Down Weaver's Lane

by Anna Jacobs

  There’s got to be something I can do about this, he thought when he was alone again, then gave his head an angry little shake and forced himself to concentrate on his work. His elderly assistant would be back soon with the reply to an important message because old Mr Rishmore didn’t trust the mails. And Isaac wasn’t paid to sit here and worry about family matters.

  But he’d keep his wife and daughters well away from his sister and niece, he definitely would.

  A few weeks after her arrival in Northby Emmy walked slowly up Weavers Lane. She loved the part near the town centre, where the nicer houses began, and especially the area beyond the church where the rich people’s houses were. Here lived the lawyer, the owner of the bank and some of the owners of various businesses, though the shopkeepers, of course, lived over their shops. The largest house of all, Mr Rishmore’s Mill House, was set a little beyond the others where the road sloped upwards, commanding an excellent view of the long narrow valley that sloped down from east to west.

  She liked to linger outside the houses to watch what was happening: gardeners tending flowers and lawns, maids coming out of side doors to shake rugs, boys delivering things. Didn’t rich people have to go to the shops? she wondered. She had never lived so close to them before and envied the little girls from one house who wore pretty clothes and went out walking on fine afternoons accompanied by a lady dressed all in dark colours with a severe expression on her face. Imagine having clothes so nice, and dainty shoes that were all glossy with polish!

  She was bored and wished she had more to do. For all his promises George hadn’t found her a job yet - well, not one that her mother approved of - and Emmy was finding time hanging heavy on her hands. In Manchester she had known their neighbours, done little errands for them, earning a penny or two most days, been able to walk for miles watching the world. Here, you could walk from one end of the town to the other in ten minutes and people regarded her with suspicion. Some women drew their skirts aside as she passed, so they must know who her mother was already.

  She was feeling weary today because it was like the bad times when she was younger. Now she had to sit outside their room on the stairs at night while her mother had men in to visit her. Sometimes it was George himself, but other times it was strangers, some of them quite well dressed and very furtive, hiding their faces behind their hats as they passed her. Others were drunk, falling over their own feet and making a lot of noise.

  Her mother said nothing about these men, but she looked unhappy most of the time now. Emmy had tried to persuade her to go back to Manchester, but all she would say was, ‘There’s no going back, lovie. There never is.’

  As she walked home Emmy saw an older lady come out of one of the cottages, a funny little place that had been crammed in between two others and always looked slightly crooked. The lady looked pale, as if she had been ill, but she smiled at Emmy so the child slowed down and offered her a tentative smile in return.

  ‘It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?’ The lady turned her face up to the warmth of the sun.

  Emmy stopped walking. ‘It is. An’ your garden’s lovely, too, missus.’ It was a tiny patch of ground, but it was crammed with flowers and Emmy often stopped to admire it. She had thought the lady old, but now realised she was only a bit older than her mother, but very frail-looking.

  The lady nodded, her eyes lingering on the flowers, then she sighed. ‘It’s getting too much for me. I can’t bend down properly any more.’

  ‘I could help you with it if you’d show me how,’ Emmy offered. ‘I’ve got nothing else to do an’ I like flowers.’

  ‘Do you know anything about gardening?’

  ‘No, missus, but you could sit on the step and tell me what to do, couldn’t you?’

  After a pause the lady nodded. ‘Why not? But you must let me pay you for your toil, child.’ She could see that the girl was poor, with much-mended clothes, so even the few pence she could spare would help, she was sure.

  The woman next door looked over the low stone wall dividing the gardens from one another and clicked her tongue in annoyance at the sight of Emmy. ‘Get away from here, you!’ she shouted, flapping one hand.

  Tears filled Emmy’s eyes and the little bubble of hope burst, but she turned away obediently.

  ‘No, wait a minute, child!’ the lady called.

  The woman next door began to whisper to her, gesturing towards Emmy with many frowns and shakes of the head.

  When she had finished speaking she scowled at the child while the kind lady stood thinking. Emmy waited, hardly daring to breathe. Would she be allowed to stay? To work in this pretty garden? To learn how to grow flowers?

