by Mary Wood
Oh, God! How the hell am I going to live with someone who seems able to dispense with social graces and make such fools of us both in public!
7
Will
Sheffield, 1875
Rumour is rife
The cage rattled Will’s bones as it descended into the bowels of the earth. As the shaft of brightness from the gas lights in the foyer above disappeared, Will’s cold hands struggled to light his oil lamp. The glow it eventually gave off illuminated a young lad squatting on the floor of the cage. He looked no more than seven years old, but Will knew he must have more years on him than that. Had to, these days, to go down. The movement of the lad’s shoulders told of huge sobs racking his body, but his cloth cap shielded his face from Will.
‘Hey, come on now. Nowt can be as bad as all that.’ Will fished in his pocket for the nub ends of the candles he’d prised out of candlesticks at home. He’d had to do so before his ma caught him, as she liked to melt them down to form new ones. He knew he’d catch a lashing of her tongue, but it was worth it to help young trappers have a little extra time of the dim light they gave off. He’d never forget when he were a lad and did the job they did. Those last few hours of the shift, sitting in the terrifying, impenetrable blackness, still visited him and gave him nightmares. Mind, he’d been younger, but still. ‘Make sure you light the first one just afore your allotted candle gives out, as you’ll not get another chance.’
The lad lifted his tear-stained face. ‘Ta, Mister.’
‘Have you any snap with you?’
‘Naw, me ma had no bread left. She tried to borrow some, but no one would help. She’s allus borrowing and don’t pay back. Not cos she doesn’t want to, mind.’
‘Aye, I know the way of it. I see you have a billycan, so that’s good. Here, take this butty with you, but eke it out. A bite now and again, and ration your water an’ all. Make it last. No good drinking it all and having to go ten hours with nowt, is there?’
The lad nodded. Will could see he had a job enough to swallow his tears back, without trying to answer.
The cage hit the bottom with its usual thud; 6 a.m. and a twelve-hour in front of him. A long time to give to his thoughts, because that’s all he had down here: hard graft and mulling things over. There was never much time for talk. Not that he would welcome any today. This being his first shift since the funeral a few days ago, any conversation would be of condolences or slights about Florrie, and he hadn’t the mind to take either.
It was easy to see how everyone had taken the wrong end of the shovel, by thinking of him as the father of Florrie’s unborn. The evidence stacked up against him: Will always making time to have a word with her, giving her respect, not taking the rise out of her, like the others did; and hadn’t he risked his life to save her? But then, with this last, anyone would have done that, wouldn’t they? In answer to his own question he said to himself, No, they wouldn’t. They were too fond of their own skins to think of anyone else’s.
Mind, he’d have to talk to Florrie as soon as he could. Get her to tell truth of it all. Because if he let it go on, he might find himself landed with her and what she carried, and he’d not want that to happen.
There she was, as had happened on too many occasions of late, standing in the shadows, waiting for him to come home. It hadn’t been so obvious before. But now, with her house gone and she and her ma living with Florrie’s gran a couple of streets away, she had no other reason for being here. Will kept his head down and avoided looking at her as he passed her by.
‘Will, can I have a word?’
‘Florrie, you’ve got to leave me alone. You know what’s being said.’
‘I don’t know who else to turn to . . .’ ‘Well, I’m sorry for you, lass, but I can’t do anything, and I’d be glad if you’d put folk reet. You know what’s in your belly ain’t got nothing to do with me. If you thought of me as you say you do, you’d make sure as others knew it an’ all. What if it got to me ma, and her only just having buried me da? I’m asking you now, Florrie, put the story straight. You know what will happen if I try to and you haven’t spoken up: folk’ll say as I’m a rat who shirks his responsibilities.’ ‘I know, Will, but I daresn’t say. He’d kill me . . .’ ‘Who? Tell me who he is and I’ll have a word with him.’ ‘You can’t, Will. You’re no match for him.’ ‘So where do we go from here? Couldn’t you just tell folk as you’re not saying who the father is, but you will say it ain’t me?’
