The Pawnbroker's Niece

by June Francis

  Rita hated being taught to talk proper — or properly, as Miss Turner would have it. She didn’t want to be changed into somebody else who didn’t sound a bit like her and set her apart from the only young people she knew.

  ‘Henry Hall hops on his heels!’ she recited in breathy tones, sounding every H as she stopped outside Fitzgerald’s chandler’s shop. Galvanised buckets hung like garlands in the doorway. She said the rhyme missing off all the h’s and got a grin from Sam, who was placing an enamel bowl inside another which was inside another and so on piled up on the floor.

  ‘What’s that yer saying, Rita?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s a rhyme supposed to help me talk propar. My aunt’s idea! I call it daft because the only people I talk to are those who come into the shop, and most of them are ordinary folk just like me,’ she said with a chuckle.

  ‘She probably has her reasons. I’ve only been in her shop a couple of times and she doesn’t strike me as daft.’

  ‘Well, if she has she’s keeping them to herself.’

  ‘So what is it yer after?’ asked Sam, rubbing hands reddened with the cold.

  She was just about to tell him when there was the clatter of hooves and a horse and cart pulled up at the kerb a few feet away. A young man with tawny hair, wearing his cap sideways, sprang down. ‘Is your boss there?’ he called out.

  ‘Yeah! I’ll get him for yer!’ Sam turned to go inside the shop but there was no need. Mr Fitzgerald was already there and was frowning. ‘You’re late! You should have been here yesterday, Jimmy.’

  ‘It wasn’t my fault the horse threw a shoe.’ The young man’s annoyance showed on his face. ‘I’m here in plenty of time for wash day and that’s the main thing, isn’t it?’ He went to the rear of the cart and let down the back and called to Sam to give him a hand.

  The youth hurried forward and was soon staggering past Rita hugging a large cardboard box that had GREEN WASHING SOAP printed on the side. Watching him, Rita thought, he does try but he’s still the skinny runt I met in the spring, whose father is a drunken bully, because Sam had a bruise on his cheekbone and a hint of a black eye. She knew that he was the youngest in his family and that three of his brothers had been killed in the Great War. Since then the rest of his brothers and sisters had left home except for his eldest sister — she had taken the place of his mother, who had died when he was born. He was seventeen but sometimes the expression in his eyes belied his age.

  Her attention shifted to the young carter, who was carrying two boxes of soap with seemingly little effort. He spared Rita only the briefest of glances but it was enough for her to recognise him because she had never seen anyone with such deep blue eyes before. It was obvious he did not remember her and she was glad of that; she would rather he forgot altogether her appearance in Chinatown. He was altogether a very fanciable bloke. Despite it being winter he wore no jacket — only a waistcoat over his shirt, the sleeves of which were rolled up to reveal muscle.

  He finished his business with Mr Fitzgerald and, brushing past her and Sam, he climbed up behind his horse, flicked the reins across its glossy back, clucked with his tongue and the cart rumbled off. As it did so Rita noticed a name written on the side: Wm Brodie Ltd. Haulage Company. She might have been tempted to follow it and see where he worked, but from the load in the back of the cart he obviously had other deliveries to make. Besides, she had another errand to run for her aunt. She could catch him another time if he was a regular delivery bloke here.

  ‘Sorry about that. What is it yer wanted, Rita?’

  She turned to Sam. ‘A pound of salt, please.’

  This commodity was piled up like blocks of frozen snow for an Eskimo’s igloo. As Sam cut it with a knife, she breathed in the scents of paraffin, the liquid soap called aunt sally, mothballs, wax polish, soda and washing blue. All were delicious smells. Sam weighed the salt and then wrapped it up in newspaper and handed it to her. She paid her penny and went on her way in the direction of Rathbone Street and the home of the McGintys.

  Mrs McGinty had not turned up that morning so Rita had been dispatched to call at the house and see what had happened to her. As she walked her head was in the clouds, thinking of Jimmy, imagining him beside her, holding her hand and saying that it didn’t matter at all that her hair was short and the colour of rust instead of ripening wheat. He loved her and would take care of her forever. She had never been kissed and tried imagining what it would be like to feel his lips pressed against hers. She closed her eyes a moment and walked smack into a lamp post. She rubbed her nose, which really hurt, and told herself to be sensible and curtailed her daydreaming.

