Ragamuffin Angel

by Rita Bradshaw

  ‘No, Harold won’t mind.’ Lucy’s face was straight and determined. ‘If we are going to remain friends he will have to get used to my seeing you, won’t he. Till Tuesday then.’

  Connie watched the tall slim figure treading carefully along the snowy pavement until Lucy turned, raising her gloved hand in farewell at the corner of Walworth Way and Union Street before disappearing from view. Then she closed the door, leaning against it for a few moments before she glanced down at the pale lilac envelope in her hand.

  Had she been foolish to allow herself to be swayed by friendship? Probably. She continued leaning against the door for some seconds and then walked through to the sitting room. But she couldn’t have done anything else feeling as she did. She hadn’t wanted to be able to put herself in Harold Alridge’s shoes, nor to appreciate the pain and concern Lucy was feeling for her husband, but she couldn’t help it. She shook her head at what, at this moment, felt like weakness and sat down heavily on the saddle, staring into the red glow of the fire for some time before she roused herself to tear open the envelope. Mind, she had always known there was virtually no chance of the police accepting her version of events against Colonel Fairley’s once they knew she was Sadie Bell’s daughter. The prospect of having to explain in intimate detail to strangers what had happened was bad enough, but knowing that her story would be treated with scepticism. . .

  It was a moment before Connie’s eyes focused on the bank draft in her hand, and when they did she remained absolutely still for a full thirty seconds; she didn’t know whether she wanted to laugh or cry. Twenty-five pounds. Oh Lucy, Lucy. Twenty-five pounds. Even if she had accepted the housekeeper’s position there was six months’ wages here, a small fortune. And with what she already had in the sweet jar. . . Her heart began to gallop so fast she pressed her hand against her chest.

  Would Lucy still have given her the envelope if she hadn’t agreed to say nothing about the Colonel? And then in the next instant she told herself sharply, That doesn’t matter. You’ll never know one way or the other now so don’t waste time thinking about it. Seventy pounds. Seventy pounds! She, Connie Bell, had seventy pounds. Seventy pounds’ worth of power. Her mother, all of them, had been trampled on and used and treated like scum because they had lacked money and prestige. The only way she was going to be safe was to protect herself with these things. And money made money. By, it did that; she’d proved it herself when she had been able to put the deposit down on Walworth Way and enable them to live for the last months rent-free. And perhaps that was the way to go now? To rent a place to start off her business? She had been thinking small in buying a tiny cottage and then converting the front room to a shop or something similar, but why not rent a much larger building she could use for tea-rooms too?

  The surge of excitement brought her up from the saddle and pacing the floor, the envelope still clutched in her hand. She could do it – she knew she could do it – but where did she start? She didn’t even know how to go about cashing the bank draft. And then, as they had done so often in the past during her childhood, her thoughts turned to Father Hedley. He would know, the Father would know how to go about things; he would advise her. She hugged the envelope to her, closing her eyes tight as she swayed for a moment with her chin lifted high. She’d go and see him this very day, he’d be getting ready for his sermon on Sunday tomorrow so it was best she went today. And then, careless of the bruises and scratches that marked the soft flesh of her breasts and inner thighs under her clothes she twirled round the room a few times, doing something she would never have thought possible after the events of the evening before – laughing out loud.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Kitty had ceased to compare her Aunty Ida’s house with that of Edith Stewart long ago.

  Her aunty lived close to the White Swan in High Street East which lay above the old riverside houses in Low Street, and which was connected by narrow alleyways and passages to the dockside. In the summer the smell from the outside privies and the small lanes linking the streets could be overpowering on occasion, but today it was snowing and freezing hard and the white blanket covered over a multitude of sins.

  But in spite of the dirt and insanitary conditions, and the step which hadn’t seen a bathbrick for a decade, Kitty always felt a sense of peace envelop her when she walked through the battered, paintless door that led into the dwelling which housed her aunty’s copious brood.