‘I’m desperate, Will. We’ve got no money, nor fuel to light a fire at me gran’s. We all went without food yesterday and the day before; we only had a bit of stew. Ma made it from scrounging in the waste tip for the outside cabbage leaves and potato peelings as folk’d discarded. At least when me da was here we had our free coal and we could keep gran’s fire going with some of it. And, well, I had me earnings to help out, but that’s stopped now. Bruiser won’t help me, now me belly’s up.’
Something in her look as she said this last gave him the thought that Bruiser could be the one she daren’t tell of. He knew she’d worked on the game for him. ‘Look, I could help you out with some coal, and I could ask me ma to bake you a pie now and then, but only if you tell the truth. Cos me helping you would only add fuel to an already blazing bonfire of rumours, and I’d be down as the father for sure.’
‘I . . . I could make you happy . . .’
‘No! No, Florrie, and I mean it. I don’t want to marry you and I won’t; nor do I want anything else you have a mind to offer. Now think on. Take me help in the only way I’m willing to give it, or not. It’s up to you.’
‘There is another way as you could help me . . . Will, please.’
He had turned to leave her, but the sob in her voice made him look back. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
She didn’t have an unattractive face, but one ravaged by time and trouble. It gave her years beyond her age. As he stepped back towards Florrie and met her gaze, he saw in the dull darkness of her eyes a glimmer of hope as she stared up at him. Now closer, he could see she still had faint bruises on her cheeks – a legacy of what had happened to her at her da’s hands just before the fire. Around her thin lips and neat little nose, red sores told of her many hours out in the cold wind.
‘What is it? I’ll do all I can.’
‘I know this woman, only she charges a lot and I haven’t the money.’
‘What does she charge for?’
‘She gets rid of it . . .’
This shocked him. He’d not heard of such a thing before. How? But then, he didn’t really want to know. It sounded horrific. ‘You mean, kill your babby?’
‘No, it ain’t killing. It ain’t formed a proper babby yet. I’ve only just missed . . . I mean, it ain’t even sure. Folk know cos me ma had a go at me, and then me da heard and he went mad and said sommat in the pub when he’d had a few.’
‘You mean you’ve put me through all this and you’re not even sure if you’re pregnant or not? God, Florrie, you take the coal and the bucket with it. You have no right to stand aside whilst I suffer, and if it gets to me ma . . . Look, I’ve allus had you down as decent at heart, and as the stuff you do for money is cos you’ve no choice. But you do have a choice in this, Florrie, you do. And me offer still stands: clear me name and I’ll help you in any way I can.’
As he went to turn away, he saw a couple of the neighbours’ curtains drop back into place, and knew the fact that he’d been talking to Florrie again would be round all the houses by morning.
The houses in this street were two-up, two-down terraced properties. They stood in rows divided by narrow cobbled roads, the width of which only just accommodated the drays loaded with their weekly supply of coal or ale for the pub. Or, of course, the more unpleasant night-soil cart, which carried away the contents of the sewage pits under the shared bog-houses in the back yards.
The smoke belching out of the chimneys of the steel works, the silver-plate factories, the iron works and the mines had blackened the br
icks and hung in the almost daily morning fog like a cloud of doom. They called Sheffield a prosperous town, but no one would guess that to look at it.
Its people had plenty of work, but they were profit-makers for others and saw little of the wealth generated. A proud lot, they had their own class system. Miners came a long way down the pecking order, but they stood by each other, and though they looked down on Florrie they still classed her as one of their own. Some said she deserved her lot – especially those whose husbands had been tempted. Others said her circumstances had led her astray. And they all had an opinion on who they thought responsible for her present predicament, and Will knew most had him down for it.
Florrie called his name again, but his ma opened the front door of their house and stopped him having to respond. ‘Are you coming in, lad? Uncle Fred’s here.’ She stood just inside the door to let him pass, then moved her body into the open doorway. ‘Get yourself away, you, and leave me lad alone. You’re not fit to lick the soles of his boots. And don’t let me see you round . . .’
‘Ma! Ma, close the door and shut your mouth.’
