by Anna Jacobs
When she came back later, she found Annie huddled in the corner of a neat and tidy kitchen and no sign of John. “Is he still up there?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Go an fetch thy brother an’ sister back. Happen he’ll pull himself together a bit when he sees th’other childer.”
Annie went slowly along the street, passing Michael O’Connor and his three sons, on their way to the mill.
“It’s a tragedy about your mam,” Michael said to her, crossing himself. “A lovely woman, she was. Will I be telling them at work that your da’ll not be in today?”
“Yes, please, Mr O’Connor.”
When Annie arrived at Number Seven, Matt was just leaving for work and patted her encouragingly on the shoulder as he walked past. Elizabeth tried to take the little girl in her arms, but Annie wriggled out of her grasp. She stood there, “like a woman grown, that pale an’ stiff you’d never imagine her only ten,” Elizabeth later told Polly Dykes. “‘I’ve come for my brother and sister, please, she said, an’ thank you for having them.’ Eh, she spoke as if they’d only been round here to play with my lot.”
The sight of his three motherless children in no way brought John Gibson to his senses. In fact, he roared at them to get out of the bedroom. If it wasn’t for them, Lucy would still be alive! Children were a curse!
Widow Clegg waited till they’d clattered back down the narrow stairs, then asked John for her money. She waited again until he’d finished cursing and then repeated that she wasn’t moving a step until she got paid. She’d had too much experience with bereaved families to wait until after the funeral, when they’d likely be owing money all round. In the end he threw some coins at her. She picked up the three florins she thought were her due and left the others lying on the floor. When she went down, she told Annie to keep out of her dad’s way till he came to his senses.
The three children spent the morning as quietly as they could and, for once, Lizzie and Tom gave Annie no trouble. About ten o’clock Elizabeth Peters came to the door to see if she could help in any way, but John, still up in the front bedroom with his wife’s body, yelled down to Annie to send that woman away. He wasn’t having any neighbours coming prying into his affairs!
Elizabeth, who had heard every word, shrugged and whispered through the door, “You just send along if I can do anythin’ to help, lass. An’ our Ellie sends her love to you.”
Annie smiled wanly. “Thank you, Mrs Peters.” She didn’t really like Matt’s mother, but she was grateful for any attempt at kindness, because she felt very alone and frightened that day. What would she do without her mam? What would they all do?
A little later, Bridie O’Connor also knocked on the door. This time John came storming down the stairs. “Go away and see to your own family, you nosey bitch! Bloody well leave me an’ mine alone! There’s nothin’ you or anyone else can do now but leave us to our grief!” Slam went the door.
John appeared briefly in the kitchen. “Bloody nosey-parkering, that’s all it is! Don’t you answer that door again, our Annie, do you hear me – or I’ll take me belt to you!” He went out and relieved himself in the yard, a thing Lucy had never allowed, then climbed the stairs again. The three children huddled together in a corner of the kitchen till he was gone. They’d never seen their father like this and were terrified of the stranger he’d become. Five-year-old Lizzie whimpered, but softly, for fear of him hearing, and Annie cuddled her. Even eight-year-old Tom’s hand crept into Annie’s for comfort.
In the early afternoon John came downstairs. “Remember what I said an’ don’t let anyone in!” he growled at the three children. He then went up the street to arrange to borrow Barmy Charlie’s handcart the following day and to ask Charlie to find him a coffin. Charlie always knew somebody who could provide things, never mind what you needed. He wasn’t too barmy for that.
After that, John walked round to Parson Kenderby’s house to arrange for the funeral. He wasn’t allowed to see the parson himself, of course, who dealt only with the gentry, but the curate agreed to hold a short service for Mrs Gibson the next day. On his way home John passed a gin shop and, dreading returning to a house without Lucy, he called in and had one or two drinks to calm his nerves. It didn’t seem to do much good, and the bright lights hurt his eyes, so after a while he left. He met Sam Peters at the corner of the street.
“Do you want any help with the funeral, John?”
“No!” said John harshly. “You can all keep your bloody noses out o’ my business! She’s my wife an’ I’ll see to ’er. An’ tell your wife to keep away, too!”
