The Child from the Ash Pits

by Chrissie Walsh

  From the moment Lily Jessop cried, ‘Eeh, little Cally; you were only a babe when last I saw you,’ to the final hugs and kisses delivered on her departure the following night, Cally was happier than she had been for a long time.

  Harriet’s younger brothers, Bob and Jim, claimed her to go and see the rabbits and the pigeons, then later to play Tin-Can-Squat, Cally chasing wildly up and down the frost rimed street, kicking the can and laughing fit to burst. After tea, the entire family sat round the table to play Snap, Cally squealing with excitement as hands slapped down on a pair of matching cards, or on the back of a hand that had got there first. Not once did an angry word pass anyone’s lips, not even when Jim spilled his glass of pop. Cally was amazed.

  Before she went up to the bed she would share with Harriet, Cally sat with Lily on the settee. ‘You’re not too big for a cuddle afore bedtime, are you?’ said Lily, clasping her with both arms. Cally snuggled into the fat folds of Lily’s body, her head rested on the cosy cushion of her plump bosom. Lily Jessop smelt of love and happiness, and Cally told herself this was the perfect end to a perfect day.

  After church on Sunday morning, Jim went to collect the chicken promised him by the farmer for whom he worked. Cally helped peel potatoes and carrots, almost mesmerised by the jolly banter the Jessops maintained as they did the chores; chores that always caused rows in Jackson’s Yard.

  She was setting the table when a sudden movement caught her eye. A plump, white chicken jiggled crazily in the doorway, its neck twisted at an angle and its bright red coxcomb drooping. Its scrawny feet were held fast in a dirty fist.

  Cally screamed! To the accompaniment of squawking and clucking, Jim burst into the room swinging the bird in front of her face. The commotion brought Lily and Harriet from the kitchen. ‘Eeh, that’s a grand bird,’ praised Lily, ‘let’s get it in the oven, quick.’

  When Bill Jessop arrived back from the Miners’ Welfare Club, a few drinks taken, Cally waited with bated breath for Lily to berate him as Annie did George. Instead, Lily greeted him with a fond peck on the cheek. Playfully, he patted her rump. Cally let out her breath thinking they might be ill-matched in appearance – Bill, tall and gangly and Lily, short and plump – but they are as much a pair as the Staffordshire dogs on their mantelpiece.

  The chicken cooked, the Jessops and Cally sat round the table. Bill rasped the carving knife against the sharpener. ‘Now, who wants what?’ he exclaimed.

  ‘I want a leg,’ cried Harriet.

  ‘So do I,’ yelled Bob.

  ‘Me an’ all,’ piped Jim.

  ‘I’m partial to a leg meself,’ said Lily.

  ‘Hold on, hold on,’ Bill roared, ‘it’s not a bloody spider; it’s a chicken.’

  Cally laughed so much that tears ran down her cheeks.

  The weekend was too short for Cally’s liking, and Annie’s bitching and sharp slaps when she arrived home hard to bear, but in the weeks leading up to Christmas she visited High Hickling twice. She accompanied Harriet on a shopping spree in Barnsley, Harriet buying her a blue cardigan, an early Christmas box, because Harriet would be back in London by then.

  ‘Sick people need nursing even at Christmas,’ she told a disappointed Cally, ‘but our Jim’s going to call for you at about ten on Boxing Day morning. You’ll have a grand time in our house.’ Harriet said this with an air of certainty, for she was sure the festivities in High Hickling would far outstrip the misery that cloaked number eleven, Jackson’s Yard.

  3

  ‘Can we hang these paper chains up in the parlour?’ asked Cally, emerging from the cupboard under the stairs and placing a box on the kitchen table before delving into it. ‘We’ll have to get a tree to hang the gold and silver balls on. My mam puts it in front of the window. She says Christmas is magic. She’d want us to put the trimmings up.’

  Annie slammed a pot down hard on the draining board. ‘Your mam’s not here, and I’m not your mam, so I won’t be hanging rubbishy bits of paper up, or buying a tree.’

  ‘They’re not rubbish, Annie. They make the house look pretty. And we’ve got to have a tree.’

  ‘No, we don’t. Now get that box off my table and get out of my sight.’

  ‘It’s not your table,’ yelled Cally, ‘it’s my mam’s. Everything in this house is hers, not yours.’