  ‘I think I’ll make my own judgement, Hessie, thank you. The child isn’t to blame for what her mother does.’ Again the lady beckoned to Emmy. ‘Come in and tell me about yourself, dear.’

  Hope began to bloom again as Emmy followed her inside. The door led straight into a little sitting room that was just like her best dreams. It had a wooden floor, shiny with polish, and a neat rug in front of the fireplace, though there was no fire lit on this warm spring day. There were curtains at the window and ornaments on the mantelpiece, with a rocking chair and a sofa set temptingly to either side.

  ‘Eeh, it’s lovely in here!’ Emmy exclaimed.

  The lady looked round as if she’d never seen it before. ‘I suppose so. I’m used to bigger places, but this will have to do me now. Come into the kitchen and we’ll have a cup of tea together, shall we?’

  So Emmy sat down at the table while the lady fussed to and fro, brewing the tea in a pretty china teapot and serving it in china cups with matching saucers. She brought out some scones, too, and set butter and jam in front of Emmy with a simple, ‘You look hungry, child.’

  Daintily, remembering the fancy table manners her mother sometimes insisted on and at other times forgot, Emmy ate a scone and drank some tea. When the lady crumbled her own scone and didn’t eat much, Emmy said earnestly, ‘You should eat it all up, missus. You look like you’ve been ill.’

  ‘I have, but I don’t have any appetite.’ She sighed and stared into the distance for a minute or two then looked back at her young visitor. ‘So, tell me about yourself, child. What’s your name?’

  ‘Emmy Carter.’ She took a deep breath, because it was better to be sent away now than to get used to coming to this lovely place and then have that treat suddenly taken away from her. ‘And your neighbour’s right, missus. My mother isn’t - she isn’t respectable. She works in the alehouse and - and men come to visit her.’ Emmy stared down at her plate, waiting for the harsh words that would send her out of this little paradise.

  ‘You poor child.’

  Emmy raised her eyes, saw only kindness and burst into tears. She found herself gathered into her kind hostess’s arms, shushed and rocked as she wept out her frustration and unhappiness with her life in Northby. When the tears stopped flowing, she was presented with a white handkerchief, neatly folded.

  ‘I’ll dirty it.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. It’ll wash.’

  Emmy applied it to her eyes and cheeks, enjoyed the soft smooth feel of the fine cotton against her skin, then blew her nose on it. ‘I don’t usually cry. It doesn’t do no good.’

  ‘No. I don’t usually cry, either.’

  ‘What have you to cry about, missus?’

  ‘My name is Tibby Oswald. My family used to call me Matilda - you may call me Mrs Tibby. My husband lost most of our money and when he died I had to leave my pretty house near the church and come to live here. I miss James very much and I miss my big garden and house, too. I had servants then, but there’s just me now.’

  Emmy stared at her. ‘Well, I think this house is lovely an’ if I lived somewhere like this I’d be happy as anything. Me and my mother only have one room and when the men come, I have to sit outside on the stairs till they’ve finished.’

  ‘Lord, I thank you for bringing me this child, to show me how lucky I am,’ Tibby murmur
ed. She closed her eyes for a moment then looked at Emmy. ‘I’m in need of some help around the house as well as the garden. You’re right, I have been ill. Are you in need of regular work? I’ll pay you for it, though I can’t give you much, I’m afraid. How old are you?’

  Emmy wriggled and looked over her shoulder before whispering, ‘I’m thirteen going on fourteen, but my mother says it’s better to tell people I’m only ten.’

  Tibby considered this for a moment, eyes half-closed, then decided that if the mother was trying to protect the child, she could not be all bad. She smiled at Emmy, who was watching her anxiously. ‘So - would you like to come and work for me?’

  ‘Oh, I’d love to, Mrs Tibby. I’m a good worker. Everyone says so. But I’ll have to ask my mother.’

  ‘Ask her to come and see me, will you? Though she’d better use the back door or my neighbours will be scandalised.’

