by Guy McCrone
Peggy began to cry again.
“Don’t be a silly, Peggy. You can keep my dress.”
Having taken off her own shoes and stockings, Phœbe told Peggy to come. She led her down to the kitchen. As they passed to go out at the back door, Phœbe took down the old sacking apron that Bessie put on when she washed the front steps of a morning. She would wear this on her head as a shawl. In the back green she rubbed her legs and face with mud. It was raining now, so she bared her head that the wet might take the curls out of her hair—curls nightly re-made by Bel with the help of screws of newspaper.
“Now come on.”
“Where are we goin’?”
“Along the Rotten Row.” Phœbe’s tone cowed any further questions.
Now that she had burnt her boats she began to feel that this escapade might after all be regarded as a piece of naughtiness. For the moment she was not so sure of herself. Could the people be so awful as they said? What kind of awful? If it was only drunk—well, she had seen the farm-hands drunk often. Still, she felt a little afraid. Arthur, her brother, when he heard about this, would be furious. But she could not turn tail now. She could not appear frightened before this silly girl crying beside her. And then suddenly she thought again of the unaccustomed sight of tears in Bel’s eyes, and again the thought of Arthur the Second and what they might be doing to him made her sick at the stomach. No. She didn’t mind about these people that everyone said were so terrible.
They were at the end of the Rotten Row now. At the Bell o’ the Brae.
She turned to her companion.
“Listen, Peggy. We’re going down into the Saltmarket. You’re going to show me where Sarah lost Arthur.”
“No’ the night, Miss Phœbe!”
“Yes, tonight. If you don’t come, I’ll see that Sarah gets taken straight to jail.” And Peggy thus once more frightened into obedience turned to come with her down the hill.
VI
It was now about six o’clock, damp and foggy, but the rain was stopping.
The High Street was tumbling with humanity as the two children made their way downwards. The wynds and vennels, it seemed, had emptied their inmates into the main street. Filthy children, their sharp white faces already old and cunning, fought, played, snatched and howled in the gutter. Women hanging round close entrances, many already staggering, enfolded dirty babies in their drab shawls; others shrieked harsh greetings at passing friends, calling obscene pleasantries; again others, though it was still early evening, were already sitting or lying huddled against walls, rendered senseless by whisky. Men stood about in knots, their afternoon’s dram causing some to appear lifeless and stupid, others to quarrel fiercely. Younger people of both sexes were parading up and down, thronging the street—pushing and jostling. The shops were busy with their Saturday-evening trade, small shops most of them, their windows lit by one gas-flare. Only the packed public-houses seemed to have enough light. High over their window-screens could be seen gaseliers with lavish clusters of white frosted globes. The children kept to the middle of the street. There it was less crowded, for walkers had to dodge hoofs and wheels, as the buses came and went on the hill. And the drivers, losing patience, were not above lashing out with their whips.
Strangely, perhaps, Peggy was more afraid than her companion. She had had many a stern warning from her parents about these quarters at certain times of the day and week and she was ready to be terrified. For there was a gulf fixed between respectable working folks and the depraved creatures here.
Phœbe did not understand the meaning of much that she saw and heard about her. She could see the wretchedness and squalor. It was a platitude to her that abominations existed in the slums. But there was no reason that she should know more than this. She was fourteen and from a genteel, Victorian household. In addition, her mind was moving on a single track. Her passionate purpose made her, at this stage, almost unconscious of her surroundings.
They had reached the hurly-burly of Glasgow Cross now. Here the crowd and the tumult were greater than ever, but the lights of the larger shops, the flow of the traffic and the sight of more than one policeman, was, for the moment, reassuring. Peggy would have paused beneath the Tolbooth Steeple but her companion turned to her relentlessly and pointed across to the Saltmarket.
“Is it down that way?”
“Yes, Miss Phœbe.”
The children crossed over, pushing through.
A little way down the Saltmarket two drunken sailors were fighting. The face and beard of one of them streamed with blood. Peggy screamed, and fresh tears came. Phœbe turned to look at her, and saw that she was again on the point of retreat.
“Come on, Peggy. You can go home in a minute. Where was it they took Arthur? If I get Arthur, Sarah won’t have to go to jail.” She seized Peggy’s arm and marched her forward.
In a few moments more the older child stopped and pointed.
“It was in there.”
“All right, you can go away now.”
Phœbe loosed her grip on Peggy’s arm.
Peggy turned and ran.
Phœbe hesitated for a moment, then she crossed to the other side of the street to have a look at where she had to go. In the foggy gas-light she could see a group of women standing gossiping and cackling at the close mouth. One, very drunk, was leaning against the wall, her bonnet on one side. The others were laughing at what she said. Yet another kept performing vague reel steps, hitching back and forth as though she had a kind of St. Vitus’ dance. Another, perhaps younger than the rest, with some attempts at dilapidated finery, and with an unnaturally white and pink face and yellow hair, would catch a passing man by the arm now and then and try to stroke his face. This was greeted by howls of laughter from the others, though the woman seemed angry when the man shook himself free. Phœbe did not fully understand, but all her instinct told her she was looking into the abyss of degradation.
