by Anne Bennett
‘Like people saying my mother dumped me on the workhouse steps because she didn’t want me, because I was unlovable, and that meant no one else would love me either.’
‘What a cruel thing to say to anyone,’ Connie cried, ‘particularly to say it to a child!’
Chrissie shrugged. ‘You get to believe it if people say it enough. Eileen was cross when I told her. She loved me and told me often, but Eileen is so kind that I’m sure, given half a chance, she’d love the devil incarnate.’
‘I don’t doubt that for a minute,’ Connie said, for as she had come to know Eileen better and heard what she had done for this orphaned child from the workhouse who turned out to be her sister, she thought Eileen one of the kindest women she had ever met.
EIGHT
Now that Chrissie had elected to stay with them, Eileen decided to take her into the Bull Ring to buy her some lighter clothes for the summer. It was their second visit. The first had been when Chrissie was very much still in workhouse mood and not at all sure of Eileen, so she kept her head lowered most of the time. Thrilled though she had been with the clothes, she had found it difficult to say anything and was glad that Eileen seemed to understand. This second visit to the Bull Ring was very different, and as they descended the incline Chrissie said to Eileen, ‘Who’s he?’ and pointed to a statue of Nelson, standing on a plinth with metal railings around him and the whole thing ringed by flower sellers.
‘Nelson,’ Eileen said. ‘He was a very famous and very brave sea captain and so he is honoured with a statue.’ And she added, ‘When we pass by, sniff the air, and it will be fragrant with the aroma of the beautiful flowers.’
Chrissie did just as Eileen said and thought she was right, the smell was just magnificent. But neither of them had money to waste on flowers, so they wandered down the cobbled incline. Barrows piled high with produce of every kind lined the road.
Opposite the barrows was a shop called Woolworths. Eileen had told her that everything in it was sixpence or less, and in front of it stood an old lady. Her strident voice rose above the clamorous chatter of the customers and the raucous calls of the costers shouting out their wares. It was a woman selling carrier bags, determined to let everyone know about it as she cried out incessantly, ‘Carrier bags! Handy carrier bags!’
‘Been there years,’ Eileen said in explanation to Chrissie. ‘She’s blind and every day bar Sunday, her family bring her here and she sells the carrier bags.’
‘D’you think she minds?’
Eileen shook her head, ‘Doesn’t appear to. I should imagine she is looked after by her family and this is her way of making a contribution. The alternative, if her family couldn’t afford to keep her, would probably be the workhouse.’
‘Oh, I’d sell the carrier bags and gladly,’ Chrissie said so fervently that Eileen smiled.
But then Chrissie’s attention was taken by the models and hobbies shop next door to Woolworths. Chrissie gazed at the wooden models of planes, cars and ships of all shapes and sizes. ‘People can buy kits inside to make the models themselves,’ Eileen told Chrissie. ‘And lucky young boys might find one in their stocking at Christmas time.’
Chrissie was enchanted by the man selling mechanical spinning tops from his barrow. Seeing Chrissie’s interest, he wound one up and set it spinning. ‘On the table, on the chairs, the little devils go everywhere,’ he chanted. ‘Only a tanner!’
Chrissie clapped her hands with pleasure at the sight of the brightly coloured tops weaving all over the table, but she had to shake her head. ‘They are lovely, but I have no money.’ And Eileen had no money to spare either. Yet Chrissie had been so taken with them, Eileen decided one of them would find its way into Chrissie’s stocking at Christmas.
‘Now we are crossing the market to the Rag Market at the side of the church,’ Eileen said. Chrissie nodded, and Eileen went on, ‘Watch out for the trams. Some of them come hurtling round in front of St Martin’s like the very devil, and there might be a fair few dray horses pulling wagons as well.’ Chrissie took care as they approached the church. It was beautiful, built of light-coloured bricks with stained-glass windows set in ornate frames and an enormous steeple pointing heavenwards. There were iron railings surrounding it, though these were mainly hidden behind trees, and there were more flower sellers there.
