The Long Walk Home

by Valerie Wood

  ‘You have both proved yourselves useful today. You too, Sam,’ she added. ‘And I wondered if you would stay with us until the end of winter? We never have enough people to help and those who do have to earn a living and can’t give up all of their time. If you will stay and help us with the boys, we’ll feed and shelter you in return, although we can’t pay you anything. Not a penny.’

  A solution, Mikey thought, almost overwhelmed with relief. I shall be out of reach of Manners or Tully and Eleanor will be safe until the spring.

  The answer, Eleanor thought, to the very question I was going to ask. She had listened to Mikey’s stories of the children in Hull who never or hardly ever went to school. A ragged and industrial school had been opened in the town to provide education for poor boys, but as the boys who might have benefited from being there were insufficiently fed or clothed a more pressing need for their parents was to send them out to find work rather than spend the days learning their letters or numbers.

  If we stay here I can learn from Mrs Goodhart, Eleanor thought, and when we return home perhaps I can put that knowledge to some good. I must do something with my life now that I can no longer rely on my parents to support me.

  So it was agreed, and Sam too was pleased, as the decision of whether or not to go with Mikey and leave William behind could be put off until later.

  After a week, Eleanor suggested that she could try to raise funds for the shelter, and on her own initiative she approached shops and businesses in the area begging for money. If there wasn’t any money she asked for food: eggs, bread, and vegetables for making soup. She asked for blankets and bedding, clothing that was no longer needed, shirts and boots; and from young men of business who were charmed by her fragile looks she obtained promises of a regular payment as sponsor towards the education of a single boy.

  ‘Only think,’ she murmured to them. ‘One day that boy might work for you, and how grateful he will be.’

  December turned into January and January into a bitterly cold February when the snow lay so thick on the ground that no one ventured out and all the boys who normally slept outside were brought in and crowded in each and every corner. As March blew in, Mikey and Eleanor prepared to move on. Some of the older boys were now helping with the younger ones, and some of the people they had turned to for help came to give their time.

  ‘I think we shall be able to leave soon,’ Mikey said. ‘The weather is improving, and although it might be wet it won’t be so cold.’

  Eleanor agreed. Over the last few weeks she had begun to feel very homesick, even though she didn’t know if there would be a home waiting for her. What would she do if her father was still in prison? What would she do if there was no longer a house she could call home? Who would help her? No one, she thought. No one at all.

  ‘What will we do, Mikey?’ she murmured. ‘Where will we live?’

  He shook his head and privately wondered if St Mary’s archway was unoccupied. After the years he had been away would there have been any improvement in the lives of the poor? He thought of Milly, the young prostitute from Leadenhall Square. How had she fared, she and her child? I couldn’t take Eleanor there, he thought. She would be very shocked. He was worried about her. I’ll have to find her father, he thought, even if it means visiting him in prison. He must surely know someone who could take care of her.

  They began their journey the third week in March, accompanied by Sam. Sam’s brother was one of the boys to be given the chance of an education through the generosity of a sponsor. He was kitted out in nearly new clothes and was given pencils, pen and ink and several books for arithmetic, reading and writing.

  ‘I’ll come wiv you,’ Sam said to Mikey. ‘William doesn’t need me.’

  ‘But we do, Sam,’ Mikey said reassuringly. ‘I don’t think we’ll make it without you.’

  Mikey and Sam were better equipped for the journey back than they had been when they came. They and Eleanor too had sound boots, donated by a well-wisher. They dressed in warm clothing and flat caps and Eleanor, who had sold her coat some weeks before, wore a wool cape over a flannel skirt and bodice and had made a pleated bonnet, the kind she had seen market women wear. Mikey carried a blanket in his pack as well as extra socks for the three of them.

  ‘So, my dears, you are leaving us,’ Mrs Goodhart said, and her husband stood behind her at the door. ‘I am so sorry to lose you, but I know that our loss will be someone else’s gain. We wish you God speed on your journey and hope to hear of your safe arrival.’

  Some of the boys stood out in the yard to see them off, including William who pressed his lips together as he hugged Sam.

