The Girl on the Doorstep: from the bestselling author of The Workhouse Children (A Black Country Novel)

by Lindsey Hutchinson

  Back on the ‘Sunshine’ Betty said, ‘Bill you ain’t going to find your boys by yerself, lad, no matter ’ow far yer travel in the searching. My advice would be to let the grapevine carry a message that yer lookin’ for ’em and where yer’ll be if there’s any news.’ Betty Johnson patted the man’s hand that was resting on the cabin table.

  ‘Where can I wait though?’ he asked, looking with soulful eyes at the older woman.

  ‘How about you go ’ome to yer wife? Her must be worried sick about the three of you.’

  ‘Betty, I can’t – I can never forgive the rift she’s caused in our family; the upset to my parents as well as my sons.’ Bill scowled.

  ‘I can understand that, lad, but her should be told you are all right and still searching. Besides, what about yer work?’ Betty asked.

  ‘I’ll have lost my job by now,’ he answered resignedly. ‘I was never happy on the railway anyway.’

  ‘Right then, if yer don’t intend to go ’ome – yer’d best stay on the ‘Sunshine’ wi’ me.’ The woman stood and groaned as her bones cracked and settled into place. ‘Don’t worry…’ she held up a hand, ‘you’ll be working for yer board and lodging.’

  ‘Betty Johnson you are a diamond!’ Bill laughed.

  ‘Ar well, I’ll twinkle all the brighter with a cup of tea in me, and so yer’d best put the kettle to boil!’

  Laughing together Bill stood to carry out his new friend’s order. ‘Thank you, Betty,’ he said quietly, his voice full of gratitude.

  ‘You’m welcome. Now, I think I’ll take tea on deck,’ she said sticking her nose in the air.

  ‘Certainly, my lady,’ he quipped.

  Bill heard voices as he climbed up the steps from the cabin, tea in hand.

  ‘Ta, lad, yer message has been passed,’ Betty said taking the cup.

  ‘Thank you – again,’ Bill said.

  Betty nodded. ‘I said as ’ow you’m looking for your twin boys and they could find you ’ere with me. I’ve decided we ain’t moving until we ’ear back.’

  ‘Betty! What about your work? You won’t be earning!’ Bill was aghast.

  ‘I don’t care a bugger!’ Betty blasted. ‘Them boys need to know where to find their dad and if we keep moving about – well, work it out for yourself.’

  Sighing loudly Bill conceded Betty was right. ‘I see the sense of it, but I worry for you.’

  ‘Don’t be doing that, I ain’t destitute. I’ve got me some money stashed away.’ Betty tapped the side of her nose.

  ‘You’re a sly old thing, Betty, anyone ever tell you that?’ Bill grinned.

  ‘Oh ar, many a time, and yer know what? I don’t give a damn!’ She let out a loud cackle. ‘Now then, Bill Mitchell, tell me about your life.’

  Sitting on the boat deck Bill related his story.

  ‘I was raised on the ‘cut’, and I loved it. My parents are still travelling the waterways.’

  ‘Which boat?’ Betty interrupted.

  ‘The “Pride of Wednesbury”. Then I met Sarah and got married. She hated the canals and the folk working on them. She insisted I quit life on the water so I got a job on the railway. Then the twins came along which made me so happy I can’t tell you!’ Bill grinned as he thought of his boys. ‘What I could never understand was why my parents stopped visiting. John and Frank must have been about two years old at the time. Then just the other day I found out that Sarah had stopped them coming. She had forbidden them to see their grandsons!’ Hurt and anger fused and wrapped around him like an invisible shroud.

  ‘Whatever for?’ Betty asked seeing his sadness.

  Shrugging his shoulders Bill went on. ‘Sarah said if they couldn’t come more often, then they should stay away altogether!’

  ‘Silly girl!’ Betty huffed. ‘Her’ll come to regret that.’

  ‘It appears they called again the other day and Frank must have seen Sarah send them packing. I think that’s why he took off – he’s trying to find out what’s going on.’ Drawing a breath, he added, ‘And of course, John had to follow. I just hope they find each other.’

  ‘They will, lad. Twins share a bond which is unbreakable. If one gets ’urt, the other feels the same pain. If one is lost, the other will find ’im. It’s my guess they’m together out there somewhere.’ Betty tipped her head towards the canal.

  ‘They are very close,’ Bill acknowledged.