Sam’s mouth dropped open in amazement at this rude response to a perfectly civil question. “Now, then, John …” he began, but John had already moved on.
They buried Lucy the next afternoon. John accepted Charlie’s help in carrying the coffin out to the handcart, then took the three children along with him to the brief ceremony, where the grave-digger helped him lower the coffin into the ground and the curate gabbled a few prayers.
The main thing Annie remembered from that day was the brightness of the sun, which hurt her swollen red eyes, and the buzzing of the insects which matched the ache in her head. It seemed wrong for the weather to be so beautiful on such a day. She saw another fresh grave nearby with flowers on it and wished she’d had time to go and pick some flowers for her mam. She decided that she would come back sometime and bring some flowers herself. Sometime when her dad was at work, so that he couldn’t stop her.
John stood stony-faced as earth was shovelled into the hole, then sent his children home again, threatening to murder them if they didn’t go straight back or if they so much as poked their faces outside the door after they got there. He cursed anyone who spoke to him in the street and cut short their expressions of sympathy, telling them to mind their own business and leave him to do the same. There was no comfort anyone could offer; all he wanted was oblivion from the pain of losing Lucy. And the only oblivion he could think of was in the gin shop. Maybe he hadn’t had enough to drink the day before.
He spent the rest of the day in the gin shop, sitting huddled over his pot in the darkest corner, growling at anyone who came near him and getting steadily drunker. But nothing seemed to dull the anguish of a world without Lucy.
In the end his money ran out and they refused to give him any more gin, so he staggered home to Salem Street. It took him a while to get the door opened, but at last he managed to crash it back on its hinges. He stood there swaying on the threshold. It made everything worse to go into her house. He closed his eyes for a moment and when he opened them, Annie was standing there, asking if he wanted anything. She had a look of her mother, the same green eyes and red hair, and he couldn’t stand it. He shoved her out of the way and stumbled up the stairs, sobbing hoarsely.
Annie sat and sobbed too as she rubbed her bruised face, for her dad had never hit any of them like that before. After a while, she crept up to bed.
The next day John made no attempt to go to work, though it would likely cost him his job. Mr Hallam was a good Christian employer and allowed his operatives two days off, without pay of course, for a close bereavement, but no more than two, or they might try to take advantage. Death was not, as he was fond of saying, to be made an excuse for a holiday.
John got up late, his head throbbing from the unaccustomed drinking. He came downstairs, cursed the children and wolfed down the last of the bread and bacon. Then he sat sprawling in a chair in the front room until the afternoon. The children stayed in the back room, afraid to make a noise. Annie, who was having trouble keeping Lizzie quiet, went in at last and asked if they might go out for a bit of a walk in the fresh air.
“Out! Go out! Shows what you thought of your mother, that does, wanting to go out an’ play! No, you bloody can’t go out! You can stay in th’house an’ show some respect for t’dead!”
Lizzie, who had crept in after her sister, started to cry, frightened by his harsh voice, and he slapped her face.
“Shut up your caterwauling!” he said with a viciousness the children had never seen in him before. Lizzie fled back to the kitchen to hide under the table and Annie followed her, tears rolling down her face.
Later in the afternoon John got up and began to fumble around in the kitchen.
“Where is it?” he demanded. “Where’s t’money? Where’d she keep the pot, damn you?”
“On the shelf, Dad,” Annie answered nervously, staying well out of reach of his hands, “behind the mirror. But it’s nearly all gone – an’ there’s nothin’ left in the house for us to eat.”
“She won’t never eat no more. See how you like it for a bit!” he told her indifferently, shoving the last few coins into his pocket and reaching for his cap. He turned round at the door. “An’ no playin’ out!” He raised his voice so that the whole street could hear him. “An’ don’t you answer t’door, neither! Bunch o’ bloody nosey-parkers, that’s all they are in this street. Can’t leave a man alone with ’is grief. Well, they’d better not come sniffin’ around my house!” And he stamped off to the gin shop.
Bridie, Elizabeth and Polly Dykes met later that day to discuss John Gibson’s strange behaviour.