  Kitty was fifty years of age but looked ten years younger and this seemed to be a family trait because Ida Pearsley could have passed for a fat fifty-year-old in spite of being sixty-two. Her husband had died some years before, but the threestoreyed house was filled to overflowing with two of her married sons and their families, totalling ten grandchildren in all, her other nine sons and five daughters and their prolific families living in rented accommodation all over the East End and Bishopwearmouth. Ida was a devout Catholic and proud of it, and as Kitty looked at her now, in the sympathetic light of the dark winter’s day, Ida said, ‘You trust your instinct, lass, it’s never done you down afore. If ever there’s an upstart swine she’s one. Aye, she is, an’ worse an’ all. But she’ll get her come-uppance. You can’t mock God an’ get away with it, now then. You was right to tell the lad to hold out for what he wants.’

  ‘You don’t think I was adding fuel to the fire?’

  ‘By tellin’ a grown man of twenty. . . What?’

  ‘Twenty-seven. Dan’s twenty-seven.’

  ‘By tellin’ a grown man of twenty-seven to go his own road? Come on, lass, you’re canny, you always have bin, but you don’t need to be canny to know he should’ve bin weaned from the breast nigh on twenty-five years ago.’ Ida hitched up her own enormous bosom – which hung to below her waist like two pendulous melons – with her forearms before she continued, ‘An’ it strikes me your Dan’s a canny lad himself, comin’ back to clear out his togs an’ all yesterday when Lady Muck’d got one of her blessed dinners on. Knew she wouldn’t play up in front of all the fancy wives, didn’t he.’

  Kitty nodded. ‘He was in and out in five minutes. Not that he’s gutless, Aunty Ida, not Dan, but he knows there’s no reasoning with her, that’s the thing.’

  ‘An’ you say he’s fair gone on this bit lass, the one John went for, at Art’s?’

  ‘He’s fair gone on her all right,’ said Kitty flatly. Would that he wasn’t. Oh, she’d got nowt against the lass herself – how could she have? The last time she’d seen Connie Bell she’d been a ragamuffin bairn with the face of an angel and a spirit that had been all at odds with her small stature. The way she’d taken Edith Stewart on had been something to see that day thirteen years ago. But it wasn’t in Edith’s nature to forget or forgive the slightest slur – imagined or otherwise – and the fact that the lass had dared to lay hands on her. . . She’d been beside herself for days, weeks.

  ‘Well, what will be will be, lass, but now the young ’un’s skedaddled the same as the rest the offer of a home here still holds good. It’s not Ryhope Road, I grant you that, an’ when my lot are stuffin’ their kites come an evenin’ it’s more like feedin’ time at the zoo, but compared to what it was like in the old days when all the bairns were young it’s not so bad. You could share the front room with me, there’s the desk bed already in there, an’ if nothin’ else we could have some right good cracks, eh, lass?’

  ‘Thanks, Aunty Ida, but I can’t leave.’

  ‘Why not? It’s about time you had a bit of a life, now then. She’d soon get someone else an’ you’d pick up somethin’ if you weren’t too fussy, enough for your wants leastways. Money isn’t everythin’, lass.’ And then as Ida glanced at the two bulging bags of groceries Kitty had brought, she added, her voice suddenly uncharacteristically soft, ‘Not that I’m not grateful, you know that. There’s bin times in the past when you’ve kept this family goin’, lass. I’m just thinkin’ of you, that’s all.’

  ‘I know.’ How could she explain that it wasn’t misguided loyalty to her m
istress or even her comfortable lifestyle that still tied her to the Stewart household? The Stewart children were her children, that’s how she felt about them, even poor Mavis who now didn’t know a soul and lived in a world of her own in her institution down south. And the person they needed protecting from more than anyone else was their mother, and she wouldn’t be able to deflect Edith’s wrath or tip them the wink when necessary or steer them through troubled waters – things she did as naturally as breathing – if she wasn’t at the hub of the family. She had thought it would be different once the children were older and had left home but it wasn’t, it was worse if anything. And now this latest with Dan, her bonny lad. . . But then Kitty was saved from having to try to explain, the conversation being cut short when what appeared to be a whole throng of children came bursting into the none too clean kitchen where they were sitting, followed by Ida’s daughters-in-law, big blowsy women in the same mould as their respective husbands’ mother.

  ‘Eee, Mam, it’s enough to freeze your lugs off out there.’

