The Pawnbroker's Niece

by June Francis

  The Pawnbroker’s Niece

  June Francis

  © June Francis 2002

  June Francis has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 2002 by Allison & Busby.

  This edition published in 2016 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  My thanks go to Bob Evans, whose

  Mersey Mariners was invaluable to me

  in writing this book. As was

  The Autobiography of A Liverpool Slummy

  by Pat O’Mara.

  Chapter One

  Rita lifted a fist and rapped on the door alongside the pawnbroker’s shop. The sound was barely louder than a mouse scrabbling behind a skirting board. She half-hoped the Miss Sinclair named on the note wouldn’t hear. Then she would be able to scurry back home and say she’d done what Mam told her and that there had been no answer. The trouble was her mother might not believe her. She often called her a little liar in a tone of voice that sometimes scared the hell out of Rita. It was no wonder she did tell fibs because on more than one occasion she had received a clout over the ear when telling the truth. She just couldn’t win.

  Rita was about to bang on the door again when a noise behind her caused her to whirl round and stare up at the black-clad figure looming over her. Glinting dark eyes, a slender nose and pale skin stretched over angular cheekbones caused the girl’s legs to turn to jelly.

  ‘What is it, girl? Have you come to steal my money? I know what devils you kids are!’ The woman lifted her umbrella. Rita ducked and would have made a run for it but was seized by the arm. ‘No, you don’t! Explain yourself or I’ll take you to the bobby and you’ll be locked up and the key thrown away.’

  ‘But I haven’t dun anythin’, missus! I came with a message for Miss Sinclair from me mam.’ Rita reached for the scrap of paper which to her annoyance her mother had pinned to her thin coat as if she was a little kid in danger of losing it. She tried to undo the bent rusty pin with one hand but couldn’t.

  The woman slapped her hand away. ‘Stop that! I’m not going to be able to see in this light. Let me get the door open and you can come inside and explain yourself.’

  Go through that door with this woman! Rita thought in alarm. Not on your nelly! What wouldn’t she do to her once she got her inside? She might bake her in the oven like the wicked witch in Hansel and Gretel. Nah! She was letting her imagination run away with her but, even so, she didn’t know this Miss Sinclair so why should she trust her? ‘Couldn’t I just give yer the note and go? Me mam’ll be wanting me for supper.’ That was a lie because a man had been waiting outside their room and the last thing Eve Taylor would want was her daughter home early.

  ‘No!’ Miss Sinclair pushed the girl and she tripped over the threshold. By the time Rita picked herself up the door had closed. ‘Move!’ Knuckles dug into her backbone and propelled her along the lobby and into a rear room that was in darkness but for the embers glowing in the grate. ‘Don’t move!’ The woman pulled a chair from the table and climbed onto it.

  Move! Don’t move! You should make up your mind, missus, thought Rita.

  A match flared and there was a pop as the gas mantle flamed, chains were adjusted and the shadows in the corners of the room fled.

  Miss Sinclair removed the pins from her hat and placed it on the table. She had nut-brown hair and looked no less frightening by gaslight to the fourteen-year-old girl. Clad in an old-fashioned long black skirt that rustled and a black velveteen jacket that hung on her gaunt figure, she reminded Rita of a picture in a fairy-tale book. She beckoned her forward with a black-gloved hand.

  Reluctantly Rita left the relative security of the wall next to the door and stepped onto a rug, which felt soft and warm beneath the soles of her shoes with holes in. She fumbled for the note again and cursed her mother for treating her like a parcel needing a label.

  Miss Sinclair clucked with her tongue and teeth and removed her gloves before pulling Rita closer. Her chin was forced up and long fingers unfastened the pin. She was told to sit.

  Rita sat on a chair next to the green chenille cloth-covered table. On it was a glass jar half-filled with chocolates. Her lips parted and she drooled. It seemed ages since Christmas and the bar of chocolate her mother had given her. She imagined its creamy taste on her tongue. She rested her elbows on the tablecloth. Some chocolates were wrapped in gold foil, others shiny purple, but most were unwrapped. If there had not been a lid on the jar she could have easily slid her fingers across and taken one. She could have crammed it into her mouth before the woman could prevent her. The treat was worth a smack.