  ‘I’ll make a fortune one day, Sam,’ he said huskily, ‘and share it wiv you.’

  Sam only nodded, too full up to answer.

  ‘Come on then,’ Mikey said at last, after they had shaken hands all round. ‘Let’s be off.’

  A great cheer went up as they waved goodbye and some of the younger boys raced up the road to accompany them. They followed them for perhaps half a mile before turning back and giving a final wave.

  Mikey walked in the middle and tucked first Eleanor’s arm and then Sam’s into his. He didn’t speak to Sam, for he could see the boy was in tears, but he squeezed his arm to let him know he understood.

  He took a deep breath. What a responsibility. When he had set off for London he had wanted to travel alone, but Bridget had followed him, and on the whole he had been glad of her company. Now he had Ellie and Sam in his care, and, he thought, I couldn’t be happier.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  It was the beginning of June when they arrived in New Holland on the Lincolnshire shore of the Humber. ‘Nearly home,’ Eleanor breathed. She had never thought how pleased she would be to see these brown choppy waters. She was quite exhausted, and knew that there had been many times on the journey when but for Mikey she would have curled up in a ditch or under a hedge and died. On two occasions when she couldn’t walk any further, he had physically carried her to someone’s door and hammered on it to ask for refuge.

  Mikey squared his shoulders. ‘Not be long now.’ He took a deep breath. ‘By, that smells good! I can smell home. Can’t you smell it, Ellie? Fish oil, glue factory and salt from estuary all mingled together.’

  He grinned at her and then Sam, who was staring at the Humber in front of them. Sam didn’t quite share his enthusiasm, though he was glad to be almost at journey’s end. ‘I thought it’d be like the Thames, but it ain’t. It’s different. Not so many ships.’

  ‘Not here there aren’t, there’s just ’ferry and barges and fishing boats, but there’s a boat builder’s yard ower yonder; look.’ Mikey pointed across to the northern side. ‘They build big ships there, fighting ships an’ all. And when we get to Hull, you’ll see ’docks are crowded wi’ fishing boats and steamers, Humber keels and ships from other countries.’ Mikey wasn’t going to let anyone think that the mighty Humber estuary was in any way inferior to any other. He could hear in his head his local accent returning; he felt buoyed up with excitement.

  ‘Have we enough money for the ferry boat?’ Sam asked. ‘I wouldn’t fancy swimming across.’

  ‘Nor I.’ Eleanor laughed. She had been in charge of the little money they had managed to save, and the Goodharts had given them a small amount in case of emergencies which Eleanor had sewn into her skirt hem so that they were not tempted to spend it. They had all done small jobs of work to earn a slice of bread or a place on someone’s floor, Mikey and Sam chopping wood or drawing water and Eleanor once tending a sick woman with a baby whilst Sam ran to fetch a doctor. On many evenings they had slept outdoors, Eleanor gathering twigs and dried leaves so that Mikey or Sam could make a fire. These had been good times, when they had sat by a flickering fire in close companionship.

  They had used only sixpence of the Goodharts’ money and that was during one very wet week in April, when they had had to seek shelter or die of pneumonia. Mikey had led them to the house of an old woman i
n Retford, who, he said, if she was still alive, would put them up for the night for sixpence.

  Granny Hargreaves was still alive and surprisingly remembered him, though she confused Eleanor with Bridget. Eleanor hadn’t corrected her; she was too tired and too hungry to do any more than sink to the floor in front of her fire. The old woman had given them bread and tea and Mikey drew a pail of water and chopped enough wood for a week, which Sam stacked by her hearth.

  ‘I don’t suppose you came across my grandson in London, did you?’ she’d said to Mikey the next morning. ‘My daughter keeps on that if ever you come back this way I should ask you.’

  Mikey was amazed that she should recall her daughter’s conversation from five years before. He shook his head. ‘Sorry, ’fraid not,’ he said. ‘There’s millions of people living in London. Folk coming ’n’ going all ’time.’ He had shrugged into his coat ready to leave. ‘I expect he’ll let her know when he’s made his fortune.’