And then they reached the Rag Market. Eileen bought Chrissie some summer-weight dresses and lighter skirts as well as some pretty blouses and cardigans. Chrissie was again so overcome with gratitude, she could again barely speak. Eileen understood and she saw tears standing out in Chrissie’s eyes. To give her time to compose herself and also distract her a little, she led the way to the Market Hall, a very imposing building built in the Gothic style, with large arched windows either side of the stone steps. But Chrissie barely noticed the grandeur of it once she saw the men on the steps. She thought all of them were shabbily and inadequately dressed. Some had long threadbare coats which Eileen explained were the greatcoats given to the demobbed soldiers. Their boots were well cobbled, and they had greasy caps rammed on their heads, hiding most of their grey faces. All of them had trays around their necks selling razor blades or shoelaces or boxes of matches. ‘Black or brown, the best in town!’ chanted the man selling the shoelaces in a thin, nasal tone.
Eileen watched Chrissie covertly, but she said nothing till they were inside the Hall itself, where the noise was tremendous. Eileen had thought she might have been impressed by the building, knowing she would have seen nothing like it, for the ceilings were lofty and criss-crossed with beams, and poles led down from the beams to hold up the roof. High-arched windows lined one side with smaller arched windows at the ends, spilling sunshine into the Market Hall and lighting up the stalls of every description that lay before them.
However, all this was lost on Chrissie, who turned to Eileen and asked her who the men were and why they had been on the steps. When she explained that they were old soldiers who had no work, for many hadn’t had a job since they had been demobbed from the army, Chrissie felt sadness envelop her.
She couldn’t tell Eileen why the sight of the soldiers upset her so much, for she didn’t like her mentioning the workhouse, but she had seen men in there with despairing, deadened eyes in grey, pinched faces like the men on the steps. Eileen might not have understood why Chrissie had been so saddened by the sight of the old lags, but she looked really downhearted, so the first place Eileen led her to was Pimm’s pet stall. When they reached it Chrissie’s mood lifted immediately, and she stared at the animals, enthralled. She’d never even come near an animal of any description before. The canaries twittered around them in their cages and she knelt down to look into the large boxes on the floor. One held mewling kittens that she stroked gently, and in the other one boisterous puppies tumbled over one another in their eagerness to get to Chrissie’s hand, and she laughed when they nipped her fingers playfully. She saw fish swimming serenely around in large tanks with small stones on the bottom, and cuddly baby rabbits and guinea pigs in cages. There were very colourful small birds that Eileen told her were budgerigars, or budgies. People said they could be taught to talk.
Chrissie looked unconvinced. ‘I bet they were kidding,’ she said. ‘Have you seen one of them do that?’
‘In all honesty, I haven’t,’ Eileen had to admit. ‘But people who have them swear they can.’
Chrissie remained sceptical and Eileen laughed. ‘It does seem unbelievable, but parrots do, of course.’
Chrissie wasn’t even sure of that. There was a parrot tethered to a bar outside the shop and as they passed him as they left, he screeched out, ‘Who’s a pretty boy then?’ Eileen’s amused eyes met those of Chrissie, and they burst out laughing.
Outside the Market Hall the cacophony of noise had decreased a little and there was an air of expectancy. Eileen said, ‘They must be waiting for the clock to strike,’ and indicated the wooden intricately carved clock on the wall edging towards ten o’clock. A tantalising tune pla
yed as three knights and a lady emerged to strike a bell ten times.
‘Oh, isn’t it just lovely?’ said Chrissie.
‘It is,’ Eileen agreed. ‘It’s a pity the man who made it wasn’t paid in full for it.’
‘Surely that’s wrong?’
‘Of course it’s wrong, but it happened,’ Eileen said. ‘The clock was placed in an arcade in Dale End then. They say the man put a curse on it. People say that’s why the arcade failed to thrive, and now the clock is here.’
‘I hope the curse has run out, if that’s possible,’ Chrissie said. ‘And I hope the clock stays here for ages.’
‘Not that we believe in curses,’ Eileen said. ‘Dale End failing to thrive had nothing to do with placing the clock there.’
‘Of course not,’ Chrissie agreed stoutly, but she had her fingers crossed behind her back as she said it.