  ‘There you go then, don’t yer be worrying about ’em. I’ll bet they’m having a fine old adventure.’ Betty grinned. ‘So, ’ow long since you saw yer parents then?’

  ‘Many years – about fourteen I would think,’ Bill said with a sigh.

  ‘Blimey! ’Ow come you never got in touch with ’em?’ Betty probed.

  ‘I always thought they were too busy earning, and then after a while I thought they didn’t care anymore.’ Bill’s sad eyes held a tear.

  Betty stood and moved to the front of the boat.

  ‘Flo’,’ she yelled.

  A woman’s head popped through the hatch on the boat next in line to Betty’s. ‘What’s up Betty?’ the woman yelled back.

  ‘Another message – them working the ‘Pride of Wednesbury’ need to know Bill Mitchell is ’ere with me. We’m staying put.’

  ‘All right, Betty,’ Flo’ shouted as she waved and disappeared back into her cabin.

  Betty retook her seat. ‘Close your mouth, Bill, you’ll catch a fly!’

  She laughed as he snapped his jaws together with a loud clack.

  Eleven

  At each resting place, wharf and basin Abner and Margy visited, it was not long before a queue of women formed up in the hope of a ‘reading’ from Rosie Harris. The basin at Bradley Locks in Wednesbury was no exception. The boat had moored up and Rosie watched the steam train trundle across the bridge that towered above her.

  Rosie walked along the towpath to her first visit of the day as Margy and Abner saw to the unloading of their cargo.

  Sitting with tea in the small cabin Rosie held the hand of the excited woman sat opposite her. Closing her eyes, she began quietly. ‘There will be an accident – a young boy…’

  ‘Oh my God!’ the woman gasped.

  Rosie held up a finger. ‘Rest easy, it is not one belonging to you, but you will witness it and help. The boy will not be hurt.’ Feeling the woman relax she continued. ‘Good news comes from a house with a washing line full of bright clothes.’

  ‘What news?’ the woman asked.

  Rosie shook her head. ‘I am not permitted to see, but you will be pleased. The letter ‘H’ features prominently in your life – Horace? No, it’s Harold.’

  Rosie opened her eyes as the woman said, ‘I don’t know a Harold.’

  ‘You will,’ Rosie said accepting the money offered for the reading.

  Moving along the line of boats the young gypsy girl gave her ‘readings’. On the narrowboat at the end of the moorings she climbed aboard wearily.

  Another excited woman waited expectantly.

  Holding out her hand Rosie began. ‘There is trouble ahead. You know of whom I speak. You must stamp on this before it erupts. It will be a challenge but you will be proved right. A baby girl causes you worry but all will be well. You harbour a secret and its heaviness weighs you down. Confront your fears and rid yourself of this worry.’

  Rosie, finished with her work, sauntered back to the Mitchell’s boat feeling drained. As she and Margy sipped their tea the older woman asked. ‘Do you understand what yer tell these women?’

  ‘No, Margy, I can only tell what I see.’ Rosie shook her head.

  ‘Bloody ’ell that must be frustrating!’

  ‘It can be, but over the years I learned to just pass on the information. It’s exhausting enough without trying to work out what it all means. Besides, it does or will make sense to those I read for.’

  ‘I suppose you’m right.’ Margy smiled, patting the girl’s arm.

  ‘Margy, a message will come to you soon.’ Rosie looked at her f
riend.

  ‘Well I ’ope it’s a good one.’ Margy laughed but felt a touch of discomfort. It was as though the girl were looking into her soul.

  ‘It is, but hot on its heels will come worry.’

  Margy frowned but Rosie shrugged her shoulders.

  Just then Abner jumped down into the cabin saying, ‘Where’s my dinner then? I’m fair famished.’ Looking at the women he laughed, ‘You two gossiping again? I don’t know, us men do all the work while you lot sit canting!’

  Margy smiled as she watched him pour himself a cup of tea. ‘Just for that, Abner Mitchell, you can make the dinner!’

  Abner’s loud groan had them in fits of laughter.

  *

  Throughout the afternoon the Mitchell’s boat was loaded with fresh cargo and eventually Bradley Locks basin began to settle for the night.

  A shout went up and Rosie sighed.

  ‘I know you’m tired gel, but it seems you’m wanted again,’ Margy said.

  Rosie climbed up on deck closely followed by her friend.