  Emmy nodded and gave her a beaming smile. ‘I’d really like to work for you, Mrs Tibby.’

  When her mother came home, George was with her, so Emmy grabbed her blanket and went to sit on the stairs. But her mother and George were quarrelling not going to bed together, so she crept closer to the door to listen to what they were saying.

  ‘I’m not having Emmy working at the alehouse, George, and that’s flat. I’d rather go back to Manchester.’

  There was the dull sound of a thump and a cry of pain from Madge.

  ‘You’ll do as I tell you,’ he shouted.

  Emmy bit her forefinger hard. She knew better than to interrupt. It’d do no good. But she hated it when anyone hurt her mother.

  ‘I’ll do as you say about everything else, but not about Emmy. I mean it.’ The last words were shrieked and there was the sound of a chair falling over.

  A thud and a yelp showed that George had hit her mother again. The girl put both hands in front of her mouth to hold back her sobs. George was a big man. But if he got his way about Emmy working for him in the alehouse, she’d run away, much as she’d hate to leave her mother. She was sure she could find her way back to Manchester and ask the ladies at the Mission to help her, but she didn’t really want to leave now that she’d had such a wonderful opportunity offered her. She set her ear to the door again.

  ‘You haven’t the money to get back to Manchester,’ George sneered. ‘Think I don’t know how much you spend on gin?’

  ‘I’ve only to go to my brother and he’ll pay me to leave Northby.’

  There was the sound of footsteps dodging around the floor and then more furniture being knocked over and her mother’s voice, shrill with fear, ‘I won’t change my mind about this, George, not if you beat me to death I won’t.’

  There was dead silence for a minute or two, then he said more quietly, ‘Look, you know she could make us a fortune later if we handle her right. I want her somewhere I can keep an eye on her. Men are looking at her already. I don’t want anyone spoiling her for my better customers.’

  ‘I’m not having her going into this sort of work, George. Never.’

  More silence. Emmy sat with her shoulders hunched and her arms tightly clasped around her knees, fear shivering through her.

  ‘Look,’ Madge said in a soft, persuasive voice, ‘let me find her a job somewhere she’ll be safe. I’m sure I’ll be able to come up with something.’ Her laughter was suddenly very harsh. ‘Believe me, no one is going to take more care that my daughter stays away from the lads than I am.’

  ‘You’d better, you daft bitch. You’ve got something worth good money in that child.’

  ‘Leave it till later, George. She’s too young yet.’

  ‘Ah, have it your own way. But make sure you keep her safe. I’m not having her giving it away for nothing.’

  ‘I knew you’d see it my way. Ah, don’t frown at me like that, my lovie. Come to bed. I haven’t been with anyone else tonight. Let’s enjoy one another a bit. There’s no one gives me pleasure in bed like you do ...’

  Emmy sat hunched in a tight ball, listening to the familiar sounds of a man’s pleasure, hating this life.

  When the noises showed that George was getting ready to leave the girl went along the landing towards the rear, playing shadows again. She waited in the darkness till he’d clumped down the stairs. Only after the front door had banged shut and his footsteps faded away into the distance did she go back into their room, where she found her mother lying on the bed staring out at the moon.

  Madge didn’t even turn her head. ‘Is that you, Emmy?’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’

  ‘Lock the door, lovie. We don’t want anyone else disturbing us tonight.’ She sat up and reached for her wrapper. ‘We need to talk, you and I.’

  Emmy went to pick up one of the fallen chairs and sit on it. ‘I heard what you were saying to George. I won’t work for him, not in that way. I won’t do that sort of thing for anyone, not even if you ask me, Mother.’

  Madge’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I wouldn’t ask you to. That’s why I said you were only ten. Things are different for those who have a rich man to look after them, but I never found anyone who wanted me for a regular mistress.’ She sighed.

  ‘But saying I’m ten will only put George off for a while. He hasn’t given up, you know. And you said “later”,’ Emmy finished accusingly.