Despite having seen people from all walks of life, Chrissie had had a truly magical day. She and Eileen went home from their day’s shopping exhausted, but happy.
A couple of evenings later, as Angela and Stan sat together before the fire, Stan put his arm around Angela and held her close as he said, ‘So have we stopped worrying about our respective children, who seem to be doing all right as they are anyway? Do we have time to concentrate on ourselves for a change?’
‘Ourselves?’
‘Yes, us – you and me,’ Stan said. ‘And now I have a present for you.’
‘You don’t have to give me presents, Stan.’
‘This is special,’ Stan said, withdrawing a small box from his pocket as he spoke.
Angela took it from Stan with hands that shook. As she took the lid off, she saw that nested on a bed of cotton wool was a silver locket on a silver chain that looked exactly the same as the original one.
Angela looked at Stan with eyes that shone. ‘How?’ she asked.
‘Well, I had it in my mind for a while, and I have a mate in the Jewellery Quarter who said he could make a replica of anything if he could have a look at the original. I had to enlist Eileen’s help, as the only time Chrissie takes off her locket is when she goes to bed. Eileen smuggled it out of her room as she slept, and my mate took some drawings and measurements, and this is the result.’
‘It’s magnificent!’ Angela said, holding it in her hand.
‘Look inside,’ said Stan.
Angela pressed the clasp and the locket opened to reveal a miniature of the wedding of her grandparents, taken from the photograph that stood on her sideboard. The other side, however, was empty.
‘This locket is about love,’ she said. ‘My mother gave me the locket to show me that though I loved Mary dearly, I also had a mother who loved me, though she couldn’t look after me. And I gave Chrissie the locket for the same reason. This one will go to Connie on her wedding day with locks of my hair in it, to tell her how much I will always love her too. If you hand me my sewing box, there are scissors in there and I will cut off some of my ringlets, and I have some pieces of ribbon in there too.’
‘Shall you mind cutting off your ringlets?’
‘Of course not,’ Angela said. ‘It’s just hair and will grow again, and it might matter to Connie to have the locket complete. But don’t tell her, I will give it to her on her wedding day.’
‘I’ll not say a word, never fear,’ Stan said, giving the sewing box to Angela. He watched as she hacked off three of her ringlets and tied them with a red ribbon. She held the closed locket in her hand and thought it was like a talisman. A guard against evil. It was a sign that all their troubles were behind them and they were all entering smoother waters.
Although more people now knew about the circumstances of Chrissie’s birth and her incarceration in a workhouse, Angela still was reluctant to share it with all and sundry. She was a little astonished when Chrissie suggested telling Bobby, who had been another regular visitor to see Connie in the hospital.
‘Why does he need to know?’ Angela asked.
Chrissie shrugged. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I thought maybe it would help him to understand our complex relationships.’
‘I still don’t think that’s a good enough reason to divulge family secrets.’
‘Maybe not,’ Chrissie said. ‘But he helped save our lives and I thought that sort of gave him the right to know. Anyway, surely the time for keeping secrets is past, especially as that’s what caused so much trouble in the first place. I know it had to be secretive then, but I always think it is better to be open about things, as far as possible.’
Angela relented. ‘Oh, tell him then if you must,’ she said.
Chrissie did tell him, the whole story as she knew it. He listened intently, but was silent when she finished. He couldn’t speak straight away, because he had heard the hurt and shame in Chrissie’s voice as she recounted the degradation and cruelty she had experienced in the workhouse. He knew how the children growing up in such establishments were looked down on by ordinary people, and he had always thought it unfair, because it wasn’t their fault they were there. He had always put the blame on their parents, primarily their mothers, but now he had to revise that, because it was not Angela’s fault that she found herself having a baby at all. He wasn’t totally sure of the mechanics of it, but he knew those drunken soldiers had attacked her in a way that resulted in her having a baby. Bobby also knew that while people looked down on children from the workhouse, their condemnation would be far worse for a woman having a baby with no husband, especially if the woman’s husband was overseas in the Forces. Angela must have been desperate and very frightened when she found she was having a baby.
