by Tania Crosse
The memory of that night, waiting for him up in their horrible little room, sliced into her brain – and suddenly clicked it into thought. If Assumpta was leaving, her room would be up for rent. Although cramped with a whole family living in it, it was twice the size of the attic lair she shared with her father. It was on the ground floor, so with the water closet being just across the yard it would be far more convenient – especially at night.
‘This seems callous to ask you now,’ she said, almost holding her breath with anticipation, ‘but do you know if the room’s been relet yet? It’s so much nicer than ours.’
‘Didn’t the telegram only come this morning. So I’m sure the landlord would be delighted. Doesn’t he live next door, so why don’t you go straight round? Two and six a week the rent is, but he does like a month in advance to start, and then he collects it every fortnight after that.’
Tresca did a quick calculation. Emmanuel had been working for about six weeks. He had bought himself a waterproof and some new strong boots that were essential for his work. Tresca had sewn him a couple of shirts from material bought in the market and was now making herself a new winter dress. They were eating better quality food and they had treated themselves here and there; nothing extravagant, but enough to brighten their lives a little. Tresca had saved everything else, so they could easily afford the ten shilling advance on the rent, and her father would be paid again at the end of the week.
She did not hesitate. They had just paid another fortnight’s rent to Mrs Mawes, which she doubted the woman would return, but no matter. If she didn’t take up Assumpta’s room straight away, she would lose it. There was no use waiting until Emmanuel returned from work and discussing the matter with him. Her mind was made up. Without further ado, Tresca went next door to the landlord.
‘Well, I’ll see you tonight, in our new home!’ Tresca exclaimed the following morning.
‘Aw, didn’t I say I’d make a good life fer my little princess one day?’ Emmanuel chortled back.
‘It’s just the beginning, mind. We can spend some money to make it nice, but after that we’ll start saving again. And I’m certain to find a job eventually, and then, well, who knows?’
‘So bein’ dismissed from Tremaine Farm weren’t so bad, arter all?’ Emmanuel suggested, lifting a hopeful eyebrow. ‘But I musts be off or the lord an’ master won’t like it.’
Tresca grinned back and shooed him out of the door. It was going to be a busy day. They might only be moving down the street, but everything had to be packed up, their few new clothes carefully folded and placed in Tresca’s basket, and other items tied into a bundle. They had half a bucket of coal left, and she certainly wasn’t leaving that behind. She hummed as she worked, for this was going to be the first day of a bright, new future!
She and Vera were shortly to see Assumpta and her family off from Tavistock’s South Station – as it was to be called to differentiate it from the new station, when it eventually opened. She donned her coat and hat and stepped out on to the tiny landing, taking a deep breath to contain her jubilation. It wouldn’t be right to appear so joyous when her happiness had come out of Assumpta’s tragedy, and she would be sad to say goodbye to her new friend. Her heart darkened at the prospect, and she hesitated a moment before setting out.
It was then that she heard the muffled sobs coming from Bella’s room. Poor Bella. What a hard life she had led, but Tresca had never heard her cry before. The sound tore at her heart and she tapped softly on the door.
There was no answer and the weeping ceased at once. But something was obviously wrong and Tresca opened the door and went inside. Bella looked up, her cheeks ravaged with tears.
‘Bella, whatever’s the matter?’ Tresca sat down beside her on the bed and put her arm around the girl’s trembling shoulders.
It was some moments before Bella was able to answer. ‘Oh, Tresca,’ she gulped between sobs. ‘I’s in terrible trouble. I’s . . . I cas’n pay the rent,’ she blurted out in a rush.
Tresca breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Is that all? There’s no need to worry about that. I’ll pay it. And you can pay me back when you can.’
Bella instantly threw up her head. ‘No, you cas’n do that,’ she protested.
‘Yes, I can. There’s no greater pleasure than helping a friend. Oh, there’s your rent book.’
She picked up the dog-eared little book and opened it at the last page. Fury frothed up inside her as her eyes scanned the figures. ‘She’s put your rent up to two and three a week? The mean old cow! One and nine we’ve been paying. Well, we’ll soon see about that!’
