by Mary Wood
‘Won’t you come back in, Bridie? I have something I want to tell you.’ The bottle he’d had to his lips for most of the last hour had only a quarter of the good Irish whisky left in it. ‘Haven’t I been occupied with your mammy being so ill this last year that I’ve had no time with you. Is it sixteen you are already?’
He swigged the neat whisky. The boat lurched. His unsteady feet, no match for the movement, caused his body to hurtle towards her. His hand reached out and clasped her breast. Alcohol breath fanned her face.
‘Bridie – me own Bridie.’
‘Pappy, don’t . . .’
He removed his hand. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . . I couldn’t steady meself, Bridie. Bridie, will you listen? I’m sorry to the heart of me, I am.’
His touching of her hadn’t been an accident and the trepidation she felt wasn’t a new feeling. ‘You should stop taking the whisky.’
The bottle whipped past her. Liquid splashed her face. ‘Why do you look at your pappy in such a way, Bridie? Is it contempt you hold for me? I tell you I’ll have none of it.’
She edged backwards.
‘You will do as your pappy bids and come inside.’ His hand caught her arm. Resistance proved futile, and he pulled her inside the cabin. ‘I have things I must say to you.’
Leaning against the cabin wall, she stared at him. He didn’t seem the same. His dealings with her had changed a few months ago. He’d said things, made remarks she didn’t think he should be making to her, or in her presence. He would hold her too close and for too long at times, making her feel uncomfortable.
‘What is it, Pappy? This swell is making me ill. I am better out on the deck. Can you not talk to me out there?’
‘It is about your future. I cannot be sure to be around you all of the time. Things may happen . . .’
‘What things?’
‘I may have to be disappearing, and you will be fending for yourself. So in case I don’t come back for a while, I want you to know there is money . . .’
Mammy had been right, then: he did have money. And she didn’t have to wonder about where it had come from. Nor, as she listened to him, did she have to ask why he had to vanish, as it seemed everyone in Ireland was hunting him down – not least the Fenians – because, as he put it, he’d ‘made a few mistakes’. But then neither did she care, as she waited for him to continue.
‘Your Aunt Jeannie is to take you in. She has always wanted a daughter and will be good to you. I will visit when I can, but in case . . . Well, if it is as I don’t, this is what you must do . . .’
She listened in silence. He told her of a bank in Liverpool where she should go and ask for access to the vaults. He gave her a codeword that only she would know, and assured her that the contents of the box they would give her would be plenty to take care of her every need. Then he staggered across towards her, his speech slurred. ‘Here, this is the key . . .’ A small silver key danced on the end of a pin. ‘Come close, so I can fix it to your vest.’
His hands touched the flesh inside her bodice. He groped around, brushing his knuckles over her cleavage. She stood as still as she could, unsure what to do. Should she protest at the liberty he took? But then, he could just be trying not to prick her skin. Looking into his face decided her. His eyes had clouded over, and his putrid breath came in short pants as though he struggled to get air into his lungs. ‘No, Pappy, leave it. Give it to me to put into my sack.’
His eyes held hers. She pushed his hand away, then extended hers. He gave her the key. A relief entered her as she turned away from him and took the key over to her luggage but, as she slipped it into a small pocket on the side of her bag, she could feel him close to her – too close – and her fear reignited. Before she could move away his hands grabbed her hips. ‘Pappy . . . no . . .’
As she tried to pull away from him, a crashing wave hit the boat. The tilt it caused hurled them both to the floor.
‘Bridie, Bridie . . .’ His lips covered hers. His hands tore at her blouse. Her heart clanged with despair, and her stomach retched bile into her throat. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, don’t let this be happening to me! ‘Pappy . . . Nooo!’
Their struggle caused their bodies to sweat. Bridie’s begging hung in the air unheeded. Clawing at him until her fingers and nails bloodied did nothing to stop the relentless tearing of her clothes. Her name, an ugly chant on his lips, assailed her ears.
By the time the chilled air touched every part of her, he’d positioned himself between her legs. His weight crushed the breath from her, and his free hand fiddled with his buttons.