  Granny Hargreaves had cackled derisively. ‘Don’t think so! He couldn’t get away soon enough when he was a lad. He’ll have gone to the bad I shouldn’t wonder. He was always a ne’er-do-well. There was only his ma who thought the sun shone out of him.’

  Mikey had smiled broadly. ‘That’s what mothers do,’ he’d agreed.

  ‘We’ve just enough money to go across, I think,’ Eleanor said now.

  ‘I hope so,’ Mikey said. ‘It’s a long walk round.’

  They consulted the notice board for the fare price and they had enough, but the last ferry of the day had gone. They would have to wait until the morning when it returned.

  ‘Oh,’ Sam groaned. ‘If only there was a bridge, like in London!’

  ‘My father used to say that there will be one some day,’ Eleanor said, idly. ‘He said Brunel should have been asked. But it’s probably too late – he’s an old man now, and what a lot of money it would cost.’ She gazed out across the water. ‘I didn’t come this way,’ she told Sam. ‘I went first to Nottingham by train and then on to London.’ Her eyes shone. ‘I’ve never crossed the Humber and never imagined that I would be so thrilled to do so.’

  They spent the night in a hut by the landing stage which was apparently used by the ticket collector, who had inadvertently left it unlocked. They curled up together in a corner for comfort as much as for warmth, for it was reassuring to feel another’s presence close by.

  Presently Sam dropped off to sleep and Eleanor pulled the blanket Mrs Goodhart had given them up to his chin. The temperature still dropped rapidly at night and it would be easy to catch a chill.

  ‘Mikey,’ she said softly. ‘We’re nearly home.’

  He gave a slight nod. ‘You’re nearly home, Ellie,’ he murmured. ‘I haven’t a home to go to. I’m returning to my home town and I don’t know what’s in front of me.’

  Eleanor put her head on his shoulder. ‘Are you anxious? I am, even though I wanted to come back. And,’ she added, ‘I don’t know if I have a home waiting for me either.’

  He shifted himself so that he could put his arm round her. ‘Don’t let’s think on it now. There might be summat – something good waiting for us. But …’ He hesitated. He was worried. Worried that Eleanor’s father would ban him from seeing her, worried that he might send her away to live with a friend or a relative until she was of age, and he might never see her again. ‘But whatever happens, Ellie, I’ll never forget you and I hope you won’t forget me.’

  Eleanor sat up and stared at him; though it was dark in the hut, he could see how her eyes widened and her lips parted.

  ‘Forget you!’ she whispered. ‘You won’t go away? You won’t just take me home and then leave me? Mikey!’ She clutched his arm. ‘I couldn’t bear that! Please, say that isn’t what you mean?’

  ‘It isn’t what I mean,’ he assured her. ‘I’m back to stay. But you’re different from me, Ellie. We’ve not been brought up in ’same way; your father might not want me near you. Even though he has fallen on hard times, he’s still a gentleman and I’m not.’

  She gave a little laugh. ‘I don’t think he has ever been a gentleman. Not a proper one anyway. And are you forgetting, Mikey, that I too have had another life for eight months? Not long, I know, but enough for me to realize that I can have another existence. But I can’t do it without you, Mikey.’

  He smiled and kissed her cheek. ‘I won’t ever leave you,’ he said softly. ‘Not unless you tell me to. I love you, Ellie, and always will.’

  She was comforted by his declaration. She was sure that she loved him too though she didn’t say so, but snuggled up closer. Love wasn’t a word she was familiar with. She hadn’t heard either of her parents say it or show it, not to her or to each other. But hearing Mikey say it gave her such a feeling of warmth and contentment that she felt it must be love.

  They watched as the ferry arrived from Hull the next morning, saw the passengers disembark, and then had to wait two hours before it set off on the return journey. It was a glorious day with an eye-watering blue sky and the sun glinting on the estuary waters.

  ‘How long will it take us to get to the town?’ Sam asked. ‘Is it another long walk?’

  ‘No.’ Eleanor and Mikey spoke simultaneously. ‘We land at Hull pier and there we are,’ Mikey said.