‘Tresca, don’t—’
But Tresca was already flying down the stairs and an instant later was banging loudly on the landlady’s kitchen door. When Mrs Mawes opened it, her expression very clearly showed her displeasure at being so rudely disturbed. But Tresca was bursting with unleashed rage and thrust her finger at the entry in the rent book.
‘How dare you put Bella’s rent up like that? Two and three for that little hole, when we’m only paying one and nine. And it’s not even worth that! Now here’s one and nine, and you can make do with that, you avaricious old biddy!’
Her cheeks flamed scarlet as she glared at Mrs Mawes, but the woman lifted her nose and sneered. ‘Just cuz you’m leaving, you cas’n tell me what to do. It’s two and three fer that little strumpet, or she goes.’
‘Fine. She can come with my father and me, then, and you’ll have two empty rooms to find tenants for. Bella!’ she called, making for the stairs.
‘All right, then,’ Mrs Mawes conceded grudgingly. ‘One and nine.’
Tresca turned back in triumph. ‘I want it written in the rent book. One and nine a week for the next year. And your signature against it.’
If looks could kill, Tresca would have been stone dead, but the woman did as she demanded. Tresca watched her, still fuming but pleased that she had achieved justice for her friend. ‘Thank you,’ she said with a forced smile. ‘And here’s this week’s rent. Good day to you, Mrs Mawes.’ And snatching the book from the woman’s fingers, she walked with supreme dignity up the hallway.
Tresca and Vera waved a tearful, bitter-sweet farewell to Assumpta and her six children on the station platform. They all hugged, wishing each other luck and promising to write, and then the train lurched and began to chug forward, taking Assumpta Driscoll, her three sons and three daughters out of their lives for ever.
‘Come along, we’ve work to do,’ Vera said, wiping away a tear, and they made for the exit.
Vera helped Tresca to move her and Emmanuel’s belongings, such as they were, into their new home. The landlord was able to swap the two double beds for two singles and Tresca set to, turning the room into a proper little home.
When Emmanuel returned at the end of the day, he was amazed. The two single beds were neatly made, leaving a good space in the middle. The little range, freshly blackleaded, was throwing out a glorious heat, and a frying pan, sizzling with two chops and a pile of onions, was filling the air with an appetizing aroma. If Tresca noticed a whiff of alcohol on her father’s breath, in her cheeriness she chose to ignore it.
‘Aw, this be all proper grand!’ Emmanuel declared, and Tresca agreed with him.
‘Good morning, Mr Trembath.’
The young man poring over the pile of papers on the counter lifted his head, eyebrows raised in surprise. Then, as recognition dawned, he smiled broadly.
‘No, it’s all right, thank you, Mr Penwaite,’ he said as the elderly assistant Tresca had seen before shuffled forward. ‘I’ll serve this customer.’ He turned back to her, lowering his voice as the warm smile reached his cinnamon-coloured eyes. ‘So, how is my young lady of the lamp-post? I do hope your friend is recovering from her loss.’
A shadow passed over Tresca’s face. ‘I don’t suppose it’s something you ever get over. But she’s gone back to her family in Ireland and she were mortal pleased to be going home.’
‘Of course. And really, how in
sensitive of me. I know how it was when my father died. He built up this business from scratch, you know. Now, how can I be of service?’
‘I’d like to look at some saucepans, please,’ Tresca announced, feeling proper grand that she could afford a new one for cooking on the range stove, which, though small, could fit two pans at the same time. ‘And I’d like to choose an oil lamp, too.’
‘Shall we see to that first?’ Morgan Trembath came round to her side of the counter, pointing to a shelf displaying a range of lamps. ‘Is it for indoor or outdoor use?’
She chose a prettily shaped one with a fluted glass globe for one shilling and ten pence, and a small saucepan for cooking vegetables. Morgan would deliver them free of charge, and she paid the bill, smiling her thanks. As she turned away from the counter, a severe-looking woman she recognized as Mrs Trembath entered the shop. Tresca nodded briefly at her, but the woman seemed to stare right through her.
‘What are you doing, serving customers?’ Tresca heard her demand as she reached the door. ‘That’s what we pay assistants for. And especially not a little guttersnipe like that. Did you see her threadbare coat? And wasn’t she fraternizing with that great Irish navvy chap recently? Really, Morgan, you should know better.’
