by Katie Flynn
Jimmy, dropping the Irishwoman’s first two sheets into the sink and beginning to pump cold water over them, nodded uneasily. If Aunt Huxtable heard he had been discussing her with these friendly but forthright women he would get the thrashing of his life; if she could catch him, that was. Despite himself, Jimmy gave a tight little grin. If living with the Widow Huxtable – lor’, she’d belt him if she heard him call her that! – had taught him anything it had been how to run like the wind, to hide, to stay clear until her fury had worn off, and never to utter a word in her hearing which she could construe as criticism. So he simply nodded at Mrs McTavish’s words and continued to pump until the rinsing sink was full. Then he began to heave the rinsed sheets out of the water and on to the wide wooden draining board, looking round to see if there was a mangle free.
Around him, the women chattered, scrubbed, and helped each other to wring out sheets and straighten the big towels which rich folk sent down for washing. Jimmy let his mind wander to past Christmases, when his mother had been alive – and to her last moments, when he and Mo had gone to the sanatorium and seen her, so white and thin and only able to smile at them, to hold out a slender, blue-veined hand, before her head had fallen sideways on the pillow and blood had gushed . . . but it was no use wishing. He knew she had loved them, had not wanted to leave them. Now there was just Aunt Huxtable, who crowed over having someone else to pay her rent and a nice little sum towards any expenses she might have. He knew she would lie inventively when his father wanted to know where the money was going . . . but that day had not yet come and in the meantime all he could do was make sure he and Mo spent as little time as possible in No. 4 Solomon Court . . . and learned to dodge and run when Aunt Huxtable’s spiteful temper was at its worst.
Mrs McTavish started to wring the worst of the water out of the sheets, and then he helped her to fold the linen and feed it into the maw of the mangle. He quite enjoyed the work, only half listening to the chaff and laughter and letting his thoughts go back to Christmas, only a few days away. Not that it would make much difference to his and Mo’s lives; Aunt Huxtable would see to that. Even if his father sent extra money for the holiday, Jimmy knew he and Mo would never see it.
The Irishwoman’s voice brought Jimmy back to the present. ‘True, ain’t it?’ she said. ‘That woman’s awful quick wit’ a slap or a crack across the legs wit’ a stick.’ Mrs McTavish’s voice was sympathetic, and Jimmy warmed to her. It would be a relief to tell someone of all the mean tricks Aunt Huxtable played on him and his small sister. Promises of food or money if they did her messages or cleaned the house, promises which were never kept; days when he was not allowed out of the house, not even to attend school, because she wanted him to fetch and carry, or to clean the pub on the corner when the landlord was out and would not realise that the two children had done the work for which their ‘aunt’ had been paid. Then there was her scarcely veiled amusement when Jimmy was caned for non-attendance, though it was scarcely his fault since she herself had forbidden him to leave the Court. And he would never forget her spiteful gloating when Mo’s letter to her father, begging him to come home, was destroyed before her six-year-old eyes.
Feena McTavish was looking at him, eyebrows raised, and Jimmy glanced cautiously around him before replying. ‘Yes, she’s hard on me little sister,’ he said, keeping his voice low. ‘I can take it if I have to – though I can run like the wind when she’s close on me heels – but it’s different for Mo. I tell her over and over not to stand her ground – there’s no point in askin’ for trouble – but the kid won’t listen. And that Cyril near on broke her arm last time he were in port. If our da knew . . .’
He stopped speaking. Another woman had entered the wash house. Jimmy sighed. This was their neighbour, Mrs Grimshaw, and Mrs Huxtable’s crony. She was in her forties, with thin greying hair pulled back from a sharp, spiteful face, and the minute she saw Jimmy she burst into speech. ‘Here, jest you let Mrs Mac mangle her own perishin’ sheets! Your aunt said you’d gi’ me a hand if I fed you a morsel, ’cos she were too busy to go cookin’ treats for two kids what give her nothin’ but cheek! So what did you do after eatin’ more’n your fair share of that there meat and tater pie? Lit out, that’s what, so your aunt said to tell you there’d be no Christmas cheer for you unless me laundry was delivered, dry and ironed, afore the holiday. Now what does I find you doin’? Makin’ yourself a nice little sum by givin’ this good lady a hand wi’ her manglin’ while my tablecloths an’ serviettes wait to be scrubbed. I’m tellin’ you . . .’