  ‘That was just to buy us some time. If we can find you a job somewhere safe, we’ve got a year or two before we need worry and by then I’ll have thought of something else. It’s a good thing you’re not a big strapping girl.’ Madge began to pace up and down the room, her voice low, her expression distraught. Several times she paused to take a sip of gin, pouring it carefully into the glass she always insisted on.

  Once she stopped to say in anguished tones, ‘I didn’t mean to bring you to this, lovie. Oh, if only your father had lived!’

  She wept a little, then in one of her lightning changes of mood, dashed away the tears. ‘No use getting maudlin, is it?’ She went to pour herself another gin, saying coaxingly, ‘Just to warm my bones, lovie. Then we’ll think about finding you a job somewhere safe.’

  When Emmy went to sit beside her on the bed, her mother put an arm round her, so they were cuddling close. Emmy loved these rare moments when her mother showed her love. ‘I’ve already got an offer of a job,’ she said.

  ‘What?’ Madge grasped her daughter’s arm tightly. ‘What have you been doing? Who is this with?’

  ‘It’s the lady who lives in that crooked cottage just before the bend. Mrs Oswald her name is, only she says I’m to call her Mrs Tibby. She’s been ill and needs help in the house and garden.’

  ‘A maid’s job? Mmm, that might do for a while. Is she a lady or a rough sort?’

  ‘A lady. Her husband died. He lost most of their money, she said.’

  Madge nodded slowly and thoughtfully. ‘Yes, that might do it. They like to keep their maids respectable, ladies do. How much is she offering?’

  ‘She didn’t say, wants you to go and see her. And she says to use the back gate.’

  Madge grinned. ‘She’s definitely respectable, then. Ah, don’t look like that. I don’t mind using the back entrance. I’ll go and see her tomorrow morning. Wake me early. We’ll wash our hair. We want to make a good impression, don’t we?’ She yawned. ‘You’d better get to sleep now, lovie.’

  ‘Aren’t you coming to bed?’

  ‘No, I’ll just sit and have a think. I’m not tired.’

  Which meant, Emmy knew, that her mother intended to drink the rest of the bottle. And it was no use trying to stop her because that only made her worse. So Emmy took off her top clothes and lay down on the bed in her shift, sure she’d have trouble falling asleep, but waking to find that it was light and that her mother was snoring on the pillow next to her.

  3

  June-July 1826

  Lena Butterfield was furious when she found out that Isaac’s sister had returned to Northby to shame them. She was so furious she forgot to guard her tongue and as a result
their two daughters heard every word of their parents’ quarrel. Well, there had been rather a lot quarrels in the past year or two, and they’d learned to tread carefully around their mother’s chancy temper.

  Lal, who was thirteen and considered herself almost a woman, listened shamelessly at the door, even though Dinah, who at eleven was definitely still a child, tugged at her arm and tried to persuade her to come away. In the end Lal cracked her sister about the ears, Dinah set up a loud squalling and their parents came rushing to see what was wrong.

  ‘We couldn’t help overhearing what you were saying,’ Lal said when Dinah had been calmed down. ‘I thought your sister was dead, Father.’

  ‘I wish she was!’ Lena declared. ‘The woman’s come back to ruin us.’ She went to put an arm round each of her daughters and stare accusingly at her husband. ‘And how I’m ever going to hold my head up again in this town, I don’t know. No one will speak to me when they find out what she’s turned into. No one!’ She burst into loud, angry sobbing.

  Dinah at once began crying again but Lal turned to her father. ‘What are you going to do about it?’ she demanded, hands on hips and square chin jutting out.

  It was his wife he spoke to. ‘I’ll go and see Madge, offer her money to go away.’

  Lena’s tears stopped instantly. ‘You’ll not give that harlot a penny of our money. My dowry money wasn’t meant for such as her. I wouldn’t give her a farthing, even if she were starving!’

  ‘But, my dear, how else can I persuade her to leave?’

  ‘You must go and see old Mr Rishmore. He’s a magistrate. Tell him to have her arrested and put in the house of correction. She’s a woman of low morals, isn’t she? She’d feel at home there.’