  ‘Granny, I spent me penny on bullets an’ scenty mixtures an’ now our Charlie wants one ’cos he’s ate his.’

  ‘Our Josie kicked me, Gran.’

  ‘I didn’t, Gran. He’s a dirty liar, he is.’

  There was more, much more, and when Kitty left the house an hour later she had had two cups of strong black tea and three of her aunty’s hot girdle scones doused with butter, and had laughed more than a little. But by the time she had made her way to the tram stop the brightness was fading from her face. They might not have room to swing a cat back there, and the smell and general dirt hit you backwards when you first walked through the door, but they were happy and cheerful and normal. Normal. What did any of the Stewart children know about normal?

  She bit hard on her lip, blinking her eyes a little in the bitingly cold air in which desultory snowflakes were drifting haphazardly in the keen wind as she recalled Dan’s parting words the day before.

  ‘I shall never forgive John, Kitty – not if I live to be a hundred. And her, she’s made him what he is.’ Strange, very strange after all the humiliations and hurts she had suffered under Edith Stewart, but the ‘her’ had pierced her through. But then it was her lad she was thinking of rather than his mother, Kitty thought now. The ‘her’ spoke of deep pain and resentment. ‘But they aren’t going to spoil this for me. We were getting on fine until John came in. She likes me, I know she does.’

  ‘She couldn’t do anything else.’ She had been smiling as she had spoken but he hadn’t responded in like, his face straight and strained as he’d said, ‘She’s the one, Kitty. Whatever it takes.’

  Whatever it takes. Kitty drew in a numbingly cold breath as the tram rumbled to a stop in front of her, the conductor’s voice cheerful as he said, ‘It’s a raw ‘un, lass. You’re best in than out the day.’

  Well, whatever it took she would be there for her lad, to act as a buffer between him and the joint forces of Edith and John. Kitty stared unseeingly out of the window as she sat on the long, wooden seat with a little plop. But John was a wily and hard-bitten adversary, and his mother. . .

  As the tram jerked and stuttered on Kitty found herself praying, something she hadn’t done in many a long day. Pray God she was strong enough to see Dan and the little lass through, aye, pray God. Because there was more to come. She could feel it in her bones.

  ‘And who shall I say is calling?’ Mrs Clark was at her most officious. Since Father McGuigan’s death the year before a young priest had joined Father Hedley and as yet he hadn’t won the hearts of the flock. Consequently Father Hedley’s workload had doubled, if not trebled, and the good Mrs Clark was worried about him. This was the third visit of the day by a parishioner – why did they have to bother him at home? What did they think the confessional box was for anyway? No wonder he had caught one cold after another this winter. Run down, that’s what he was.

  ‘Connie Bell.’

  ‘And it won’t wait until Sunday?’ Mrs Clark asked frostily.

  ‘No, it won’t.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Mrs Clark ran disapproving eyes over the beautiful young girl standing on the doorstep. Bonny is as bonny does, and this one was a mite too pushy for her liking. Mind, when she’d first opened the door she had half expected the lass to ask for Father Brody. On the rare occasions the young priest did have any parishioners call to see him it was usually bit lasses fluttering their eyelashes. Brazen some of them were.

  ‘Wait here.’ Mrs Clark stood to one side to allow Connie to enter the hall and pointed to a spot inside the front door. ‘I’ll see if the Father can be disturbed.’

  Sixty seconds later Connie was sitting in Father Hedley’s study in front of a roaring fire, her body filled with the gratification the warmth of the old priest’s greeting had engendered. He was so nice, Father Hedley. He was. And she should have tried to get to mass much more often. It wasn’t fair she only went to church once in a blue moon now, and he’d think she only came to see him when she was in some trouble or other.

  If Father Hedley was thinking along those lines he gave no sign of it as he said, his eyes twinkling, ‘So you managed to get past Mrs Clark, eh? Don’t mind her, she’s a good woman, none better, but she worries about me. Now, what can I do for you, Connie?’

  Her previous thoughts made her face red as she said, ‘I want some advice, Father, about. . . about some money I’ve saved.’

  ‘Advice about money?’ Father Hedley sat up straighter, and there was a moment’s silence before he said quietly, ‘How much money?’