A stretching pain seared her.
Terror strangled her pleas, but the foul knowledge that her pappy was inside her coiled a strength into her that she’d never possessed before. She arched her back and twisted herself in a movement that dislodged him. Before he could regain his momentum, she scrambled away from him. ‘I hate you. I HATE YOU!’ Snot mingled with her tears as the words rasped from her again and again. ‘I – hate – YOU!’
With each grating, truthful word, his body shrank into the corner opposite her. They stared across the pit of degradation dividing them. Their sobs met somewhere in the middle and echoed off the cabin walls.
Bridie caught her breath as her pappy moved, afraid that he would try again, but his expression didn’t tell of another assault. His arm reached into his case. The pistol he brought out glinted in the shaft of light coming through the porthole.
‘NO – NO!’
The crack resounded around the cabin. His blood slapped every part of her. Her mouth opened, and her eyes seemed to stretch out of their sockets. The mass of burnt flesh where there had been a face she’d once loved became engraved on her soul, as darkness took her into its peace.
4
Will
Sheffield, South Yorkshire, 1875
Thrown into turmoil
William Hadler walked down the street towards his house. The fresh autumn wind whipped around him. At nineteen he had the height and stature of a full-grown man. Years of pit work had contributed to this. He’d started at the age of six as a trapper working twelve-hour shifts, opening and shutting the trap to make sure air circulated along the shaft. Often his candle lasted for only seven of those hours, and the rest of the time complete darkness shrouded him. At the age of ten he’d become a hurrier. Crouched low, he would drag the coal in wheeled buckets by his shoulders through the tiniest of tunnels to reach the stockpile. Now he mined the coal, chipping away at the black wall, dust clogging his mouth and eyes, but it was what his da had done before him, as had his grandda. He knew no other life.
As he approached the turn into his street, Will wondered how his da was. The coughing sickness had taken hold of his lungs and this morning he had called Will over just as he was about to leave the house, saying, ‘Son, a word afore you go.’
Picking up his snap tin and his coat, he’d stopped by his da’s bed, a shake-me-down in the back kitchen next to the fire. His da had taken his hand. ‘Will, I haven’t long. I’m sorry, lad . . .’ A tear had traced a wet path down his da’s cheek. His breath, laboured and rasping, had come in short bursts. ‘Look out for your ma. Never leave her, Will . . .’
‘You know I won’t, Da,’ he’d told him. ‘I’ll see her reet.’ And then, as if their roles had reversed, he’d said, ‘Now stop worrying, and concentrate on getting yourself well.’
Something had compelled Will to kiss the cheek of this man who’d given his all for him. He’d never done that before – hadn’t thought it right for men to do such things – but there had been no protest. His da had given his hand a weak squeeze and closed his eyes.
Now, as he turned into the street, curtains closed and the women standing on their steps went inside without greeting him. The cobbles echoed the sound of his heavy boots. Dread gripped the pit of his stomach.
Across the road from his own house, Florrie Makepiece came out of the shadows. The lass showed an interest in him, but he had no return feeling
for her. It was said she’d open her legs for anyone. He didn’t know if this was true or not, and he didn’t care. He felt sorry for her. She’d had a worse time than the rest of them round here. Most – with the exception of his own family and a few others – lived from hand to mouth, with what came in going on drink, leaving the young ’uns neglected and underfed. This was Florrie’s fate, but on top of that she suffered beatings and abuse at the hand of her da. He called out to her, ‘You alreet, Florrie?’
‘Aye, I’ve no time to talk, but I wanted to say as I’m sorry . . .’
A screeching voice came from within the open door of her house. ‘Florrie, will you get in here afore your da comes home!’ Florrie pulled her shawl over her head, bent over and ran towards him. ‘I’m late, but I’m here for you, if you need help.’
‘Eeh, Florrie, I’ll be fine. You take care.’ His heart, already banging against his ribs, dropped into his stomach. The look of pity Florrie had given him added to the eerie silence hanging in the air around him. It took a moment to move on a few steps to his front door.
