with his volley of profanity startled both the baby and Bert, who had dozed off. Rubbing his head, he sheepishly apologized, “I’m right sorry, luv. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
He knelt down beside the bed and looked at the baby. “Crikey, she’s a right keeper, she is! You outdid yourself, Bert, luv. I never laid eyes on one so bonnie. I think we should give ’er the name, Gladys, after me Welsh gran, if that’s all right with you, luv. I fancies the name Gladdy, don’t you?”
Bert nodded her head in consent. Then she reached for Tonnie’s hand and, grasping it, said, “She’s too good for us, Tonnie. We’ll ’ave to stop drinking so much if we’re going to look after ’er proper like.”
“I ’opes we can, luv; I ’opes we can.”
“We will Tonnie; we ’as to! But I think we deserves a wee nip now to sort of celebrate. Go on now, luv. Go fetch us a bottle.”
Tonnie agreed, but before he got up from the floor, he ran his big rough hand over the baby’s head. His eyes were so full of love and pride that Bert was tempted to tell him not to go, but her thirst wouldn’t allow it. He gave each of Bert’s bared breasts a quick kiss, and then with a grin and a wink he left, whistling a lively tune.
__________
The women Sally had visited on Bert’s behalf had little sympathy for the new mother. They had even less than the Tunners and hardly owned enough rags to cover their own little ones. Nevertheless, they each managed to gather up an item or two and arrived the following morning with a hodgepodge of gifts: chipped bottles with well-worn nipples, yellow-stained nappies, and a mixture of dirty, shrunken, and matted wool blankets, sweaters, bonnets, and booties.
Being able to donate something allowed them a certain sense of pride and eased their jealousy. As they filed past the newborn, none could deny that she was an exceptionally pretty baby. However, once outside, the ladies pulled their well-worn shawls and cardigans tight to their breasts and huddled together to discuss the birth.
“I hopes now she has a wee one, she’ll keep out of the pubs.”
“Not that one! She’s a lost soul, she is. I almost feels sorry for ’er.”
“Well you never can tell; ’avin’ a young’n to care for might just change ’er right o’ ways.”
__________
And so it did—for four weeks. Bert had meant it when she promised Sally she’d try to be a good mother, but as the weeks went by, she began begging Tonnie to bring more and more booze home, and was soon back to drinking as much as ever. Nevertheless, she still managed to keep Gladys fed and clean even when she began going to the pubs again, taking the baby along with her.
Although Old Nichol was considered the most undesirable place to live in all of England, it too had a ‘slum’ within its slums. This area dwelt deep inside the ghetto, and was so deplorable that no lawmen dared visit. Hence, wanted criminals considered it a safe place. It was often referred to as “The End” for a good reason: the death toll being more than twice what it was in the rest of Old Nichol.
Bert had been born in The End, and when she married Tonnie and moved to Nichol Street, she felt as though she was moving to Buckingham Palace. If she had had Gladys during the first four years of her marriage, she may have been content to stay at home and be a good mother, but then again, she may have died from drinking the putrid water from the communal well, rather than liquor.
In every pub she frequented, Bert hung the baby up on a coat peg in a cradle-like sling fashioned out of an old, ragged blanket. Fortunately, the baby’s hunger and her mother’s discomfort demanded a reunion every few hours or she might have been forgotten as her mother went from one pub to another.
Gladys was far more safe hung on a peg than she would have been placed on the floor. There she was likely to be lost or trampled to death among the broken tankards, spittoons, and other debris. The interiors of the pubs were as littered with rubbish as the streets.
As Gladys grew, so did her lungs, and it wasn’t long before customers began complaining about the noise she made. Bert was ordered to leave her baby at home. To solve the problem, she had Tonnie build a pram out of a slatted-wooden box, some odd shaped wheels, and a piece of canvas used for a hood.
When Bert said they would now be able to leave her outside the pubs, Tonnie protested, “Bloody ’ell, Bert; someone’s goin’ to take ’er if you leaves ’er alone outside!”
“Take ’er? Who do you know what wants another one, eh?” When Tonnie couldn’t come up with an answer, she laughed and said, “If you could get rid of them that easy, there’d be ’undreds of them left in the streets.”
Bert was right; with conditions as dire as they were in the London slums, children were more of a burden than a blessing since food, clothing, and shelter were almost as scarce as gold. Old Nichol Street Rookery housed over five thousand people, all crammed into a space barely big enough to accommodate a hundred. London was the most populated city in the wo
rld and had run out of jobs and room for the mass migration of people who came to the city from rural areas hoping to find employment during the Industrial Revolution.
Tonnie was more fortunate than most because his father had established a second-hand shop before the migration, and it had two shack-like rooms at the back of the building. One room was used as a store room and bedroom, and the other contained a cooker, some boxes nailed to the wall for staples, a table, four odd-shaped chairs, and a well-worn and dirty, flowered divan where their daughter Gladys slept after she outgrew the wooden box that served as her crib.
Many of the families in Old Nichol lived eight or ten to a room, and many of those rooms were in rat-infested cellars that flooded during the rainy weather. For the privilege of living in such hovels, they were forced to pay an inequitable amount of rent to rich landlords with no conscience. Shamefully, some of these landlords were churchmen and politicians.
Children as well as adults were forced to work in order to survive. If you lived on the ground level, you could manage to keep a rain barrel. Otherwise, the only available drinking and washing water had to be carried from a communal pump, which usually meant waiting in line for long periods of time. Due to the scarcity of water, the washing of clothes or bodies was seldom practiced.
Drinking water came from the same shared pump and was piped in from the heavily-polluted River Thames, where it wasn’t unusual to see floating carcasses of dead animals, and occasionally humans, bobbing out of the scum that lay on the river’s surface. In spite of the hardships and frequent deaths from starvation and disease, laughter and music still played a regular role in the neighbourhood clamour. All it took was a tune on a fiddle, a mouth organ, or another instrument, for an excuse to dance and sing, not only in the pubs, but in the streets as well. If the dancers had no shoes, they danced barefoot. With such appalling poverty, thievery was to be expected, but crime was far overshadowed by compassion and sharing, and bigotry was applied towards the rich and not the races.