‘What . . . ?’
‘Now then, lad, there’s no need to talk to your mother like that. She has enough on her plate.’ Uncle Fred had come through from the back kitchen. Will felt the shame of his words redden his cheeks. He’d never before spoken to his ma in such a way, and to do so at a time like this. ‘I’m sorry, Ma. I just don’t know what came over me.’
‘No, I don’t suppose you do, but to embarrass me like that. And she must have heard. She’ll think you stood up for her against your own moth—’
‘Leave it, Janet. You can see as the lad is upset, and if that’s his young lady, I can understand why.’
‘She’s not, nor will be whilst I’m alive. She’s a whore. She sells it to anybody, but somehow she seems to want Will. I can’t stand by and let that happen.’
Will cringed inside. To think Uncle Fred had to listen to this. A defence of Florrie came to him, but he didn’t voice it. Doing so would only fuel the awful situation. He’d talk it over with his uncle when his ma wasn’t around. Perhaps he’d even find Uncle Fred could help with what to do about it all. Not that he wanted to burden him, but he had no one else he could confide in.
A bigger version of his da, but much younger, Uncle Fred extended his hand towards him. Will took it and found comfort in his words. ‘I understand, and I’m here for you, lad.’ This eased some of the pain he had in his chest for his da. ‘Now then, Will, it goes without saying how devastated I was to hear of our John passing over.’ He pulled a large white hanky from his pocket and wiped his eyes. His voice, though still Yorkshire-sounding, had a hint of the throatiness of the Liverpool dialect. This didn’t surprise Will, as Uncle Fred had lived and worked as a fisherman there for as long as he could remember. His da had always spoken of going sea-fishing one of these days, and always talked with envy of his ‘little brother’, as he’d called Fred, who’d made something different of himself than following the family tradition.
Ma had gone into the back kitchen muttering something about making a brew. He could see that she seethed with hurt, but still he felt it best not to pursue things. Instead he thought to engage his uncle in conversation to try to ease the atmosphere. ‘Thanks. It’s nice to see you, Uncle. How long are you staying?’
‘A few days. I wanted to see for meself you were both sorted. I’m sorry I missed the funeral. I didn’t get your ma’s letter until a couple of days ago.’
‘We guessed that was it, but we couldn’t wait, in case you were away on a long trip. But don’t worry about us. We’ll be reet. Ma’s took it on herself to go out to work. I don’t like the idea, but we will need the extra.’
‘Well, maybe it’ll do her good. It’s been a long time since she did anything outside these four walls, what with tending to your da. What about you, Will? Are you still happy down pit?’
‘I wouldn’t call it happy . . . but there’s nothing else I know.’
‘It’d not take me long to teach you the ropes of sea-fishing. I’ve a new boat now and could do with a hand.’
‘I couldn’t uproot her, and I couldn’t leave her, either.’
‘Well, how about next time you’re off? You come up and enjoy some leisure fishing with me.’
Will said he’d like to. At this his Uncle Fred went on to tell him all about his boat and his work.
‘It sounds grand. Me da allus spoke of coming to see you. I’ll do it for him. I’ll check tomorrow when I’ve next got a couple of days between shifts . . .’
‘Reet, enough of that talk, Fred.’ Janet came back into the room. ‘Will won’t be going anywhere for a while. I need him here with me. He has responsibilities towards me now, him being the head of the house, so to speak.’
‘Naw, Ma, you’re still head of the house.’
‘Not according to Fenshaw. He came round this morning and told me not to worry. With you working at pit, they’d not put me out. They’d just put the house in your name.’
Will seethed inside. Of all the rotten things for the miners’ housing and welfare officer to do to her, and her only just widowed. Yes, he knew the rule that these houses were for miners and their families only, and he shuddered to think what would have happened to them both if he’d not been a miner . . . Still, that was a road he’d not go down. It hadn’t happened, and there was plenty to occupy his mind that had.