A smell like he’d never experienced before hit him as he walked inside. Passing through the front room to the kitchen, he saw a white sheet covering the shape of his da’s body. His ma stood with her back to him, looking out of the window. Sobs shook her shoulders.
‘Ma . . . ?’
As she turned towards him it seemed that her small frame had shrunk into itself. Her sharp blue eyes were rimmed with red from the crying she’d done, and fresh tears still fell down her face. A strong woman with principles that didn’t bend, if she thought others were doing wrong, she now looked broken.
Will took her in his arms. Brushing her grey hair back from her round face, he told her, ‘It’s alreet, Ma, I’m here. When did it happen?’
‘Not long after you left . . .’
‘You mean Da has lain there for more than twelve hours? Have you not sent word for Jackson?’
‘No, I washed him, then covered him. I’ve sat with him since. Maggie came in, but I wouldn’t let her do owt. I wanted you to find him at home.’
‘Reet, let’s get things sorted.’
Sitting down at the table an hour later, Will sipped the hot tea his ma had brewed. Jackson had been and taken the body to the chapel, and Ma looked a lot calmer, though her voice shook when she spoke. ‘I’ve done me grieving this last while, Will, but the thought of you – just a lad, and with no da to take you for your first pint or see you married with a family of your own – broke me.’
‘I know. We knew as it were coming, but things’ll never be the same.’
‘No, but we’ll manage. I have a bit put by in the pot, and you’re bringing in a good whack now you’re mining proper.’
A good whack? The rent for their cottage and the food they needed took up most of what he earned. And his coal allowance only amounted to half what his da’s had been. Even with both lots, they’d struggled to keep the cold at bay last winter.
‘You needn’t start worrying. Like I say, pot’s full and’ll keep us going for a good while. What you tip up will keep it almost topped up, and I’ve sommat else up me sleeve an’ all.’ When he didn’t speak, she said, ‘Timpson at the corner shop is looking to get someone in. He asked me a while back, as his wife’s legs are getting worse, but with things as they were . . . Anyhow, he said he’d hold it for me, and he’s been true to his word. He knows I’ve a bit more about me than most in this row. And honesty is one of the qualities he’s noted about me.’
‘Da wouldn’t have you working. Thou knows that, Ma.’
‘Aye, well, needs must. Drink your tea, lad. We have to pull together to get through. We have no choice.’
‘Reet, but it’s only until I get earning more. That should happen in a couple of years, when I’m twenty-one.’
‘Eeh, your da will never be gone whilst you’re alive, son. You have the look of him, and his ways. He were the better one of the two of us for you to take after, as me nature hasn’t always made me friends.’
Will smiled. He knew she was right. His da had been a gentle man, tolerant of everyone and with never a bad word to say, whereas Ma could slice steel with her tongue at times. He took after his da in looks, too: big-boned, square-faced and dark-skinned. He’d heard that one of his ancestors had come from Italy, but no one knew the real tale of it to tell him. His piercing blue eyes were the only feature he’d taken from his ma. The girls around seemed to find him attractive, and some said the contrast of his eyes with his skin and hair marked him as different. Not that he had much time for them; he’d rather spend his time fishing.
This thought filled his eyes with tears. His da had taught him to fish, taking him out on the rare days they had off together to get some fresh air into his lungs. They’d had some wonderful times. By, he’d miss him. It were like a light had gone out. Mind, it had faded this good while. Oh, Da . . . Da.
‘That Florrie Makepiece has been standing around outside again. I told her to bugger off.’
‘Eeh, Ma, she ain’t a bad lass . . .’
‘I don’t want you tied up with them lot. They’re scum. Now let’s get some food inside of you. I’ve some stew left. It’s boiling away on the stove.’
He knew she’d seen his tears and sought to change the subject, but what she’d said grated on him. ‘They’re no different to us, Ma . . .’
‘No different! Oh, yes, they are. Your da didn’t drink every penny, and your ma keeps a clean house and pays bills up when they need paying. They . . .’