  The brown paint was peeling from the McGintys’ front door. There was no knocker — only a letter box, which she rattled.

  A young man opened the door. He had a face like a ferret and looked her up and down in a way that she did not care for one little bit. ‘Who are you?’

  She presumed he was one of the McGinty sons. ‘Rita Taylor, and your mother works for my aunt.’ She enunciated every vowel carefully as taught by Miss Turner.

  His eyes became even more slit-like and he sneered. ‘Oh, so yous is the one who thinks she’s Lady Muck.’

  Rita was so annoyed by his rudeness that she forgot to behave like a lady. ‘Watch yer mouth, mister, or yer mam won’t be having a job to go to when I tell me aunt about this. Why didn’t she turn up this morning?’

  Before he could answer a man’s voice shouted from inside the house. ‘Who is it, Bert?’

  He bellowed back, ‘Ol’ Sin’s niece! She wants to know why Ma didn’t turn in, Pa!’

  ‘Bring her in! Let’s have a decko at her!’

  ‘Dad said yer to come in,’ said Bert, an unfriendly expression in his eyes. He flung the door wide and stepped to one side.

  ‘I’m not deaf,’ said Rita. Her curiosity had been roused by her aunt’s description of the char’s husband, whom she considered to be a lazy good-for-nothing, whose wife waited on him hand and foot because he was supposed to be a martyr to a bad back and also only had one eye. She said that she might have believed in the bad back if she had not seen him coming out of the pub, his back as straight as a ramrod and crouched on the ground, playing pitch and toss with a whole gang of men that summer. Now Rita was to see him for herself.

  He lay on a sagging sofa, his head resting on a neatly darned cushion. His greasy greying hair was much too long and hung about his ears. He wore a black patch over his left eye and surveyed her unblinkingly from his undamaged one like she was a specimen on a slab. He had not shaved for a few days by the look of it and there were food stains down the front of his pullover. A bottle of beer stood on the floor near to hand.

  ‘So yous are the niece!’ His voice took her by surprise. It was thin and reedy. ‘Yer can tell yer aunt the missus’ll be in this afternoon. She’s gone an’ cut her finger to the bone and’s gone round to her sister’s to see what she can do about it.’

  Rita winced at the thought. ‘Poor Mrs McGinty! I am sorry.’

  ‘Aye! I bet yer are. Yous wouldn’t be wanting to slave away like my Gert does for buttons getting yer clothes dirty. We know why you’re there and what yer after!’ His expression was ugly.

  Rita bristled. ‘Do yer now! Yer must tell me! I can tell you something, though. I work just as hard as your wife does and for a lot less. I’d watch what I was saying if I was you, Mr McGinty.’ She turned and walked out.

  Rita entered the pawnshop on the bounce. ‘That man! He’s horrible!’ She placed the parcel of salt on the counter.

  ‘What man?’ said Margaret, without looking up from the handwritten list she was perusing.

  ‘Mr McGinty! He really got up my nose,’ said the girl, placing her elbow on the counter and resting her chin in her hand. She scowled at her aunt. ‘I don’t want you sending me there again.’

  Margaret lifted her head and there was a tiny crease above her nose. ‘You’re giving the orders round here now, are you?’

  Rita flushed.
‘You know I’m not. It’s just that I didn’t like the way he looked and spoke to me so I walked out.’

  ‘Not before finding out what was wrong with Mrs McGinty, I hope,’ said Margaret with a long-suffering sigh. ‘You really do need to learn to control your emotions. Mrs McGinty’s jealous of you. Daft as it seems, she got it into her head that after my father died I would ask her and her husband to come and live with me.’

  ‘Gerraway with yer!’ said Rita, her eyes widening. ‘Now I’ve seen him I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him. He looks like a pirate with that black patch.’

  ‘Don’t let people’s looks affect the way you judge them, Rita. I know it’s not easy but there’s many a man lost an eye in the war.’

  ‘Is that where he lost his?’ said the girl, thinking reluctantly that perhaps she should feel sorry for him. Although she had thought he looked too old to have fought in the war.