  ‘Margy!’ a woman yelled from the towpath.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Message.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Ar, Betty Johnson on the “Sunshine”.’

  ‘What’s old Betty want?’ Margy looked at Rosie and rolled her eyes.

  ‘Her sez to tell you her’s at Gospel Oak basin.’

  Margy shook her head and whispered to Rosie, ‘Why her can’t just tell me the whole message I’ll never know.’ Turning her eyes back to the woman on the towpath she called out, ‘So, what does her say?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Betty!’ Margy’s frustration was evident.

  ‘Oh ar, ’er says her’s got Bill Mitchell there and they’m staying put.’

  Margy’s mouth hung open as the shock of the words hit her. It was Rosie who called out, ‘Thank you.’

  The woman wandered back to her boat and Rosie glanced back at Margy having seen the colour drain from her face.

  Suddenly energy filled Margy and she dashed back into the cabin, Rosie following behind.

  ‘Abner, we ’ave to go!’ Margy said in a blind panic.

  ‘Whatever’s the matter?’ her husband asked.

  ‘Our Bill’s at Gospel Oak alongside of Betty Johnson. They’re waiting for us!’

  ‘Christ A’mighty!’ Abner said jumping to his feet and banging his head on the overhanging cupboard.

  Rosie watched the clamour as Abner, rubbing his head, went to the back of the boat to feed the firebox with coal to build up the steam. Margy jumped onto the towpath to free the mooring ropes from the metal bollard that held the boat fast. Deftly jumping aboard again as the boat slowly slipped from its resting place and chugged out onto the expanse of the canal.

  Heading for Moorcroft Junction they would then join the Birmingham Canal. Further down they would branch off towards Gospel Oak and head for the basin at Coppice Bridge.

  Margy paced back and forth on the deck as the sun began its journey to the horizon.

  Rosie called to Abner, ‘Can I help with anything?’

  ‘Ar, you can keep that firebox burning!’

  Rosie descended the steps to where the firebox and engine were situated. It was hot and she instantly began to sweat. Opening the firebox door with the rag she felt the blast of heat forcing her back a step. Grasping the small shovel, she threw coal into the box and closed its door again.

  Moving up the steps again she yelled, ‘Box is full, Abner.’

  ‘Thanks, Rosie, it’ll need more afore we get to where we’re going,’ Abner called back over the sound of the engine.

  ‘I’ll keep an eye on it.’ Rosie smiled as she watched Margy try to wear a groove in the decking as she continued to pace.

  An hour later, Margy and Rosie stood on deck looking at the darkening horizon. ‘Well you was right about the message coming, and I’ve a feeling I know about the worry to follow. If our Bill is in Wednesbury, you can bet your life ’is wife, Sarah, ain’t with him. That’ll cause ructions, you see if it don’t!’

  Rosie patted her friend’s arm before moving off to check the firebox.

  As the darkness finally descended, Margy lit the candles in the lanterns hanging at the prow of the boat. Moving to the stern she did the same there.

  ‘I’ve topped up the firebox, Abner,’ Rosie called as she ascended the little steps to the boat deck. Other than the chugging engine, all around them was quiet.

  ‘Good girl, thanks for that,’ Abner called back.

  ‘Margy, is it safe to travel at night?’ Rosie asked as she approached the woman standing looking at the silver ribbon of water lit by the moonlight.

  ‘As a rule, we don’t usually travel after dusk, but Abner knows this ‘cut’ like the back of his ’and. You’ll be all right, ’e knows what he’s doing.’

  ‘Oh Margy, I wasn’t questioning Abner’s ability, and I’m not worried for myself, I was concerned about your cargo delivery,’ Rosie said feeling wretched that her friend thought she was afraid.

  ‘You ain’t ’ad another “sight” have you?’ Margy asked in a rush.

  ‘No. I’m just trying to divert your attention,’ Rosie admitted. Seeing the woman nod in the gloom of the late evening she went on. ‘I’m sure Bill is safe with this Betty Johnson, so you don’t need to fret.’

  ‘Oh, Rosie, it seems like forever since I’ve seen my boy!’ Margy’s tears formed along her lashes and glistened in the moonlight.

  ‘I know,’ the girl said soothingly. ‘Abner said we won’t be long in arriving so – you’d best get yourself washed and changed. You want to look nice for Bill, don’t you?’