  She glanced at the woman and, as if sensing Rita’s gaze on her Miss Sinclair looked at her through wire-rimmed spectacles. ‘Eve must be raving mad to think I’d take you in. She says I owe her but the way I see it she owes me. As for trying to recall me to a sense of duty where you’re concerned, she’s had it!’ She removed the spectacles that had magnified her eyes to an alarming size. ‘You can take me to her before she clears off. I’ve got a bone to pick with her.’

  Rita stood. ‘What d’yer mean, clears off?’

  ‘It’s plain enough, girl. She’s dumping you.’

  ‘I don’t believe yer! Mam wouldn’t leave me. ‘Sides, she’s got a man with her. A big black fella off the monkey boats that anchor in the Coburg Dock.’

  Miss Sinclair did not appear surprised to hear this. As she pinned her hat on she said, ‘Not daft, is she? Those tribal-scarred fellows from the West Coast of Africa make good husbands. They draw a steady wage and are away at sea for a good nine months when trade’s good. Although with the Slump…still that’s no reason to dump you. Unless… I suppose it’s possible she hasn’t owned up to you.’ Her sharp eyes rested on Rita’s thin pallid face with its patches of scurvy and remarkable liquid brown eyes. ‘I don’t suppose you remember your father?’

  ‘He was a lord,’ said Rita stoutly. ‘He had a palace in Timbuktu just like the King’s.’

  Miss Sinclair’s lips twisted in what was a travesty of a smile. ‘Eve could always make up a good story.’ Taking Rita’s arm she hustled her out.

  She struggled. ‘Yer hurtin’ me!’

  ‘Am I now? Well, you’ll know what pain is if you try and get away. Eve’s kept her whereabouts secret for years, and, as I say, I’ve a bone to pick with her.’

  ‘But, missus, I won’t run away. Honest!’ Rita crossed her fingers behind her back. The pressure on her arm did not slacken and she realised Miss Sinclair did not trust her.

  She feared the woman was telling the truth about her mother, as she was quickly led through narrow cobbled streets until they reached a tall house not far from Cornwallis Street baths. It was situated in an area named after famous sailors: Grenville, Hardy and Nelson. It had been built during the last century to house merchants within walking distance of the waterfront so that in no time at all they could inspect their cargoes when they docked.

  Th
e front door was open and an elderly man with corkscrew hair and dusky skin sat upon the step, a clay pipe jutting from between teeth rotting from eating too many raw molasses. He whittled at a piece of wood with a penknife.

  ‘Let me by!’ Rita dragged her hand free from Miss Sinclair’s and tried to force her way past him, only to have the back of her collar seized. She gagged as a button dug into her throat.

  The pressure eased as Miss Sinclair placed a knee in her back. ‘Is Eve inside?’

  ‘She’s gone, missus.’ The man screwed up his eyes. ‘Told me to tell any who came looking she was leaving Liverpool tonight.’

  ‘Yer a dirty liar! Me mam wouldn’t leave me!’ Rita clawed at the woman’s hand and tried to get at the man.

  Miss Sinclair twisted her round and the girl’s plaits swung and hit Rita in the face as she shook her. ‘I’ll have none of that!’ The woman was furious. ‘Why didn’t you stop her, old man?’

  ‘Stop that one?’ he said in a deep voice, and he licked the blood pouring from a finger. ‘See what the kid’s gone and done?’

  Miss Sinclair barely glanced at the wound. ‘Do you know where Eve’s gone?’

  ‘You think she’d tell me?’ He got to his feet and turned to go inside.

  ‘You might have heard her talking!’ She took out a coin. ‘Thruppence if you tell me what you know.’

  He stretched out a hand but she closed her fingers over the coin. ‘Information first.’

  Rita scrabbled at his sleeve. ‘Hurry up and tell us!’