  Smack! Annie swiped first at Cally and then at the box. It skittered to the floor, Cally clutching the back of her throbbing skull to ward off a second slap as she crouched beside the table.

  From there she watched Annie shred the paper chains and crush the fragile baubles to dust.

  When George came home, Cally ran to him. ‘Annie smashed the Christmas things. I wanted to put them up to remember my mam by and celebrate Christmas.’

  He stared drunkenly at her and then said, ‘Rememberin’ gets you nowhere, an’ any road there’s nowt to celebrate; not in this house.’

  *

  On Boxing Day morning, Cally watched the clock on the mantelpiece like a hawk watches its prey. Shortly before ten George took himself off to the pub, and not long after Annie spied a young lad outside the kitchen window. In one swift movement she grabbed Cally, hustling her forcefully into the cupboard under the stairs, wedging it closed with a chair. Then she hid behind the couch in the parlour. From inside the cupboard, Cally heard Jim Jessop’s futile rapping on the kitchen door.

  George’s sentiments had proved true.

  *

  A slick frost rimed the pavements in School Road and the thick, grey blanket of darkening sky threatened snow. It was not yet half past four but the early February day had run its course. Lights winked from house windows on either side of the road, comforting beacons lighting the way. But Cally, cold and hungry, had no desire to hurry home.

  At breakfast that morning there had been no present by her plate: her mam had always placed one there. Apart from the card Miss Halstead had placed on her desk and a half-hearted rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’ sung by her classmates, no one had marked the occasion. Now, as she walked under the arch into Jackson’s Yard her heart hardened. Maybe her dad needed reminding.

  Cally gave the door of number eleven a hefty shove and stormed into the kitchen. Ignoring Annie, she marched over to where George sat reading the newspaper by the fire, loudly announcing, ‘I’m eight today, Dad. It’s my birthday.’

  George glanced her way. ‘Eight. Fancy that. Happy birthday, luv.’ He rattled the newspaper and carried on reading. Cally’s eyes blurred with tears. She turned away, just in time to see Annie’s smirk.

  ‘My mam always bought me a present,’ cried Cally.

  George tossed the newspaper aside. ‘Aye, well, your mam’s not here.’ His voice sounded hollow and his lips twisted in a pained grimace. Pushing Cally aside, he blundered into the parlour.

  Cally watched him go, seething with frustration. Why wouldn’t her dad talk to her? Why did he never talk about Mam? Whenever she mentioned Mam he looked at her with eyes that seemed not to see her; eyes that sought another face, someone out of reach.

  Later that night, when Annie came to bed in the room she still shared with Cally, she slid her hand beneath Cally’s covers and pinched her thigh, hard. ‘Only good girls get birthday presents,’ she hissed.

  A few days after Cally’s birthday, Annie caught the early bus to Barnsley and when she came back her behaviour was more erratic than usual. One minute she was fretful and distracted, and the next she was staring into space as though she was trying to work out an elusive puzzle. That night, whilst George was on the late shift and Cally in her bed and Annie in hers, Cally heard Annie sobbing.

  The next evening, Annie sat by the fire staring into the flames and plucking distractedly at the frayed sleeve of her cardigan. She’d packed Cally off to bed almost two hours earlier and now, wallowing in self-pity and waiting for George to come home from work, she took stock of her situation. If she had learned nothing else in the weeks since Ada’s death, she knew George didn’t want her and, if she were perf
ectly honest, she no longer wanted him. She’d let herself get carried away with a flirtatious romance and the thrill of stealing her sister’s husband, the sister who had everything; a handsome man to keep her and a nice little home to live in. But the handsome man had turned into a miserable brute and the house was a millstone of drudgery. And then there was that blasted child, Cally. Stifling a sob, Annie told herself she didn’t want any of it; she should have left whilst she still had the chance, but now she had no option.

  A blast from the pithead klaxon signalled the end of the shift. Annie leapt to her feet, George’s impending homecoming turning her self-pity to seething rage. By, but she’d make George Manfield pay for the condition she was in, she told herself, vengefully sloshing a bucket of hot water from the copper into the tin bath by the hearth, ready for George to clean off the coal dust and mud that coated his body after every ten hours spent underground. Annie hated these menial chores and now, doing them for a man who cared nothing for her brought her to the verge of hysteria. ‘I’m trapped, I’m trapped,’ she cried, slopping water between the copper and the bath, oblivious to the puddles. Her slippers soaked, she savagely stirred the stew simmering on the hob.