8
Bridie
Leeds, 1875
A hope dashed
The brambles of the bare fruit bushes ripped at the skin on Bridie’s hand as she pulled them apart and pruned them back. The pain added to that caused by the blisters she already had on her icy-cold palms, and drew her closer to shedding the tears she’d clamped away after her talk with Beth. The winter sun trickled a gentle warmth that penetrated her stinging cheeks as she looked over at Beth and tried to draw comfort from her matter-of-fact way of coping.
Five weeks had passed since she’d been brought here and still no word from her Aunt Jeannie or any communication with Beth’s friend Agnes! What if Aunt Jeannie didn’t come? The thought weakened her resolve. She swallowed hard and tugged the weeds with even greater determination.
If only the nuns were for allowing them to talk to each other while they worked. At least then her mind wouldn’t clog with the filth of it all and the constant abrasion of asking over and over, Why did Pappy do it? And: Who was he really?
The horror of his death gnawed her into reliving the nightmare, until she could smell his blood and had a need to pick at her flesh to remove the bits of him that she thought must still cling to her. How could she catapult the loving father he had been in her growing-up years into this monster that she knew nothing of?
‘Bridie, Bridie O’Hara. Reverend Mother wants to see you.’
Bridie straightened up. She caught Beth’s eye. Saw her glance at Sister Theresa and, seeing her with her head bowed, whisper, ‘This’ll be it, Bridie. Good luck, love.’
She smiled her thanks.
A tall girl stood on the edge of the path just outside the small wall that bordered this part of the garden, separating it from the flowerbeds. Bridie knew her as the secretary of the priests who occupied the house next to the convent and sometimes helped Reverend Mother with her bookkeeping. The girl beckoned with her finger. ‘Are you Bridie O’Hara? Well, come on, hurry yourself.’
Entering the convent from the garden meant passing near the hospital wards. The gleaming polished floor led three ways: left to the classrooms, kitchens and the Reverend Mother’s office; straight ahead and up the stairs to the dormitories; and right, through a swing door, to the wards. From this quarter, as often happened, she could hear cries of agonizing pain. ‘Help me. Help me . . . I can’t, I can’t take any more . . .’
And then: ‘Shut up! You should have thought of that before you lay down and committed your vile sin . . .’ in the voice of the hated Sister Rose.
Bridie stood a moment,
her heart telling her to run and help Enid. Hadn’t it been hours now since poor Enid had started with her pains? And here it was, almost three in the afternoon and her baby still not born. And to have that bitch of a woman tending to her. For sure, there’d be no mercy shown.
The secretary’s impatient voice broke into her thoughts. ‘Hurry up. And take those gardening boots off. You’ll have to walk in your stockinged feet. There’s no time. You can’t keep Reverend Mother waiting.’
Trying not to slip over took all of Bridie’s wits as she followed the girl along the corridor. When at last she entered the office, fear took her. What would she do if her aunt wouldn’t come for her? Oh, Holy Mother Mary, could you not intervene on my behalf and make sure she does come?
The office door creaked as it opened, to reveal the Reverend Mother sitting behind a large desk. She didn’t acknowledge them. The girl bowed, announced Bridie and left.
To be sure, the swallowing of sand couldn’t feel worse than this dryness of her mouth, Bridie thought as she waited for Reverend Mother to speak. In the silence, broken only by the rustle of paper, her hopes pounded her heart. When at last the woman spoke, her clipped tone could have cracked a frozen pond. ‘Bridie O’Hara. Mrs Bottomley, your Aunt Jeannie, is willing to take you in, despite everything you have done. She is coming for you tomorrow. See that you have everything packed and are ready for when she arrives.’
A dismissing hand waved her away. Out in the hall and with the heavy wooden door closed behind her, a joy settled in Bridie. Breaking the rules she’d soon not be bound by, she ran along the corridor, laughing as she slid the last few yards towards her boots.
Beth looked up from her work, her face showing eager anticipation. One glance at Sister Theresa compounded Bridie’s excitement. And to be sure she wouldn’t have to keep the news to herself, as the nun sitting on a bench near the statue of Mary had fallen asleep. Now she and Beth could talk.