  ‘Cardiff! He’s got a sister and Eve and her fella are gonna help run her boarding house.’

  ‘Address?’ said Miss Sinclair.

  He shook his grizzled head and reached for the coin.

  The woman’s grip slackened and Rita pulled herself free and shot off like a rocket. She did not stop running until she passed St Vincent de Paul’s church and was halfway along Park Lane. She slipped like an eel between those paying a visit to various pawnshops for their husbands’ Sunday suits. Hope glowed in her eyes. She would find her mam and go with her to that place ol’ Lucas had mentioned. She refused to believe Eve would deliberately leave her behind. They’d been through all sorts together. Which way would she have gone — by sea? Plenty of ships in the Mersey although some were doing nothin’. Crews laid off because trade had dropped due to the Slump. How to find the right ship? Her footsteps faltered. Then she told herself she must try. Cardiff, Cardiff, Cardiff!

  She turned left into Cornhill Street, heading for Wapping and the docks. A whiff of salt-laden air caused her nostrils to flare as she raced past the Baltic Fleet pub. She crossed the dock road passing beneath the overhead railway and came to high stone walls blackened with the soot of several decades enclosing the docks and warehouses.

  A stitch caused her to slow down and she pressed her hand against her side. Her breathing steadied as she walked the length of the wall, remembering that on the other side lay Wapping, then Salthouse, the massive Albert Dock and Canning. Beyond these was the Princes Landing Stage where the ferries and liners came in. What cargo ships went to Cardiff? Would they be bringing coal on sooty coasters? She was unsure. Her heart sank. Without the right dock and the name of the ship she had no chance of finding her mother. What about sailing time, too? She had heard many a Jack tar enter their room, half-drunk on her mother’s arm, talking of tides and sandbanks and far-distant lands.

  Rita’s attention was suddenly drawn to the huge bulk of the Customs House across the road, with old salts sprawling on its steps. Taking a deep breath she went over.

  A number of men were clearly drunk. One was fast asleep, each snore lifting his straggling moustache before it flopped down again. His clothing was torn and smelly. A middle-aged man of shabby appearance was playing the mouth organ. She decided he must be reasonably sober to hold a tune.

  ‘Excuse me, mister! Could you tell me when high tide is and where I’ll find a ship to Cardiff?’

  The man shook his mouth organ, sending gobbits of spit flying. ‘What’s that yer say, queen?’

  ‘Cardiff! Is there a ship going tonight?’

  ‘Caadeef! Not te night! Sure, yer’ll find the Welsh coming in to Canning and Salthouse docks but not te night. Yer best gettin’ home to yer mam. It’s not safe for a young ’un being here at this time of night.’

  ‘But me mam —’

  He launched into ‘What Shall We Do with the Drunken Sailor?’

  Dragging her feet, hands looped behind her back and her head bent, she walked away. Perhaps her mam and her fella were going by train! She lifted her head and hurried round the corner of the Customs House and into Canning Place; looming across the way was the Sailors’ Home. She had heard kids talking about their sailor fathers calling there before a voyage. Her spirits rose as she stared at the blackened walls of this refuge for mariners. It had rounded windows and towers soaring into the starlit sky.

  Rita moved towards it, but cautiously, not wanting to draw attention to herself. A drunk was bellowing ‘Blow the Man Down’, arm in arm with a woman. In the shadows was another raddle-faced streetwalker lighting a cigarette, so the girl sidled over to her and said, ‘Dolly! Have you seen me mam?’

  The woman’s painted face registered alarm. ‘What the bloody hell are you doing here, kid? Now yous hop it!’ She shooed her away. ‘Yer don’t want a fluke catching yer round here. Yer young and clean and there’s many who go for your sort. Scram before yer end up like me.’

  ‘But me mam’s gone off with a black fella!’ Rita tugged on Dolly’s arm. ‘Did she say anything to you about him?’