She stood pondering. How was she to get past these terrible women? For a moment fear took hold of her. But resolutely she forced it back.
Arthur was hidden away somewhere behind them. If she were feeling afraid, what must he be? No. She could not afford to be frightened.
She must use her wits again. She had already made herself look like a slum child, and she could assume a thick country accent; it was indeed a second language to her. She had gone thus far unnoticed. She must have patience and wait her time.
Another couple of sailors were coming up on the further side singing. The yellow-haired woman danced a step or two before them as they passed. The men shouted, seized her, and, one on either side of her, marched her, screaming with laughter and emitting oaths, off up the street. The other women followed, howling gibes. Only the drunken woman was left, supporting herself against the wall.
The entrance was free. Phœbe had seen the hands at the Laigh Farm drunk. She didn’t like it, but she was not afraid. She could get herself past this woman without much trouble. She crossed the street, paused for a moment to look in. The woman gazed at her stupidly, blinked and said, “Guid nicht tae ye, dochter.”
Phœbe returned the “Guid nicht”, and passed through the dark passage into “Hughie’s Yeard”.
VII
If the place had looked disgusting to Sarah this afternoon, it was worse now. Phœbe’s eyes had to become accustomed, for it was lit merely by one lamp and by such light as percolated through one or two dirty windows. It seemed to be entirely enclosed, its only entrance being the one through which she had come. She had to go warily, for her feet, though they had often gone unshod in pleasanter places, were sensitive to the garbage upon which she trod. More than once she avoided a broken bottle or tin can. After the rain there was a heavy stench. Several times her feet slipped among that which caused it.
There were a number of people, men and women, in the courtyard and one or two children. Some windows were thrown open, and women were shouting to each other. There was a constant wailing of infants. Yet, for it, Hughie’s Yeard was fairl
y empty. Most of its inhabitants, and many of them were women of a certain trade, were out of it now having their Saturday’s fling in the drinking-shops, or walking the streets for business. The people paid no attention to Phœbe. Her childish look and the rags she had assumed were ample disguise. She stood some minutes bewildered by her surroundings. But noticing she was unheeded, she took courage and began to think what she would have to do. People were going out and in through the dark doorways that surrounded the yard. She would try them, one after the other. She began with the one nearest to her.
From the entrance on the ground floor itself several single rooms opened off. Most of their doors stood open. In most of them, too, fires were burning in curious primitive fireplaces, built into one corner of the room. Women were working about, some of them cooking. It was Saturday night and there was money to buy food for the pot. By the light of the fires she could see other men, women and children lying on dirty mattresses or on straw, or merely on the floor, which was bare earth. She wondered how so many people could live together in one room. She did not know that the rooms were comparatively empty.
Through each door she peered as far as she dared. For Arthur must be somewhere. Strangely, it never struck her that he might have been taken elsewhere.
This first place was useless. She decided to ascend the stair.
The steps of the stair were littered with the same obnoxious filth as the yard outside. It was not only damp oozing through ill-maintained roofs that made the woodwork cracked and rotten. There was one landing, and yet another. The rooms that opened off them and the people inside repeated very much what she had seen below, except that people lay on boards instead of earth. Some rooms had beds. But beds in Hughie’s Yeard were places of luxury—and of business.
With a doggedness that had become almost mechanical Phœbe tried stair after stair. Once she was struck aside by a drunken man. Once she had to leave out a top landing because two harpies were locked together, fighting like she-devils, tearing out handfuls of each other’s hair. It was amazing how little these things had come to affect her. The more appalling the horrors the greater grew her determination to find Arthur.
She had one more stair to try when a boy spoke to her. He might be her own age, but it was difficult to tell with stunted slum creatures.
“Whit are ye goin’ up an’ doon a’ they stairs for?”
Phœbe started. This boy had been watching her! It was the first time, in what had actually been more than an hour, that she had been addressed directly. At other times she had merely been cursed out of the way. But she must go on keeping her wits about her.
She told the boy in her broadest Ayrshire that she had come up that day from Kilmarnock, and had been told that she would find her aunt here.
What was her aunt’s name?
Phœbe invented one.
He did not know it, but then there were so many people here. What did her aunt do?
Phœbe looked blank and said she didn’t know.
The boy leered and said something to her that she did not understand. But she thought it best to smile.
At any other time or place Phœbe would have run from this white-faced, undersized creature, but the fact that he seemed to be friendly gave her courage and set her wondering if he might help her in some way. Should she ask about a well-dressed little boy being brought into this yard today? Then fear that she might give herself away overcame her.
He offered to help her to find her aunt on the last staircase. Again it was fruitless. He pointed out to her a corner of an upper room which he said was where he lived. Phœbe made him stare by asking if every family did not have a room to itself. He asked her if they had as much space as that in Kilmarnock, and she had the wit to say they had. But after that she was afraid, and asked no more questions.