Jimmy immediately released his hold on the sheets, but the Irishwoman winked at him and jerked a thumb. ‘Leave off, Mrs Grimshaw,’ she said, her voice calm but authoritative. ‘The lad’s not workin’ for money, though I don’t deny I’ll gladly hand out a copper or two for the help he’s give willingly. You find yourself another to do the work . . . which won’t over-burden you, by the looks.’
Jimmy waited for an explosion of wrath from Mrs Grimshaw, but though she mumbled a complaint beneath her breath she said nothing more, merely crossing the puddled floor and dumping her washing – there was, indeed, not much of it – into the nearest unoccupied sink. Jimmy hastily picked up the next sheet and soon he and the Irishwoman were working once more. Jimmy decided that mangling was quite fun, or it was with Mrs McTavish cracking jokes to make him laugh and discussing the forthcoming holiday as though he, too, might get some enjoyment from it. She did not say a lot whilst Mrs Grimshaw was within hearing, but as soon as the sharp-faced woman had gone she began to talk freely once more.
‘You and your little sister will have some Christmas cheer, don’t you worry, for your pa’s bound to send a bit extry, a few little t’ings for his kids,’ she observed. ‘Tell you what, young feller; I’ll nip round to number four and put a word in. I reckon you’d rather I did that than paid you a few coppers for your help.’
Jimmy smiled politely, but wished he dared remind Mrs McTavish of the existence of Aunt Huxtable’s grown-up son. He, Jimmy, could outrun Mrs Huxtable, but he had suffered many times at Cyril’s hands. Last time he had come back he had accused Jimmy of some small sin, and when Jimmy had shot out of the house had grabbed Mo, dragged her to the door and bellowed out that if Jimmy didn’t return at once he’d break her perishing arm for her. Jimmy knew that if challenged Cyril would say he had been joking, just teasing the kid to keep him in line, but Jimmy had seen his sister’s face drain of colour as her small arm was forced up her back and he had returned at once, saying nothing when Cyril had hauled him into the kitchen and Aunt Huxtable had slashed his legs with the stick she kept handy by the kitchen fire.
But it was pointless worrying about Cyril, so Jimmy thanked Mrs McTavish but said that he hoped his pa might actually come home this year. The Irishwoman looked a little doubtful, but she said nothing more on the subject and the two continued to work in harmony.
An hour later, when Mrs Huxtable’s linen was dry enough to iron, Jimmy tucked the money she had given him into the pocket of his patched trousers. Then he ventured out of the wash house and looked doubtfully up at the darkened sky. The sleet had eased and lazy flakes of snow fell from the lowering clouds, but Jimmy hated the thought of returning to No. 4 without so much as glancing at the stalls on Great Homer Street. He had done the washing in record time, thanks to the kindly Irishwoman, so there could be no harm in a quick look at the second-hand stalls, where he might find some small gift for Mo which he could now afford to buy with the money Mrs McTavish had given him.
He glanced left and right, hesitated, and turned towards Great Homer Street. As soon as he reached the brightly lit stalls he headed for one where he knew from past experience that amongst the second-hand clothing small toys could sometimes be found. He was just examining a little dog with a torn ear when the stallholder addressed him. ‘Hello there, young Jimmy! Lookin’ for a gift for that pretty little sister of yourn?’ Harry Theaker, who Jimmy’s mother had always maintained paid a fair price for anything she
brought in, and had frequently employed Jimmy to help on the stall, shivered expressively. ‘Why the devil they calls this a green Christmas I’ll never bleedin’ well know. Grey, yes, I’d go along wi’ that. Ah well, since you’re here you can gi’ me a hand to get me goods stowed away. Are you on? Trade’s terrible, ’cos no one wants to be out in weather like this, so I’m for home.’ He smacked his lips. ‘My old woman come past ten or twenty minutes ago and said she’d have the kettle a-boilin’ and the muffins on the toastin’ fork, so I don’t mean to linger.’