  They both laughed, but nervously. ‘Can I suggest something?’ Eleanor said hesitantly. ‘If you agree, Mikey, I was going to say we could go straight to my parents’ house. If there is no one there, I know how to get in through the back, and we can at least be sheltered whilst we plan what to do next.’

  ‘Will there be food?’ Sam asked. He was always hungry.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Eleanor said. ‘Possibly. But I don’t know if Cook will still be there.’

  She felt silly, shamefaced even, admitting that she had lived in a house with a cook, and she saw the expression of disbelief on Sam’s face.

  ‘Crikey.’ He whistled. ‘Imagine that!’

  It’s strange, Mikey thought as they stepped off the boat. Everything looks the same and yet somehow different. The same wooden pier, ’same ticket office with ’clock above it. There’s Nelson Street and Wellington Street and ’Vittoria hotel, which was always too grand for me to go in. There’s ’old hoss wash. It’s me that’s different, I suppose. I went away as just a lad and now I’m five years older. But not much wiser, he mused. What have I achieved? Nothing. I’m as poor as I was when I left. I might just as well have stayed here and tried to make a living.

  They headed towards High Street and Eleanor’s house. Mikey and Eleanor said nothing, both anxious about what was in front of them. Sam broke into their reverie.

  ‘This is an old street, Eleanor.’ He no longer called her Miss, since she had asked him not to.

  ‘It is,’ she agreed. ‘It used to be the main street in Hull in ancient times, but now the town is being rebuilt and people are moving out of the old area. But my father wanted to stay. His offices …’ She faltered. ‘His offices are just along there.’ She waved a hand in the direction of a narrow lane. ‘He preferred to stay near his work.’

  Will he still be welcome there, she wondered. He was such a part of the legal community. Will they want him now?

  ‘Here we are,’ she said softly. ‘This is – was, once, my home.’

  She had come to a halt outside an old building with two steps up to the front door. Shutters obscured the windows and there was no light showing. Her heart sank. There was no one at home.

  ‘Come this way,’ she said quietly, and led them through a narrow iron gate at the side of the house. ‘This leads to the kitchen.’

  They followed her down a passage, past a side door and round to the back of the house. No one spoke and Eleanor put her hand on the door sneck. It lifted at her touch. The door was unlocked. She drew in a breath. Had someone forgotten to lock it or was there still a servant in the house?

  Slowly she pushed open the door which led into a lobby. A pair of leather boots stood side by side and an umbrella l
eaned in the corner. She indicated that Mikey and Sam should follow her and they stepped inside. She put a finger to her lips and carefully pushed open the door which led into the kitchen.

  She felt a rush of warm air and the yeasty smell of bread rising. ‘Someone’s here,’ she breathed. ‘Has the house been sold to someone else? Are we trespassing?’

  A small gasp escaped her lips as she stood in the doorway looking into the kitchen. Her father sat at the kitchen table, and opposite him, with her back to the door, sat Mary.

  Her father slowly lifted his head, hearing her almost inaudible exclamation. How grey and worn he looks, was her first thought, and why is he sitting in the kitchen, a place he never enters?

  Mary turned and for a second they both stared at Eleanor. Then they rose. Her father clutched the table edge as if for support.

  ‘I told you she’d come back,’ Mary murmured.

  ‘Thank God,’ her father said. His face was lined and he looked ill. He blinked rapidly and his voice was hoarse and cracked. ‘Eleanor! Thank God. You’re safe after all.’

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Mary pulled out chairs and bade them sit down. ‘Oh, Miss Eleanor.’ She was quite emotional. ‘We’ve been that worried about you. Your father’s had posters up all over ’country asking for information about you. Where ever have you been all this time?’

  She bustled about, swinging the kettle over the fire and bringing out a large teapot, a tea caddy and a jug of milk. Then she reached for a tin and brought out a cake. Sam licked his lips.

  ‘Yes,’ her father said hoarsely. ‘Where have you been, Eleanor?’

  ‘I wrote to you, Papa,’ she said. ‘I wrote just before Christmas telling you that I was in London and that I was quite well.’

  He shook his head and looked at Mary. ‘I heard you might have been in London, but I never received a letter,’ he said softly. ‘Did we, Mary?’