‘Say something, Bobby, for goodness’ sake. What are you thinking?’
Bobby sighed, ‘What I am thinking,’ he said at last, ‘is that it’s a dreadful shame. You suffered in that awful place and Angela suffered because she had to put you there, yet both of you were completely blameless. The ones responsible were the drunken soldiers that attacked Angela, and they got away scot-free.’
‘Oh yes,’ Connie said. ‘They were revolting and disgusting and yet … Oh, Bobby, one of them was my father.’
‘Yes,’ Bobby said. ‘Just another thing you are not to blame for. No child can help who their parents are. Some fathers, in particular, often have a habit of not being around much. I think real fathers are the ones who care for you and look after you, whether they are your proper father or not.’
‘Like Father John,’ Chrissie said and added, ‘he never will be a real father and yet he’s been a first-rate one to me.’
‘Good, and at the end of the day, that’s all that matters,’ said Bobby, and Chrissie nodded in agreement.
Angela sat by Connie’s bed the following day, watching her chest rise and fall, and remembered Bobby describing Daniel and Connie as sweethearts, and Stan explaining them going out a few times, and she was a little surprised how little it mattered any more. She had come close to losing Connie, and she had still a long way to go until she was completely better again, but that was all that mattered. Everything else had to take a back seat.
She took Stan’s words on board about getting to know the daughter she had given away, and once she was certain Connie was sleeping, she tried to talk to Chrissie. She found it hard going at first, for anything she asked her, she answered with brief, terse replies, so it was like an interrogation rather than a conversation. That also was a throwback to her days in the workhouse, where warders didn’t encourage inmates to chat and she had swiftly learnt to answer anything she was asked as succinctly as possible.
She also thought it strange for her mother to ask questions she should know, things Eileen would most certainly be well aware of. ‘Give her a chance,’ Eileen said when Chrissie sought her out to complain. ‘Through no fault of her own she wasn’t able to know the child John and I grew to love so much. She will never be able to reclaim those years, and I am sad when I think of that. She wants to get to know you now, and that’s not a bad thing, so why don’t you help her out a bit?
’
‘How?’
‘Tell her about yourself,’ Eileen suggested. ‘Tell her about what you like to do, the subjects you like at school and those you don’t. About your teachers and your friends. Build a picture for her of your life so far.’
‘About all the years in the workhouse?’
‘That’s entirely up to you and Angela,’ Eileen said. ‘If you want to tell her and she wants to hear, then that’s fine, but you may prefer for her to hear about the girl you are today and your plans for the future.’
‘All right,’ Chrissie said, ‘I’ll try.’
She knew, however, she wouldn’t share what she wanted to do in the future, for the only thing she wanted to do was train to be a teacher like Eileen. She also knew there wouldn’t be money enough to keep her at school to do her highers and then to stay on to college for three more years, so she would keep her ambitions to herself, and certainly not share them with this woman trying to be a mother to her. But because Eileen wanted her to make more of an effort, to meet Angela halfway as it were, she started talking more to Angela. She started by describing the magical eleventh birthday that she had spent in Father John’s house, where she’d had a present, and Eileen had made a cake, and the whole day felt special, as if it belonged to her somehow. She told Angela about her baptism, her First Communion, and school, which she thoroughly enjoyed.
‘Eileen tells me you’re a very clever girl,’ said Angela.
‘I’m not sure that’s true,’ Chrissie said. ‘They always said I was stupid in the workhouse.’
‘Seems to me they spouted a lot of nonsense in that place,’ Angela said angrily. ‘Tell me, Chrissie – who do you think is more likely to tell the truth, the workhouse warders or Eileen?’
‘Why, Eileen of course.’
‘Well, Eileen says you’re a clever girl, so that must be the truth.’
‘Maybe she’s just a really good teacher,’ Chrissie said.
Angela heard the wistfulness in Chrissie’s voice and said, ‘I’d have said she was a good teacher, all right, for she’s done a first-rate job on you, but even a good teacher has to have good material to work with.’ And then, remembering the wistfulness in Chrissie’s eyes, she added, ‘Is that what you want to be, a teacher like your Aunt Eileen?’