“He’s gone mad,” said Polly. “Should’ve ’eard what he called me yesterday – an’ all because I said I were sorry about Lucy.”
“He’s takin’ it hard,” said Elizabeth. “But it’s the children I’m worried about. He won’t let them out of the house. What’s happenin’ to them? My Ellie’s that upset about Annie, she’s just mopin’ about. An’ my Sam says the doctor were upset, too. Says he don’t like his patients dyin’.”
“It’s a bad business, so it is,” said Bridie, her hand on her own distended belly. “I heard Lucy cryin’ out when she was in her labour. She always had a hard time, poor thing, God rest her soul!”
But although they chatted for a good half-hour, they could think of nothing to do about the Gibson children, and they dared not go into Number Three. A man was the master in his own house and had a right to do what he wanted with his own children.
Not until ten o’clock that night did John stagger home again, and he was even drunker than the previous day. When he’d fumbled his way into the house and was standing swaying in the front room, Tom went up to him.
“Dad!”
“Eh? What?”
“Dad, we’re hungry. We haven’t had nothin’ to eat.”
He waited for a moment, but there was no reply from his father, so he tried again. “Dad, we’re hungry …”
That was as far as he got. John’s arm shot out and smashed the irritating noise to one side. Tom’s shrill scream of fright cut off abruptly as his head hit the brass fender with a thump. There was a moment’s complete silence in the room, while John blinked and tried to bring the scene into focus. What had happened? What had he done?
Annie darted across to her brother, fear for him conquering her fear of her father. “You’ve killed him! You’ve killed our Tom!” she shrieked, dropping to her knees and cradling her brother’s head against her thin chest. Lizzie burst into terrified sobs and ran back to her refuge under the table in the kitchen, calling out hoarsely for her mam.
And for the first time since Lucy’s death, John Gibson really looked at his children and realised what he was doing to them.
“Oh, my God!” he muttered thickly and dropped into a chair, partly sobered by the shock, but still muzzy-headed and feeling sick now. “Oh, Lucy!” he moaned to himself. “Lucy! What ’ave I done?”
Annie was desperately trying to staunch the blood which was pumping from the gash on Tom’s forehead. Tears streamed unheeded down her face, leaving runnels in the dirt. The bruise that John had given her when he clouted her the day before stood out lividly on one cheekbone.
The boy hadn’t moved since he fell. His breathing was stertorous and his face chalk-white. John made a big effort to conquer his nausea and went across to his son. Annie hunched over her brother protectively.
“Nay, lass,” said John slowly, the words coming out thick and slurred, but making sense at last. “Nay, I’ll not hurt you again. I’m over that.” He knelt by his son. “Oh, my God!” he moaned as he saw that the boy was unconscious. “What have I done? What would Lucy say?” Then he pulled himself together and tried to think what to do. “Go an’ get the doctor, our Annie, the one as came to your mam. He’s a good man. He’ll come an’ see to our Tom.”
Annie stared at him blankly for a moment.
“Dr Lewis!” said John again. “Near t’park. That big house wi’ the wall round it. Go an’ fetch him for our Tom.”
She rushed out of the house and almost collided with a woman passing by.
“Hold on a minute, young Annie Gibson! What’s the matter with you?”
Annie blinked up at Sally Smith. “It’s our Tom,” she gasped. “He’s banged his head. Me dad says I’ve to fetch t’doctor.” She tore her arm from Sally’s grasp and darted off, running as John had run a few days earlier, along the dark streets and across the new park.
Sally looked after her, hesitated for a moment, then went into Number Three through the half-open door. People didn’t usually invite her into their houses, but this seemed like an emergency. She found John still crouching on the floor, holding Tom in his arms.
“I hope you don’t mind me coming in, Mr Gibson, but the door was open. Annie said Tom was hurt, so I wondered if I could do anythin’ to help.”
John looked at her owlishly for a moment and she realised that he was dead drunk. She moved over to look at the boy.
“It’s his head,” said John, speaking slowly and in a slurred voice. “I didn’t mean it! Oh, God, I didn’t mean it!”
