by Valerie Wood
The warder showed him where to empty his pail and swill it out under the pump. Mikey ducked his head and face under the stream of cold water to refresh himself. He shook his head and hair and took another breath. Right, he thought. What’s next?
‘Papa?’ Eleanor hesitated. Her father did not encourage questions, but on evenings when he was home early from his office and not working late, as he often did, she visited her parents in the drawing room before they went down to the dining room for supper to tell them about her lessons and the happenings of her day. He was the one who instigated the questions, and she answered them. Never, in all her eleven years, could she remember daring to pluck up the courage to ask him anything.
Her days were long. There were lessons every morning from her governess, Miss Wright, who was, she insisted, always right; after the midday meal there was a walk to the pier if the weather was clement, or to a museum if it was not, with either her governess or one of the maids. There had never been anything she wanted to ask or tell her father. He was a remote figure who happened to be married to her mother.
Her mother might come to the schoolroom occasionally and sit on a chair for five minutes and question Miss Wright vaguely on the subject that Eleanor was studying, or tell her about a letter received from her older brother Simon, who was away at a hated boarding school. Then she would drift away, saying she had masses to do before Eleanor’s lawyer father returned home for luncheon.
Eleanor never received letters from her brother. Once, when he was very young and had first gone away, he had written to her, but Eleanor wasn’t allowed to read the letter. It had been intercepted by her father and confiscated. Eleanor knew in her heart that it had contained a message of misery, for Simon hadn’t wanted to go to school. He feared it, and on subsequent visits home told Eleanor how terrible it was; how the masters beat him and the other boys did too. Now, at almost thirteen, he stood up for himself and boasted to her that he gave out similar punishments to younger, newer boys.
Her father raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you wish to ask me something, Eleanor?’
Eleanor bit hard on her lip. Her heart was pounding. ‘I just – I just wanted to ask—’
‘Speak up, child,’ her father said impatiently. ‘Don’t mumble.’
She swallowed, wishing she hadn’t begun the conversation. She glanced at her mother for encouragement, but Mrs Kendall was gazing down into her lap and was no help at all. ‘I wondered what had happened to that boy. The one who stole the rabbit.’ She trembled at her own boldness. If her father hadn’t chosen that particular day to take her to his place of work for the very first time, so that she might see for herself how he conducted his affairs and made a living for the family, then she would have known nothing about the incident. But she had witnessed it, and she had not been able to dismiss it from her mind.
Her father drew himself up in his chair, his shoulders even straighter than usual, though he never slouched. ‘And what, young lady, is that to do with you?’
‘Nothing, Papa; but I wondered if he’d been very hungry and that was why he stole it.’ She felt her cheeks growing pink, but she raised her eyes to his.
‘Two rabbits, Quinn stole. That was the crime, even though he had only one in his hands when he was so timely caught. The other he probably passed on to an accomplice.’ He narrowed his gaze. ‘I hope you are not feeling sorry for him?’
She didn’t answer, but put her hands behind her back and hung her head.
‘He has gone to prison,’ he said scathingly. ‘The best place for him. But not for long enough, in my opinion. One month is not sufficient time for him to consider the error of his ways. Look at me, girl! You are not to even think about it, do you understand?’
‘Edgar, dear,’ her mother protested, but uneasily. ‘I’m sure she won’t. She is merely curious. Isn’t that so, Eleanor?’
‘Yes, Mama.’ Eleanor heard the entreaty in her mother’s voice, but was exceedingly glad that her father wasn’t able to read her mind, for if he could she would surely get a whipping, just as Simon sometimes did.
Her father ignored her mother’s appeal. ‘You must take a lesson from it. Breaking the law is a crime and punishment is the only answer. It’s a great pity that public whipping and the pillory are no longer sanctioned,’ he continued, getting on to his favourite topic. ‘That’s the answer: sharp deterrents to stop these young criminals from offending again.’
Eleanor was excused and told to return upstairs. Nothing was asked about her day. Supper was always served promptly and her allotted time had been taken up by her father’s disquisition on crime. She still had no answer to her most pressing question: why had the boy stolen the rabbits?