Jimmy beamed at his old friend. ‘Of course I’ll help you. I meant to cut some holly, but I’ve been to the wash house for Aunt Huxtable and it’s too late now. Mebbe I’ll do it tomorrer instead. How much is this little dog? It’s only got half an ear, but you know our Mo, she’ll just love it.’
He held out the little dog as he spoke and Harry Theaker took it from him, cast a look round the stall and sighed deeply. ‘A threepenny joe,’ he said decisively. ‘And if you help me to get packed up before it’s full dark you can have a bag of broken biscuits too; I were goin’ to have ’em for my tea but now it’ll be toasted muffins instead so you might as well eat them up for me. Is that fair?’
‘It’s real good of you, Mr Theaker,’ Jimmy said gratefully, handing over the coins Mrs McTavish had given him and tucking the little dog and the biscuits into the bosom of his ragged shirt. He began to pack the items nearest him into a large tea chest. ‘And don’t you worry. I reckon tomorrow is bound to be better and you’ll sell the rest of your stock.’
Harry Theaker laughed. ‘You’re a cheery little beggar,’ he said jovially. ‘And ain’t you lucky young Mo weren’t with you to see you buy that dog? Come to think of it, where is she?’
Jimmy thought that Mo was unlikely to have gone back into No. 4, because she was still in Aunt Huxtable’s bad books. Some days before, Mrs Huxtable had been chatting to one of the neighbours as Mo descended the front steps and the woman had smiled at the small girl and said, ‘Ain’t you the lucky one? Your aunt’s put money down to buy a nice fat chicken for your Christmas dinner. Ain’t she a queen, Mo?’
‘Yes, she is. I heared Mrs Carruthers what lives up the other end of the Court say she’s the queen of liars,’ Mo had said innocently. ‘She said she has a new lie for every day of the week.’
It might not have been so bad if the other woman had not laughed, but laugh she did, for Aunt Huxtable’s reputation had gone ahead of her. Normally Mo would have got a whipping, but because they were in the open with neighbours coming and going it had been passed off as a joke, albeit in rather bad taste. Mo had been shaken, slapped and sent supperless to bed, and she was still wary in Aunt Huxtable’s presence.
So now Jimmy grinned at the older man. ‘Playin’ shop in the Latimers’ woodshed,’ he said, continuing to pack Harry’s stock neatly away. ‘Are you going to collapse the stall? Only it looks as though it might rain again later.’
His companion shook his head. ‘No point, me laddo,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back here bright an’ early settin’ up shop, so I just cover the top with this here tarpaulin and I’m ready to start tradin’ as soon as customers appear.’
‘Right,’ Jimmy said briskly, and very soon he was bidding Mr Theaker goodbye and setting off for the Court.
As he walked he began to wonder whether there really was any chance of his father’s returning for the holiday. It had been more than a year since his mother’s death, and though most folk were too tactful to remark on Mr Trewin’s absence Jimmy knew that there were mutterings from kindly folk in the Court, who saw how Mrs Huxtable treated them and knew that their father would be horrified if he knew one half of what went on. Naturally enough Jimmy and Mo agreed with their well-wishers, for they yearned for their father’s return and could not understand why he had left them for so long. Jimmy told Mo constantly that Dad loved them both and would come home one day and take them away from Mrs Huxtable, but recently he had overheard something which at least partially explained why he had not yet done so.
Jimmy had been queuing at the big brass water tap at the end of the Court with two empty buckets to fill, trying to think how he could get a letter to his father when he had no idea which ship he was on, when he suddenly heard a neighbour ahead of him in the queue mention his name.
‘You know young Jimmy Trewin’s pa haven’t been home not once since his wife died? Did you know her?’
Her companion had shrugged, looking puzzled. ‘I dunno. What did she look like?’
The neighbour sighed. ‘She had wonderful ash blonde hair soft as a dandelion clock, big blue eyes and a rare lovely complexion, though as she got worse the colour faded from her cheeks and left her very pale.’
The other woman pulled a doubtful face. ‘There’s a kid round here what’s got ash blonde curls,’ she said, and Jimmy saw her friend nod.
‘That’s why we reckon he won’t come back no matter what, ’cos he worshipped that Grace and just the sight of the little ’un brings his loss back.’