  ‘Seventy pounds, Father.’

  ‘Seventy pounds?’

  ‘I didn’t save all of it, the last twenty-five was from Mrs Alridge. Well, Mr Alridge really but he wouldn’t have given me anything if it wasn’t for her.’

  He could remember this acute sense of disquiet from the past and it had only ever been this child who had caused it, but she wasn’t a child any more. She was a beautiful, a very beautiful young woman. And seventy pounds was a lot of money. Father Hedley was bolt upright now and there was no shred of laughter left in his face when he said, ‘I think you had better start at the beginning, Connie, all right?’

  And so she did, and she told him it all, even the incident concerning Colonel Fairley, although she stuttered and stammered a bit over that.

  There was an even longer silence when she had finished, and just when she was thinking she would have to say something to break it, Father Hedley spoke, his voice filled with something approaching awe. ‘You mean to say. . .’ He stopped, cleared his throat once, and went on, ‘You mean to say you saved forty-five pounds out of your wages over the last years? Didn’t you want to spend it on yourself? Buy things?’

  ‘Oh, I did sometimes.’

  ‘And you’ve got this money in a sweet jar in your home?’

  Connie nodded. ‘But Mr Alridge’s is here.’ She handed the Father the lilac envelope which he opened slowly, staring at it for a few moments before raising his eyes to her waiting face.

  ‘This man, this Colonel Fairley? He didn’t. . .’

  ‘No, no, he didn’t, Father.’ She was brick-red now and sweating slightly, but it was more to do with embarrassment than the heat from the big coal fire.

  ‘Glory be to God for that, child. And you are content to take the matter no further?’

  Connie nodded. She didn’t know about content but her mind was made up. That part of her life was over with, finished, and it was time to move on. ‘He’s already left for Europe, Father.’

  ‘He could be brought back.’

  ‘No.’ She couldn’t repress an involuntary shudder. ‘No, I prefer it this way.’

  ‘So be it. Well, God works in mysterious ways. Aye, He does that.’ Father Hedley stared at her for another moment before he shook his grey head, glancing at the elaborately decorated clock on the mantelpiece as he said, ‘I usually have my tea and biscuits at this time. Do you like shortbread and ginger nuts?’

  ‘Aye
, yes I do, Father.’

  ‘Then we’ll have a sup and a bite, and see what’s to be done, eh? I’ve a mind you’d better start with a visit to my bank manager in Fawcett Street.’

  The next morning saw Connie – armed with the name and address of Father Hedley’s bank manager, who was also the priest’s friend and a patient man as his dealings with the church roof fund proved – walking along a noisy, bustling Fawcett Street. She was carrying the sweet jar, now wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, in both hands, and she had the lilac envelope in her pocket. Somehow, and she couldn’t have explained the whys and wherefores even to herself, she hadn’t wanted to place the envelope with the silver coins and notes she had saved with such painstaking devotion.

  Fawcett Street was grand and spacious with its three- or four-storey houses and shops, the Gothic building which housed the offices of the Gas Company and the imposing frontage of the Athenaeum – minus its classical Greek columns which had been removed some years before because it was considered they were causing an obstruction – among them, but it was the beautiful Town Hall with its magnificent clock tower which dominated the sky line.

  Connie was feeling very small and very insignificant as she trod the wide pavements in what was the heart of Sunderland’s business world, her breakfast sitting heavy in her stomach and her nerves taut as she reached the bank’s handsome building.

  It would be all right, she could do this.

  She bent down and placed the sweet jar on the pavement which some conscientious bank employee had cleared of packed snow and ice, and took a deep breath as she straightened, adjusting her blue felt hat and smoothing down the lapels of her grey winter coat. She had cleaned her hat with salt and flour that morning, brushed down her coat and shined her black boots; she was as neat and well turned out as she could make herself, she told her quivering stomach bracingly.

  All she had to do was to ask for Mr Bainbridge. Father Hedley had promised he would let the bank manager know she would be arriving some time after ten o’clock. And then once she had shown him the contents of the sweet jar and the envelope they could discuss the possibility of her renting premises with a view to starting up a little business. A shop, tea-rooms too, whatever.