She decided she would consult Nanny. Nanny wouldn’t shout at her or tell her it was nothing to do with her. Nanny had been her mother’s nurse, and had looked after Mrs Kendall when she was young. She was old and white-haired and stricken with rheumatism, but she regularly gave Eleanor a hug when she sensed the girl was feeling sad or lonely. It was the only affection that Eleanor received. Her mother gave her a peck on the cheek every evening, but her father only inclined his head as she dipped her knee in goodnight.
Eleanor hadn’t discussed the subject with Nanny before, but she told her now as they sat by the nursery fire and she drank milk and ate bread and butter and Nanny had a glass of stout.
Eleanor was, of course, too big for a nursery now and the old bassinet which had been Simon’s and then hers had been removed. When Simon came home he slept in a small room, not much bigger than a cupboard, on a truckle bed which was put away when he returned to school, and the nursery now only contained Eleanor’s bed and washstand and chest of drawers. But Nanny kept her squashy old chair by the fire and Eleanor had a cane basket chair drawn up on the other side of the hearth, and here they sat in companionship every evening, although Nanny often fell asleep after finishing her stout whilst her charge read a book for an hour until bedtime.
‘So this young feller-me-lad stole some rabbits and got caught,’ Nanny mused, and took a sip from her glass. ‘And went to prison?’
Eleanor nodded. ‘That’s what Papa said. He said he had gone for a month and that it wasn’t long enough. But I wondered – I wondered why he had stolen them. Do you think, Nanny, that he did it for a lark, or was someone going to cook them for supper?’
Nanny pondered and took another satisfying draught of ale. ‘Did he look like a young swell that’d do such a thing for a lark, or a roughneck from the hoi polloi who was down on his uppers?’
‘Oh, he wasn’t a swell,’ Eleanor protested. ‘And he had blood on his hands which would have been distasteful to a gentleman.’ She considered. ‘He had a dirty face and his boots were shabby. Oh, yes, and his breeches were ragged.’
‘So what do you think?’ Nanny asked softly. ‘It would seem to me to be quite obvious.’
‘Yes.’ Eleanor felt very sad. ‘I think that he must have been very hungry to do such a shameful thing. But I’m sorry that he had to stoop so low.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ Nanny commented sourly. ‘The butcher must have been devastated to lose his income, and who knows what happened to the rabbits.’
‘Oh, the policeman took the one the boy had. He said it would be used in evidence. But I don’t know about the one he dropped; perhaps whoever found it took it back to the butcher.’
‘More than likely,’ Nanny nodded. ‘Yes, could well be so. On the other hand’ – she gazed affectionately at Eleanor and wondered who would ever advise her on the way of the world – ‘it might have made somebody a good supper.’
Eleanor gazed wide-eyed at her. ‘But do you not think it would turn sour in their stomachs with the knowledge of its being stolen?’
Nanny drained her glass. ‘No, my dear. I don’t. But don’t tell your father I said so.’
‘You don’t think he’ll be hanged, do you?’ Eleanor asked after a moment’s silence. ‘Papa told him he might swing from a rope one day.’
�
�Did he? Well, your papa would know about such things, being in law himself. But I shouldn’t worry,’ Nanny said kindly. ‘They’ll not hang him this time, and mebbe after a spell in prison he’ll walk a straight line. If he’s not starving, that is,’ she added, and gave a little grunt as she bent to put more coal on the fire. ‘It’s incredible what lengths a person will go to if he’s got a hunger in his belly.’
Eleanor took another small bite of bread. She had been hungry too, but now her appetite seemed to have vanished. Poor boy, she thought. Yet he hadn’t seemed too downcast; rather it had seemed as if he was trying to reassure her when her father had mentioned the hanging and she had given such a start. If I could only see him, she thought, I could warn him of what might become of him if he continues on this downward path. But then I don’t suppose he would listen. I’m only a girl and not very wise, and only know about spelling and art and music, and even if I was grown up it would be the same, except that, like Mama, I would know my duty.
CHAPTER FOUR
‘I’ll do as I like.’ Bridget tossed her head and turned her back on her mother.