  ‘No, she bloody didn’t!’ The prostitute sounded fed up and appeared about to say something else when a couple of men emerged from the Sailors’ Home. They parted and one made his way in their direction. Dolly muttered, ‘He mightn’t have much after the do-gooders have had him but what he’s got left is gonna be mine.’ She stubbed out her fag and, pushing Rita away, stepped out of the shadows, clad in a shortened yellow satin frock that had once graced the stage, making a beeline for him.

  Rita followed, only to be threatened by an arm the size of a ham. ‘What did I bloody tell yer? I’ll squash yer into the ground if yer don’t beat it!’

  Rita had seen Dolly claw a woman’s eye out and trembled at the memory of blood and gore. She turned and fled up the nearest opening. It did not take her long to know she had made a mistake. The street might appear deserted but somewhere a ukulele was being strummed and a man was singing. She quickened her pace, her heart hammering in her breast.

  A voice called down from the window. ‘Where are you going, flower?’

  Then, like a medieval strolling minstrel, a young man appeared singing in a foreign language. She tried to dodge him but he sidestepped and blocked her way. ‘Now where are you rushing off to, petal?’ The flat cafe-au-lait features of the fluke relaxed into a smile. ‘You looking for someone?’

  Rita stared at him with all the fear of a mouse caught by one of the many cats living in dockland.

  ‘There’s no need to be scared of me. You come inside my house and get warm. Have a drink and some food and rest. It’s late. Will someone be missing you?’

  Rita dodged to the side of the street but he moved with her and held out a hand. ‘Come with Uncle Johnny! I’ll look after you. Get you a nice room and decent clothes.’ He placed his ukulele on the ground.

  Her eyes darted left and right, looking for a way of escape. He made a grab for her, caught her and held her against him. She screamed and he laughed. She screamed again.

  ‘That’s enough, Johnny.’ The voice took them by surprise. ‘Let her go or I’ll have you in court before you can say Davy Jones’ locker.’

  Johnny released Rita. ‘I wouldn’t have hurt her, Padre.’

  ‘You’d have set her off on a path that leads to Hell,’ said the dark-haired man with silver wings of hair at his temples, dressed in black. ‘Come, girl!’ He held out a hand.

  Rita hesitated and Johnny smirked
. ‘She hasn’t a pick on her but if that’s your taste, Padre, I hope you enjoy her,’ said Johnny.

  ‘Shut your filthy mouth!’ rasped the older man.

  Rita stared at the padre, doubly unsure about accepting his help as she remembered Eve warning her about pimps, police and priests — one lot were after your body, another were out to squash your spirit and the latter wanted to imprison your soul — not to mention the perverts.

  The girl made a run for it, fell and lost a shoe, got to her feet and ran on, not daring to go back for it. She was out of breath by the time she came to Paradise Street and found an empty doorway. She retreated into the shadows, shaken still by her encounter with the two men. Gradually her breathing steadied and she had the courage to peer out of her doorway.

  Many a sailor looking for a terrestrial Paradise had ended up in the gutter, feeling like nothing on earth, stripped of the new suit bought with some of his pay-off money and every other penny gone.

  The shops were closing but there were still people about as pubs began to empty out. She hunched her knees and rested her chin on them, gazing in the direction of Cleveland Square and the heart of Chinatown. A building festooned with paper lanterns caught her eye.

  Many times in her life Rita had coped by escaping into her imagination. She remembered spinning a globe in school in search of Timbuktu, wondering if it was in China and the place where her father had once had his palace. Not that she looked Chinese at all but something about that race interested her. She knew Chinese men had signed on British ships during the Great War, claiming to be from the British colony of Hong Kong and so in possession of British citizenship. After the war, some had settled in Liverpool where there was already a thriving Chinese community founded in Victorian times. Some married white women but on the whole they kept themselves pretty much to themselves as did most Jews, Africans, Swedes, Spanish and Greek in the Granby ward of the city.

  Rita had never dared enter Chinatown. There had been talk of a trade in young girls smuggled to China on tea clippers. She had mentioned it to her mother. Eve had laughed. ‘No need for you to worry, kid. You’d need to be a blonde like me. Still, keep away from there. You just never know — someone might fancy you one day.’