  Margaret shook her head. ‘He was in prison during the war. It was in a fight. His eye was gorged out.’

  ‘Ugh!’ Rita shuddered. ‘Should I feel sorry for him?’

  ‘No! He hit the other man over the head with a flat iron and he ended up like a vegetable. I think Mr McGinty got fifteen years for that,’ she murmured. ‘Mrs McGinty assures me that he used to be really wild but that he’s calmed down a lot since. Did his back in breaking stones in prison, apparently, and that’s stopped his gallop. Her words.’

  ‘Blinking heck!’ said Rita. ‘Yer just never know with people, do yer?’

  ‘“You”, Rita, not “yer”,’ corrected Margaret. ‘And yes, you’re right. We never do know with people. Now, what’s wrong with Mrs McGinty?’ Rita told her and Margaret frowned. ‘Let’s hope that sister of hers knows what she’s about. If it’s as bad as he said, Mrs McGinty could end up with septicaemia and that wouldn’t be nice at all. She’s going to have to keep the finger covered and out of water. You might need to give her a helping hand.’

  ‘OK!’ said Rita, hoping she sounded willing. At least now she knew why Mrs McGinty was forever muttering about intruders and saucy misses who were out for all they could get when she was in earshot.

  As it was, when Mrs McGinty turned up with the thumb of her left hand tied up with a piece of bloodstained rag she made it known in no uncertain terms that she would rather struggle on her own than accept Rita’s help, which suited the girl fine. Although, for the first time ever the girl did feel sorry for her, not only because she was obviously in pain but also for having a husband like Mr McGinty.

  That night Rita dreamt of pirates coming up the Mersey in a sailing ship and running off with all her aunt’s money. One had a black patch over his eye but fortunately he was seen off by a swashbuckling youth wearing a scarlet kerchief over his golden hair, who clasped Rita in his arms, but as his head came down close to hers and he was about to kiss her, he vanished.

  The following morning she relived her dream, bringing it to a satisfactory conclusion — but then she began to imagine cruising down the river with him. Twice Margaret scolded her for writing the wrong figures in the ledger and was so exasperated that she ordered her to fetch the ladder on wheels that reached the top shelves. ‘Most of those on the top shelf have been there for more than a year and a day, so fetch them down and we’ll put the best in the window. Christmas is coming and hopefully we’ll make quite a few sales.’

  Rita was to be kept on her toes that week because Mrs McGinty’s finger was so painful she couldn’t work properly. Margaret insisted on removing the bloodstained rag with some kind of herbs and grease on it. What she saw resulted in her demanding that the cleaning woman accompany her to her own doctor in Rodney Street. Mrs McGinty returned as white as a sheet but with the finger neatly bandaged and, although it was still painful and she could not work as normal, she was obviously grateful to Margaret for having had the finger seen to by a doctor.

  ‘I could have died if it had been left any longer,’ she said to Rita and a couple of customers, regaling them with a description of how the doctor had cleaned out the pus.

  The week before Christmas was far busier than Rita had expected with such poverty around but people were pledging all sorts of things: sheets, towels, false teeth — anything to buy food for the table on Christmas Day, even if it was only a pan of scouse or a rabbit.

  There were those who had money to spend and bought gifts from the display in the window and the glass cabinets inside. Rita had got to know some of the girls of her own age who were in work and came into the shop looking for little gifts and they would chatter about boys, clothes and films. She enjoyed these times but never really felt one of them.

  Sam also called into the shop when Margaret was not around. Rita had seen him a few days ago drawing chalk pictures on the pavement in the city centre. She was surprised how good he was and dropped a penny in his cap. Now she made him a cup of tea and a jam butty. Mrs McGinty glanced in on them and when she saw who Rita was entertaining she nodded at the youth and said, ‘Hello, Sam!’ Then she returned to her work.

  ‘You know Mrs McGinty, then,’ said Rita.

  He nodded. ‘Her husband is one of Dad’s drinking cronies.’ His eyes darkened to the colour of slate. ‘I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.’

  ‘Aunt Margaret said he’s an ex-jailbird and knocked some bloke silly.’