Tresca’s heart plummeted. She had been having such a wonderful time, buying things she had never thought they would be able to afford. She had found a thick rug to go over the floorboards, and some pretty gingham material to make two new bedspreads. The room would look so fresh and cosy by the time she had finished.
Now she felt ashamed and disillusioned, her happy mood chased away. How dare Mrs Trembath talk about her like that – especially when she had just spent a fair sum in her shop. Tresca set her jaw defiantly. Oh, damn her! What a hateful woman. And pity young Mr Trembath for having her as a mother.
‘You’ve got this room looking really lovely,’ Vera told her admiringly as she drank tea from one of the pair of fine china cups Tresca had bought in one of Tavistock’s many little shops.
‘Well, with just my father and me living on his wage, I’ve been able to spend some money on it,’ Tresca explained, a little bashful at Vera’s praise. ‘And it’s all somewhat better than our room at Mrs Mawes’s house. Oh, I’m sorry.’ She pulled herself up short, blushing with remorse. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. Mrs Mawes is your friend, and we were mortal grateful when you sent us to her when we first arrived here.’
But Vera flapped her hand dismissively. ‘I wouldn’t exactly call Mrs Mawes a friend. She was very upset when her husband died. That’s how I came to know her, through the vicar who conducted the funeral. I think the real reason, mind, was that she didn’t know if she could afford the lease on the house.’
‘She doesn’t own it, then?’
‘Good Lord, no. Virtually all the houses in Bannawell Street belong to the Duke of Bedford. But he doesn’t mind people taking in lodgers, so that’s what I suggested to Mrs Mawes. She didn’t like the idea at first. Considered it beneath her. Though God knows why.’
Tresca blinked in astonishment. She could not have imagined the refined, benevolent Vera Miles either thinking or speaking like that. The surprise must have shown on her face as Vera laughed aloud.
‘I’m not so naive as you may think,’ she grinned. ‘And I’m so looking forward to having you as a friend. But I must be off. Some unfortunates of the parish to call on. Thank you so much for the tea.’
‘It’s my pleasure, Vera. Do come again, whenever you want.’
‘I should be delighted. Thank you.’
Tresca saw her out of the front door, feeling like a real lady. She had worked hard to have the room looking so fresh and pleasant, but now it was finished, she would spend no more time or money on it. And she would renew her search for work, for what was she to do all day with just the one room to keep clean and tidy? But first she would walk up the hill and call in to see Elijah Edwards’s wife. A lovely woman she was, but her legs were playing her up in this bitterly cold weather and she couldn’t get out, so Tresca was sure she could do with a little company.
She went out into the frosty December afternoon, grateful for her warm coat, and turned up the street. The coalman was coming down the hill, his massive carthorse blowing clouds of steam into the air, and Tresca stood back to let the wagon past. Beautiful animal, she sighed to herself, and just for a split second she saw herself back at Tremaine Farm. A pang of regret pricked her heart, and she forced it aside. No looking back, only forward.
Besides, Bannawell Street really was beginning to feel like home.
Nine
It was mid-afternoon and Tresca was preparing the vegetables for the evening meal when the door opened quietly. She glanced up, and there was Emmanuel on the threshold.
‘What you’m doing here?’ she asked in surprise. ‘Has the tunnel collapsed and you’ve had to stop work again?’ It had happened the previous week, a minor fall laying off a few labourers, including Emmanuel, for an afternoon while more skilled men shored it up.
Emmanuel rubbed his chin, his lips wrinkling into a sheepish knot. And slowly Tresca’s heart sank as her father staggered into the room.
‘That there bloody Irish Paddy ’as given me my marchin’ orders,’ he grumbled. ‘Said as I were drunk. Only ’ad a sip. Fellow’s got fer keep warm this snipey weather.’
Tresca stared at him, stunned and horrified. Surely she must have heard wrong. Yet she knew she hadn’t. Black anger flared up inside her as she watched Emmanuel lumber past her and drop down on to his bed, her stomach sickening at the stench of alcohol on his breath. She could fly at him, yell out her frustration, but what was the point? After everything they had been through, all her hard work, the fight drained out of her, leaving her lost and fragile. Defeated.