Jimmy had broken away from the queue with a mumbled excuse. He needed to think. It had never occurred to him that Mo was like anyone but herself, but now he realised the truth of the woman’s statement. Mo was the image of their dead mother, in colouring at least. He thought the resemblance ended there, but could not help despising his father for staying away when he must know how their mother would have reproached him for his behaviour.
But right now, with the toy dog and the biscuits tucked away safely in his shirt, Jimmy decided there was nothing he could do about it, so there was no point in worrying. He was just thinking that if the weather was better the following day he would get Mo to help him cut holly when he saw her small figure tearing along the wet pavement as though the devil himself was on her heels. He guessed she was heading for the wash house to help him carry the laundry home, and stepped out in the middle of the pavement to bar her way.
Far from turning to accompany him back to Solomon Court and asking how his day had gone, however, she tore herself free from his arms, grabbed his hand and began to hustle him back the way he had come. Jimmy protested, reminding Mo that he had to deliver the old girl’s washing so that she could iron the tablecloths and napkins damp and finish off the drying process by spreading them on the old wooden clothes horse before the fire. But Mo interrupted him, tugging as hard as she could on his arm, and Jimmy saw that her eyes were dilated with fear and she was trembling.
‘What’s up?’ Jimmy said, turning at his sister’s imperious pulling. ‘You in Aunt Huxtable’s bad books again? We’ve no need to go back to the wash house; Mrs McTavish has given me a hand and the stuff’s just the way it should be, so you can stop worryin’. It’s all done, right and tight, so let’s go home and see what the old devil’s got us for tea.’
Glancing down at his sister, he realised that Mo was not wet through; even her pale curls were dry and fluffy, so whatever the reason for her flight along the road it was something which had only just happened. ‘Don’t say Mrs Latimer were cross because you and Nelly were playin’ in the woodshed? If so, I’ll have a word . . .’ He glanced up at the sky. ‘Only I reckon there’s more rain and sleet up there, just waitin’ to come tumblin’ down and drench us to the skin. We ought to get back to Solomon Court just as soon as we can.’
Mo pulled him to a halt as a few feathery flakes floated down to land on her crisp curls. ‘I can’t go back to Solomon Court ever,’ she said mournfully. ‘Oh, Jimmy, I never meant to do it, but I’ve been and gone and killed Cyril, and everyone’s after me!’
Chapter 2
JIMMY STARED AT his small sister, his mouth dropping open. ‘You couldn’t kill a great hefty bloke like Cyril Huxtable; I expect you just frightened him,’ he said at last, though he continued to let Mo pull him back along Scotland Road. ‘Tell me what happened and I’ll see what we must do, only first we’d best get into some shelter because it’s going to snow again any minute.’ He made for Harry Theaker’s stall, and he and Mo cr
awled under the canvas covering and made themselves quite a little nest by half emptying a tea chest of clothing, squeezing into it and pulling the displaced clothing in after them.
‘Go on, fire ahead,’ Jimmy said as they settled themselves, and Mo, nothing loth, began to speak. Cyril’s ship had docked and as was his habit he had gone straight to the nearest pub and drunk nearly all his wages away. Then he had returned to No. 4, so sozzled that he had not even seen Mo curled up in her favourite spot on the hearth rug within the enclosing arms of the clothes horse upon which Mrs Huxtable had spread various articles of clothing. Mo had taken into her little refuge a sack of sprouts which Mrs Huxtable had given her to clean before she sold them to the neighbours for their Christmas dinners. Warmed by the fire, knowing she was well hidden, Mo did not worry when she heard Cyril Huxtable come stumbling across the kitchen. She saw that he had a bottle of rum in one hand and what looked like a parcel in the other. He dragged a chair up to the fire, muttering imprecations as to what he would do to anyone who interfered with him, and proceeded to tear the parcel open. It was well protected by several layers of brown paper, and as one of them fluttered to the floor Mo saw her own name and thought it might be a Christmas present from her father. Not that it really mattered, Mo reminded herself ruefully, because Cyril would simply take the contents of the parcel down the road, either to the nearest pawn shop or to one of the stalls on Paddy’s Market, and sell the contents for whatever he could get.