He let her rant on. Tonight was no time to get her going, but he had felt compelled to stand up for Florrie and her ma. It wasn’t their fault their man drank like he did; but then, his ma could forgive that before she could forgive keeping a dirty house. At this moment he felt like going and having some of what Florrie offered. He’d heard tell how good she were at it. Not as though he would know; he’d never yet lain with a woman.
A bang on the door interrupted his thoughts. The sound made his stomach lurch – this wasn’t someone calling with condolences. He opened the door. Light blinded him and the acrid smell of smoke choked him. ‘What . . . ?’
Happy Harry, his trademark smile gone into a mask of horror, stood silhouetted against the glow. ‘Fire . . . Fire . . . The Makepieces’ house; and it’s coming this way.’
Screams cut the air. The shrill sound shuddered through Will.
‘My Florrie! She’s in there! My Florrie!’ Mrs Makepiece slumped to the ground, her blackened face demented and spittle running from her mouth. ‘Help her, help her!’
Will grabbed his coat to shield his head and face. ‘Where is she? Which room?’
One of the women shook her, saying urgently, ‘Front or back, love?’
‘The scullery, hurry! Oh, God . . .’
As he scooted back through his house, Will’s feet slipped on the cobbles in the yard, which were always damp from folk spilling water as they carried it from the well. Florrie’s back door gave in easily under his kick. Flames balled out, encasing him in searing heat. He fell back. Icy-cold water hit his body. ‘Get up, lad, get away! You can’t do anything!’
Others had followed him and one of them tried to drag him along the cobbles, but he resisted. The front! He’d have to try to get in through the front. Retracing his steps, he took no heed of his ma’s protests as he passed her in their front room.
Breaking the front window to Florrie’s house released billows of smoke. It stung his throat, but he choked out her name, ‘Florrie? Florrie!’
A pain-filled moan came from the direction of the opposite wall. On the floor a heap of what looked like smouldering clothes moved. Keeping his head below the smoke, he made his way over to it. Now he could see the charred body of Fred Makepiece, but underneath him the source of the sound – Florrie – was trapped by the weight of him.
Pulling the lifeless body off to one side, Will swallowed the bile that was threatening to choke him and lifted Florrie. A million sparks spat from under the
closed door to the scullery. They splattered onto his legs, but his thick work trousers resisted their attempt to reach his skin. From the scene before him, it looked as if Florrie’s da had dragged her into this room and had tried to keep the fire back by closing it off. Will carried Florrie to the window and handed her out, before climbing through himself.
‘You alreet, lad?’
Not knowing who’d asked, he just said, ‘Aye, I’m not hurt.’
‘Reet, grab a bucket. The womenfolk’ll take care of Florrie and her ma. We have to stop it spreading to the other houses, and at the mo it looks like it’s headed towards yours. There’s lads attacking it from the back, and others making a chain from the well and through your house to here.’
The sound of steaming hot tea being slurped by an exhausted, blackened band of men disturbed the otherwise silent street a few hours later. Smoke still billowed from the burnt-out shell of the Makepieces’ home, but no more flames licked the night air. Fred Makepiece’s charred body had almost disintegrated when they’d carried it out.
Someone behind him said, ‘Eeh, and they say as the lass is pregnant an’ all. Happen she’ll lose it after this lot.’
‘Aye, and maybe that’ll be a good thing, but at least she won’t be taking any more beatings. Though Fred did right by her in the end, if what Will thinks happened is reet.’
A quieter voice, a whisper with malice, said, ‘I think we can take it we now know who the father is.’
Will turned just in time to see Barry Watson nod in his direction. Looking around at the rest of the men, he saw them lower their eyes, one by one. His emotions choked him. He couldn’t find his voice to protest. His limbs shook. Turning away from them, he went into the ginnel, a dirt path strewn with rotting rubbish that ran between the rows of houses. The stench of this and the communal bogs brought up the bile he’d swallowed down earlier. Vomit retched from him. When the bout had passed, he walked on unsteady legs a few more paces, trying to stem the huge knot that he held in his chest from breaking. He couldn’t. He stopped and leant against the wall. His body folded, his knees gave way under him and huge sobs racked him.