Before the shock had properly taken hold, Emmanuel was fast asleep, snoring for England, drunk as a lord. It was no wonder Connor had dismissed him. But what were they to do? Tresca’s eyes lingered over the room Vera had admired only the previous day and she could have wept.
Oh, what a fool she had been! She knew what her father was like, so why had she trusted him, even allowed him some pocket money? She had been so caught up in the euphoria of having a proper home of their own for the first time ever that her mind had blanked out all its doubts.
She sat, staring into space, for ten minutes as the veil of shock slowly lifted and her brain began to function again. They had food for the next few days, so she might as well continue preparing the evening meal, though she had such a sinking feeling in her stomach that she didn’t think she could eat a morsel. Her mind searched for a solution as her fingers worked automatically. She had nearly nine shillings in her purse, five of which would be needed for the fortnight’s rent due at the end of the following week. But they also had to eat. Oh, if only she hadn’t spent all that money on those things to make their life more comfortable!
But crying over spilt milk wouldn’t solve the problem. She supposed it would be too much to expect that Emmanuel might have some money left in his pockets. He didn’t stir as she moved him around on the bed to get at them. A silver sixpence and a few coppers were all she could find. And an empty hip flask which he must have purchased at the same time as the brandy to put in it.
Tresca sat down again, clawing her way through the fog. One of them would have to find work, so the search would be on all over again. Unless . . . It came to her in a flash of inspiration. Connor liked her. Although she felt angry with him, she supposed she couldn’t really blame him. But perhaps she could make use of their friendship, plead with him? It would mean swallowing her pride, but this was a fight for survival.
Darkness descended in a cold, raw curtain, but while Emmanuel slept on, Tresca was thinking about what she would say to Connor. As the time approached when she knew he would be home, her stomach began to churn with apprehension. Perhaps she should wait a little, give him time to eat his dinner and then maybe, on a full stomach, he might reconsider.
When s
he knocked on his front door, all the words she had planned disappeared from her head.
‘Can I speak to Mr O’Mahoney, please?’ she stammered at the landlord when he opened the door.
‘Come in out of the cold,’ the elderly man invited her at once. ‘Wait here and I’ll go up to his room. He’ll be down directly for dinner anyway. Who shall I say be calling?’
Oh dear. She hadn’t timed it right after all. Connor would be hungry and wanting his dinner. But it was too late now. ‘Miss Ladycott,’ she answered, trying to sound more confident than she felt.
‘Wait here. I won’t be a moment, young maid.’
But the fellow’s bandy legs took him up the stairs at an agonizingly slow pace, leaving Tresca alone in the hallway. The house smelt of good food and polish, there was an elegant hallstand, and carpet on the stairs, held in place by gleaming brass rods. Oh, it was so much nicer than even their own new home, and Tresca’s heart pricked with envy.
‘He’ll be down directly,’ the landlord told her, taking the stairs a step at a time, then he disappeared through a door at the far end of a narrow passage. Tresca heard footsteps on the floor above, and the tall, familiar figure of Connor O’Mahoney tripped down the stairs, remarkably light-footed for a man of his size. What startled her was that he was in his shirtsleeves, cuffs rolled up to the elbows and buttons undone showing the top of his chest. He had evidently been washing for there was a towel slung round his neck and shaving soap on his cheek where he had missed it in his haste. It made him look altogether quite attractive, and Tresca reared away from the thought.
‘Ah, Tresca.’ She noticed his eyes weren’t bright and mischievous as they so often were. Rather he was looking at her cautiously. ‘I think I know why you’re here.’
‘I’m sure you do. Please, Connor. Give my father another chance. Give him his job back. I don’t know what we’m going to do, else.’
She gazed up at him, heart battering against her ribs, while he seemed to consider. But then his frown deepened. ‘Sure I can’t, little one.’ He sucked in his lips, watching the distress on her face. ‘You know how dangerous the work is. Blasting, using dynamite and gunpowder. The inevitable rockfalls no matter how careful we are. All the men need to be on their toes the whole time. Can’t one drunken man put the whole team in danger. I just can’t take that risk. And sure isn’t it the company rule to dismiss anyone found drinking on the job.’