“I’m sure you didn’t. No, don’t try to move him. Head wounds is dangerous. Just lie him down carefully where he is. Here, let me!” She lifted Tom gently out of his father’s arms and laid him flat on the floor, injured side uppermost.
“You come an’ sit down over here, John Gibson,” she said and coaxed him into a chair. “You’ve had a shock. What you need is a hot drink. Have you got any tea in the ’ouse?”
He just sat and looked at her uncomprehendingly, so she walked through to the kitchen to look for herself. There she found Lizzie whimpering under the table.
“Eh, lass, come on out of there!”
Lizzie peered at her suspiciously with a face made unlovely by snot and tears. Sally plumped down on her knees beside the child.
“Don’t you remember me? I’m Sally Smith from Number Six.”
A flicker of comprehension came into the puffy red eyes.
“I’m just goin’ t’make yer dad a cup o’ tea. D’you want one too?”
Lizzie’s mouth opened and shut, and she nodded, but she said nothing.
“I’ve got some bread an’ cheese in my house. Are you hungry, love?”
Lizzie nodded again and smeared the snot away from her nose with her sleeve.
“Right, then. You come with me and we’ll make summat to eat for you an’ yer dad.”
Lizzie crawled out from under the table and put one hand trustingly in Sally’s. They went through the front room, Sally talking cheerfully all the time. John was still huddled in a chair and Tom was on the floor. They were back five minutes later with a tray of tea and sandwiches. Sally persuaded John to drink a cup of hot, sweet tea, but he wouldn’t eat anything. He just sat watching his son, listening for the doctor and muttering every now and then that he hadn’t meant it.
Annie found the doctor’s house easily enough, for it was lit up brightly in the dark street, but she did not know about the special doctor’s bell at the side and she went right to the front door. A lady in a black dress, with a frilly white apron and cap opened it. She looked so fine that Annie couldn’t speak for a moment, then she managed to blurt out, “Our Tom’s hurt. He’s cut his head open. Please, can t’doctor come to see him?”
The lady’s lip curled scornfully. “This is the house,” she said loftily, outraged that a dir
ty child had dared to knock on the front door.
“Don’t the new doctor live here?” asked Annie, bewildered.
“He lives here, but he doesn’t see people here. You have to go to his rooms for that. Round the side. But he’s closed now.” She looked down at the child, but could see that her words hadn’t penetrated. “Come back tomorrow,” she said loudly and slowly, and turned away, adding under her breath, “The cheek of it! Fancy knocking on the front door!”
Annie burst into tears. She hadn’t understood what the lady meant and she was nearly ready to collapse. “Please, missus, tell the doctor! He’s got to come! Our Tom’ll die!” she sobbed, clutching at the frilly apron.
The altercation reached the ears of those in the drawing-room. Annabelle excused herself gracefully, came out into the hallway and stared incredulously at the filthy, tear-stained child who was making so much noise. “Get rid of her!” she hissed at the maid.
Before the maid could push Annie out, Jeremy had joined them, having guessed by now that someone else must need his services.
Annie recognised the doctor, eluded the maid’s hands and fairly threw herself at him. “Dr Lewis! It’s our Tom! He’s cut his head open an’ it’s bleedin’ all over t’floor. He won’t wake up. Me dad said to fetch you.” She tugged at his hand. “Oh, please, you’ve got to come an’ save him!”
Ignoring the amusement of his guests and the quivering indignation of his wife, as her social life was ruined for the second time that week, Jeremy led the child, who looked to be in a bad way herself, across to the nearest chair and made her sit down.
“Just sit down there for a moment,” he said kindly but firmly. “We aren’t going anywhere until you’ve calmed down and told me properly what’s wrong.” He looked round. “Ah, Hallam! Could you get me a glass of brandy, please? This child is suffering from shock.”
Annabelle made an inarticulate noise of protest in her throat, but Frederick Hallam, who had wined and dined well, said jovially, “Certainly!” and did as he was asked. His nostrils wrinkled a little at the smell of the child, but Jeremy didn’t appear to have noticed anything wrong.