  ‘Dad still talks about that. It was a matter of thieves falling out.’ Sam held the steaming cup between his hands, warming them. ‘He’s supposed to be keeping his nose clean these days but I reckon he’s up to no good.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’ She was all ears and, resting her elbows on the counter, brought her head closer to his.

  ‘A couple of real tough-looking men called round at the McGintys’ house the other day with a handcart,’ he murmured. ‘They went up the back entry and came back with it loaded up and covered by a sheet of tarpaulin.’

  ‘You think it was stolen property?’ she whispered.

  ‘Wouldn’t be surprised. I bet old Gert doesn’t know anything about it. She believes everything he tells her, even that he was wrongly imprisoned.’

  ‘I can believe it,’ said Rita, her expression thoughtful. ‘She’s a hard worker but she thinks the sun shines out of him.’

  ‘Gullible,’ said Sam and, draining his cup, thanked Rita for the tea and jam butty. Taking from his pocket a bar of chocolate, he wished her a Happy Christmas. She was touched but before she could thank him he was out of the shop. By the time she reached the door and looked up the street he had vanished.

  It was just before midnight on Christmas Eve that the shop finally closed. Margaret was in a buoyant mood so the girl guessed they had done well enough to satisfy even her expectations.

  ‘Put the kettle on, Rita, and make some toast! The fire’s just right.’

  It was true the fire had a glowing heart and once settled with tea and hot buttered toast and their feet on the fender, Margaret surprised Rita by saying, ‘Do I look old and ugly?’

  There was only one answer, thought the girl.

  ‘You can be honest,’ said Margaret with a rueful gleam in her eyes.

  Rita wondered what this was all about but did not like to ask. ‘You could make more of yourself. Mam always said there was room for improvement even after she’d dollied herself up.’

  Margaret bit into her slice of toast and brushed crumbs from lips that curved sweetly when she took the trouble to smile. The trouble was, thought Rita, she didn’t smile often enough.

  ‘There was a card from Eve but I ripped it up,’ said her aunt.

  ‘You did what?’ The girl sprang to her feet, her elfin face incredulous. ‘Mam sent me a Christmas card and you ripped it up?’

  Margaret waved her down. ‘It wasn’t addressed to you. It was for me!’ She added in exasperated tones, ‘That sister of mine’s got a nerve! It’s something she’s never lost.’

  Close to tears, Rita paced the floor, hugging herself. ‘How can she write to you and not to me?’ s
he said fiercely.

  ‘She sent you kisses.’

  Rita turned on Margaret and her brown eyes were filled with pain. ‘A fat lot of use that is! Better not to have written at all than send me paper kisses!’

  ‘Far better,’ she said with a sigh. ‘I wasn’t going to tell you about the letter, expecting you to react like this, but then I thought you had a right to know that you’re going to have a little brother or sister.’

  Rita reached out a hand to the back of a chair to steady herself. ‘I don’t believe it. She’s always avoided having a baby before!’

  ‘She’s married now. Anyway, she wanted me to send you to Cardiff to help her when the baby comes, but you can imagine how I felt about that.’ Margaret stood up and put an arm around her niece. ‘I’ll not have her using you as a skivvy. Now sit down and eat your toast — and tell me what I can do to improve my looks,’ she added with a faint smile.

  Rita did not feel like eating or giving advice. She was sick with anger and disappointment and dropping her toast on her aunt’s plate she muttered, ‘Cut your hair and get it Marcel waved. Shorten your skirts or even better buy some new clothes.’

  ‘That means spending more money than I really want to.’

  ‘You’ve got money, so why not spend it on yourself?’ said Rita irritably. ‘You’d think you were on the breadline the way you go on.’

  ‘Don’t be cheeky!’ Margaret flushed. ‘I’m saving up for my dream house.’

  Rita could not help but stare at her. ‘Your dream house? What’s wrong with here? You’re right on top of the shop, saves time and money.’

  ‘I want shut of the shop one day.’

  Rita could not believe it. ‘Why? It’s a right little gold mine.’

  ‘It’s hard work and there’s times when I can’t sleep for worrying someone might get in and knock me over the head and take everything Father and I worked for. No, I’d like to be a moneylender pure and simple. I wouldn’t need the shop then,’ she said, pacing the floor. ‘All these things people bring need so much space.’