‘That you won’t, Bridget Turner. You’ll do as I say and you will not stay out half the night like a wanton.’ Her mother shook a dish rag at her daughter. ‘If your dada finds out—’
‘He’ll not find out and if he did he wouldn’t care. He’s drunk in ’alehouse more often than not.’ Bridget knew her mother had no answer to that. She had escaped from a merrymaking Irish family only to marry an English drunkard. ‘Anyway, I was doing nothing, onny chatting with friends.’
‘Until two in a morning! Sweet Mary, what kind of reputation will that get you?’
Bridget shrugged. ‘Don’t care. Folks can think what they like.’
‘Was Rosie Quinn with you?’
Bridget gave a scornful laugh. ‘That bairn! Her ma won’t let her out of her sight.’
‘Quite right too,’ her mother responded. ‘With a son in prison she must be at her wits’ end to keep her other children on the straight and narrow.’ She gave a deep sigh. ‘Poor woman. What a disgrace. Such shame, and he seeming such a grand lad. I’d never of thought of Mikey Quinn’s being a thief.’
‘For heaven’s sake, Ma! He onny stole a couple o’ rabbits. They were hanging there right in front of his nose. If I’d seen ’em I might have done ’same. And I’d have run faster,’ she added.
‘Don’t you dare! Never set foot in this house with stolen goods. Do you hear?’ Una Turner raised her voice as she always did when her unruly children ignored what she was saying. ‘The Irish get blamed for everything in this town. It’s always our fault.’
‘I’m not Irish,’ Bridget disclaimed. ‘Onny half.’
‘True! You’re your father’s daughter all right.’ Her mother knew when she was beaten. ‘You’ll go to the bad just the same as he has.’ She threw the dish rag on to the table and put her shawl round her shoulders. ‘I’m going out. Somebody in this house has to try for honest work.’
She banged out of the door and Bridget crashed into a chair. Her head was splitting. It wasn’t true that she had only been talking with friends last night. She had been talking; but to seamen in a hostelry in the town and with a glass of gin in her hand. Not an inn which her father frequented, for had he seen her he would have sent her off with a humiliating sharp word or a slap. It wasn’t only the boys in this family who had felt the lash of his belt.
The seamen had plied her with drink, urging her to have another and then another. She accepted two and then offered to go up to the bar counter to collect a further jug of ale. ‘I know ’landlord,’ she’d said with a wink. ‘He knows me.’
There was much ribald comment on this remark and as she’d leaned over to collect the jug from the table she’d felt a rough hand up her skirt. She’d opened her palm for money for the ale and smiled sweetly at the bleary-eyed seamen who dropped in the coins. She bought the ale and asked the landlord to top up her gin glass with water, slipping the change into her skirt pocket.
She poured them all a glass of ale, then tossed back her gin and water and, with a little hiccup, swayed towards the door. ‘Shan’t be long,’ she slurred. ‘Must just go outside.’ She blew them a kiss. ‘Don’t go away.’
She had run to the next street and into another hostelry, where she had again met up with a group of seamen. ‘Just looking for a friend,’ she said, leaning provocatively over them. ‘Have you seen her? Fair hair, pretty, dressed in a blue shawl?’
‘No, darling, but come and join us until she turns up,’ they’d insisted. ‘You shouldn’t be on your own. It’s not safe.’ And once again she had felt their wandering hands and escaped with their loose change, but by then she had partaken of a generous accumulation of gin, which this morning was causing her headache.
She stretched and considered having a lie-down on her parents’ bed. It was more comfortable than her own pallet, which at night-time she unrolled in front of the fire. Her brothers too had either a pallet or a blanket, whilst their two youngest sisters slept at the bottom of their parents’ bed.
Her father hadn’t come home last night and she surmised that he was either under a table in one of the inns or bedded down in some woman’s room. ‘I’ll risk it,’ she murmured. ‘I’ll just have ten minutes.’
She dropped off to sleep in minutes and an hour later was rudely awakened when her father crashed in through the door. He didn’t notice her, and perched on the edge of the bed to take off his boots, which he threw across the room. He tore off his trousers and fell back on the mattress clad in only his grey shirt. Then he saw her.