  ‘Blimey yes!’ Margy gasped as she scuttled down to her tiny sleeping cabin.

  ‘You’m a good girl, Rosie,’ Abner said as she joined him at the tiller.

  ‘Margy is fretting,’ she replied.

  ‘Ar, I guessed as much. I know that’s why you sent ’er below to doll ’erself up.’ Abner nodded knowingly.

  Pointing ahead Rosie followed his line of sight and saw the twinkling lights of the lanterns on the other boats as Abner began to steer towards a mooring place. Turning to Rosie he said, ‘Best fetch ’er ladyship up.’

  Rosie picked her way to the front of the boat and yelled down the hatch telling her friend they had arrived and were about to moor up.

  Margy was on deck in double quick time and was dancing about in her eagerness to help secure the boat.

  Abner tugged on the steam whistle and the high-pitched sound carried the length of the waterway. It alerted others that a boat was about to pull in, but also it served as a signal to his son, Bill. He knew his boy would be waiting and watching.

  As the boat pulled gently into its berth, Rosie jumped nimbly onto the towing path to hook the ropes over the iron bollards.

  Climbing back aboard, she heard someone running and yelling. Turning she saw a man bounding along the pathway then in one fluid motion he was also aboard.

  ‘Dad! Dad!’ Bill Mitchell threw his arms around the older man.

  Hugging his son Abner whispered quietly, ‘See to your mother, lad.’

  Seeing Margy standing with her hands covering her mouth, Bill rushed to her and picking her up he swung her round in a circle. ‘Mum! Oh, Mum…!’

  Tears rolled down Margy’s face unchecked. ‘Oh our Bill! It’s so lovely to see you. I’ve missed yer so much!’ Her words came between sobs as Bill placed her gently back on the deck.

  Rosie moved quietly below deck to the tiny galley and set the kettle to boil. Glad to see the reunion of the family, she felt it was a private moment so left them to it. Besides, she told herself, tea would be needed as the family no doubt would talk long into the night.

  Laying out the tea things, Rosie was unsure what to do with herself. Making a quick decision to walk the towpath after the tea was made, she fetched her shawl from her bunk.

  ‘There you are!’ Margy said as she clambered down the steps, her husband and so
n following behind. ‘Rosie, this is our Bill. Bill meet Rosie Harris.’ The pride shone from Margy’s eyes as she sat opposite her son where she could look at him while they talked.

  ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Bill,’ Rosie said, then turning to Margy she went on, ‘The tea is made; I’m going out for a walk while you all enjoy your evening.’

  ‘You can stay, please don’t feel you have to rush off on my account,’ Bill said in a quiet dignified voice.

  ‘No… thank you. Maybe I will find some business as I stroll.’

  Bill’s eyebrows shot up at her words and his parents burst out laughing.

  ‘Not that sort of business, Bill! Rosie is a gypsy and does “readings” for folk,’ Margy managed to explain, eventually.

  ‘Oh Lord! Rosie, I’m so sorry, I… I…’ Bill faltered, the blush to his cheeks showing bright in the dim candlelight of the cabin.

  Rosie gave him a reassuring smile that said she had not taken offence. With a wave she climbed on deck and jumped down onto the towpath. As she strolled she admired the boats with their beautiful paintwork and glinting lanterns.

  Rosie looked up as a shout sounded. ‘’ere, am you Rosie the gypsy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Come aboard,’ the woman called back.

  Rosie did as she was bid. The woman, who said her name was Jenny, led Rosie into her living quarters. ‘Will yer do me a “reading”?’ she asked as they sat at the small table. ‘The old man’s gone down to the boozer – won’t be back for hours yet. He’ll be three parts cut when he gets back, no doubt.’

  Rosie smiled as she worked out that the woman’s husband would be drunk after a night in the pub. She was becoming more accustomed to the strange phrases used by the people of the ‘Black Country’.

  Taking Jenny’s hand Rosie closed her eyes.

  ‘You are awaiting a letter – from a school.’

  ‘Ar I am.’

  ‘Your grandson – he will be admitted to the school,’ Rosie went on ignoring the woman’s words.

  ‘That’s bostin’!’ Jenny gushed.

  ‘He will grow to be studious, he will love his books. Encourage him – he will be a fine doctor one day.’ Rosie kept her eyes closed as she heard Jenny’s gasp. ‘Your granddaughter wants to be a pianist.’