Being a helpful sort of boy, it seemed, he offered to try all the yard with her again. Although, as he said, her aunt would probably be out in the streets. Phœbe accepted. But after further endless weary plodding they could discover nothing. He tried several doors that were locked. He told her that when women were having babies they always tried to have them behind doors that locked, for then they would lock the door on the doctor, and the others could force him to give up his money before they let him out. He considered it a good joke. Did they do the same in Kilmarnock?
At the end of his journey he became affectionate and laid his hands on Phœbe. With a brute temper that she did not know was in her she struck him full in the face. Under the lamp she saw his nose was streaming. But, having called her names, the meaning of which she had no idea, he left her.
VIII
A numb bewilderment settled on her. But she would not leave Hughie’s Yeard. She could not give up the idea that Arthur was behind one of those doors. She had no idea what to do now. She crouched down in a corner near the entrance and waited.
A bell somewhere, tolled nine. … Now and then she could hear the trains roaring on the Union Railway viaduct that cut its way through places such as this to connect with the new College Station. Still she crouched and waited, it seemed for an infinite time. The distant bell tolled ten. The courtyard was getting noisier and fuller. There were endless fights—sometimes between a couple of ill-built, ape-like men, sometimes between drink-inflamed women. Blood flowed freely. But she was past caring. For she was stupefied now with dejection, sick with anxiety and disgust, weak from cold and want of food. Yet even now this child’s iron will would not let itself be broken. She must wait here in this terrible darkness. Wait until she could take Arthur with her.
All at once there was a cry at the entrance and a rush of policemen. There were half a dozen of them, of the small, stocky type that at that time Glasgow put on slum night duty. There was a hush in the court. The squabbling stopped and the ranks closed against the intruders.
A raucous voice shouted to ask what they wanted. Phœbe was electrified by the reply.
“Is there a stolen wean in here?”
There was a shout of laughter. “Ye better come and look.” The yard knew that six policemen would not, in common prudence, dare. The number of scoundrels against them was unlimited.
But Phœbe’s heart was bursting her body. So Bel or David had informed the police! All the windows above were filled with heads. The mob standing back in the yard and the police by the entrance stood glaring at each other. There was a no-man’s-land between them. Phœbe, near the policemen, could hear what they said. They were not going up “they bloody closes the night”. It was sure murder. Even if they all went into one together they would be trapped like rats. It would be impossible to fight their way out again. They had obeyed orders and come into the yard. More they could not do. Toffs should look after their own weans.
The people began taunting them. A woman threw some filth from a window that knocked off a policeman’s top-hat, covered his face and ran down his beard. The yard applauded. Another, at a window, showed a child.
“Is it this yin?”
There was yet another roar. A woman carrying a second child danced across the no-man’s-land from one close entrance to another. The thing became a game. Women danced across with children or showed them at windows.
At a top-floor window opposite to where Phœbe crouched, an old hag and several young women were leaning out, enjoying the spectacle. They seemed, most of them, very drunk, as they howled down abuse in their imbecile delight.
Suddenly the group parted and a child was held out. Its face was smudged and scared. It was wrapped in what looked like a piece of sacking. The woman, seemingly less drunk than the rest, held him up.
“Here! Is it this yin?”
Phœbe’s scream was lost in another shout of animal laughter.
It was Arthur.
The numbness had left her. She must decide at once what to do. Should she tell the policemen beside her? Or were the chances of getting him out better if she acted by herself? She had heard them say they would not let themselves be trapped. No. She would act by her
self.
There were more howlings, more taunts, more children held up, but at last the policemen went. The inmates of the yard settled down to discuss the affair. From what she could hear, they did not know of the stolen child.
She must go and reconnoitre. She went up the stairs to the top. From its window, it was quite easy for her to decide in which room Arthur must be, although the loathsome landing was almost in black darkness. She pressed against the door gently. It did not give. Presently a woman came out and went downstairs. The door was at once closed, and Phœbe could hear a key being turned. But she had caught a glimpse of a brightly burning fire, a number of women and on one side a bed.
She settled down to wait. She was very excited now, and felt a strange tension in her head; but she felt no fear. People came and went from the other rooms on the landing. She had constantly to be jumping to avoid them. But they were used to crouching children, and they let her be.
Gradually she became conscious of increasing noise in the yard below. There seemed to be more roaring and drunkenness. She did not know that the public-houses closed at eleven, that those who had been turned out were coming home. Several people came up and staggered into the other rooms. At last two women came up dragging two reeling men with them. She had to press herself hard against the oozing wall to let them pass. She could not understand why the women were using words of coarse endearment. They banged on the door, giving their names. The door opened. One man was so drunk that it took a long time to get him through. Phœbe was given ample time to examine the room. Men and women were lying about on straw. Another couple were in the bed. The beasts of the Laigh Farm had taught Phœbe life’s straightforward facts. She could have no knowledge of these more terrible ones. It was lucky that her eyes could only look for Arthur.
IX
He was there near the fire, sitting on a heap of straw. His eyes were bewildered. Once he made to move. But the old hag that she had seen at the window struck him. He whimpered, but did not cry. Phœbe felt herself trembling.