‘What you doing?’ He glared at her. ‘Is it Bridget?’
‘Yes, Da.’ She pulled the blanket up to her chest. ‘I didn’t feel well so I came to lie down.’
He grabbed hold of her arm. ‘Where’s your ma?’
‘Gone to look for work.’ She bit nervously on her lip. Please God, don’t let him be violent.
He gave her a smack across the face. ‘That’s where you should be instead of your ma.’ He grabbed her shoulders and shook her. ‘Go and look for her. Tell her I want her back here.’
‘What if she’s in work, Da?’ Bridget rose hastily from the bed.
Her father gazed narrowly at her. ‘Then you come back; and bring me a jug of ale.’
‘Yes, Da.’ She had no intention of doing so, or of searching for her mother. Too often had she listened to her cries when she had been forced into the marital bed by a drink-sodden, abusive husband. No, she would wander the streets until she was sure that her father had had time to drop off to sleep, and then she might or might not return home, depending on what else was on offer.
I’ll not lead a life like my mother’s, she pondered as she went out of the narrow Todd’s Entry and headed towards Silver Street, where bankers and silversmiths and their well-to-do customers didn’t even notice the poor who lived amongst them. She passed the White Harte Tavern and on impulse turned back and went inside. The landlord eyed her keenly. He didn’t like lone women in his inn.
‘Give me a neat gin and a slice o’ bread and beef.’ Bridget handed him some coins. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not stopping.’
She drank the gin in one gulp and waited whilst he carved the beef and put it on a slice of bread. Then she took it without a word and went outside. She slid round the corner of the building and sat on the step to the side door, and hungrily devoured the food. Easiest money I’ve ever made, she thought as she chewed. If I had somewhere else to live I could manage on my own. I need enough money for a room but I’m not going to beg for it, nor slave in a factory or mill.
Having finished eating, Bridget got to her feet and wandered aimlessly down towards the Market Place. There was generally something going on there: traders shouting out their wares, preachers telling of kingdom come, soldiers on leave idling away their precious time and eyeing up the girls. Hm, she mused. Soldiers with a coin or two to spare.
She caught sight of Rosie Quinn and her mothe
r in front of her and slowed down so that she didn’t have to speak to them. She only cultivated Rosie’s friendship because of Mikey. Whiney little Rosie, she thought. As if I’d have her as my friend, a bairn like her! But Mikey! He wasn’t like any other lads she knew, and when he was older, say in a year or two, he would look at her with different eyes. They would be good together, she knew. He was nice-looking now in a boyish way, with a humorous gleam in his eyes, but he would become handsome and all the girls in the district would be after him; but he’ll be mine.
She continued into the Market Place, walking with a swagger, swinging her hips, her head held high. There was nothing demure about Bridget Turner; she was confident and aware of her own good looks, her dark glossy hair and green eyes, and aware too of the admiring glances cast her way by men old and young, pouting and tossing her head or giving an appealing smile when she thought it was merited.
‘Hello, Biddy,’ Jamie, a local man with a dubious reputation, called to her, but she ignored him, not even acknowledging him.
I’ll not speak to the likes of him, she thought. Dirt, that’s what he is. He should be in jail. He uses women to line his own pocket. Well, he’ll not use me. I’m above that. I’ll give myself to a man when it suits me, not before.
Her plan was to meet a rich older man who would buy her nice clothes, give her flowers, chocolate and perfume and pander to her every whim. They would leave Hull and live somewhere like London in a grand house and have their own smart carriage. She had not yet fathomed out how she would attract such a man, for she knew in her heart that she was shabby and poor, and in spite of her beauty he wouldn’t even notice her if she should meet him.
She continued on, stopping for an occasional chat with stallholders who offered her an apple or an orange and asked for nothing in return – or not at the moment anyway, she thought, smiling sweetly as she accepted, thinking that most people did nothing for nothing. She passed the apothecary’s shop and pondered that he had a son worth cultivating. Oliver Walker was young and handsome and had good prospects, but she shuddered as she thought of the boredom of being wed to a man in such a dull profession and having to stay in this town, when she longed for excitement and the chance to travel to other places.