  When the kitchen door opened and George stepped inside, Annie was standing ramrod straight in front of the stove, wooden spoon in hand. He gave a curt nod by way of greeting as he shrugged out of his jacket, his bemused gaze taking in her wet apron and sodden slippers. Annie met his gaze, her own flushed with defiance and loathing, and when she spoke George stared back at her in utter disbelief, his jaw slack, his eyes bulging.

  ‘You’re what? You can’t be!’ he gasped.

  Annie returned the stare, her mouth a thin red line. Taller and bigger boned than her late sister, she bore little resemblance to the Ada George liked to remember: the slender, dark-haired beauty she had been when first they met. The intimidating stance Annie now adopted was so unlike Ada’s, George felt threatened and disgusted.

  ‘You’re lyin’,’ he growled. ‘You bloody can’t be; an’ if you are, it’s not mine.’ The words did not ring with confidence. Even so he continued to bluster, accusing her of trying to foist the pregnancy on him. Annie cut him off sharply.

  ‘I’m three months gone whether you like it or not, and the child’s yours.’

  George hung his head, shame enveloping him like a hot, choking cloud of dust. He began to panic. ‘Are you sure? Maybe you’re just mistaken.’

  ‘Of course I’m sure,’ Annie snarled, ‘do you think I’d make a mistake about something like this? A doctor in Barnsley confirmed it. So what are we going to do now?’

  ‘What do you mean, do?’ George sounded genuinely perplexed. ‘What can I do? What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Marry me.’ Annie’s matter-of-fact tone brooked no argument.

  *

  Cally swung listlessly on the rope attached to the clothes post, the chill March wind that whistled under the arch into Jackson’s Yard pinching her cheeks and nose. Annie had put her out as soon as she came home from school and now her hands and feet were frozen but she didn’t care; being outdoors meant she avoided Annie’s sharp words and flailing hands.

  Lizzie Stott came out with a handful of crumbs for the birds. ‘Eeh, Cally love, you shouldn’t be out in weather like this, come into my kitchen.’

  Cally was warming her hands at Lizzie’s fire when Winnie Hizzard popped in to borrow a cup of sugar. ‘I see you’ve got a little visitor.’ She smiled at Cally.

  Lizzie grimaced. ‘Aye, t’poor bairn; it’s a cryin’ shame she’s not welcome in her own home since her mam passed on.’

  ‘Aye, I’ve noticed. Yon’s a disgrace. Poor Ada ’ud turn in her grave if she knew t’carry-on in there.’ Winnie jerked a thumb in the direction of number eleven.

  Lizzie cast a sideways glance at Cally who was, by now, playing pat-paws with Lizzie’s old Labrador. In a deliberately low voice, she said, ‘Ada ’ud do more than turn if she knew Lady Annie’s in t’family way – an’ we all know whose it is.’

  Winnie’s eyes widened. ‘Eeh, do you think so?’

  Lizzie nodded authoritatively. ‘Have you seen t’shape of her lately? There’ll be a babby in that house afore long, sure as eggs is eggs.’

  Cally’s eyes were on the dog, but her ears had pricked up at the mention of her mam’s name. A frown creased her brow as she tried to make sense of the conversation. Suddenly it became clear. She jumped up.

  ‘I’m off, Lizzie. Thanks for letting me come in.’ Cally hared back to number eleven.

  Annie was standing in front of the fire, her skirts raised to warm the back of her legs. Cally studied her closely. When Mam had been having the baby she’d got fatter. Was Annie getting fat?

  ‘What are you staring at?’ snarled Annie.

  Cally immediately averted her gaze. ‘Nothing,’ she replied flippantly, at the same time thinking she’d keep a close eye on Annie’s figure. If it swelled up like her mam’s it meant Annie was definitely having a baby. But whose could it be? You had to be married to have babies.

  *

  Throughout the spring George prevaricated, refusing to discuss the possibility of marriage, reasoning it was too soon after Ada’s death. It wasn’t until Annie could no longer hide her condition, and the first stone was thrown, that he relented.

  It was a warm Saturday afternoon and Annie, her plate cleared, stood up from the table, the mound of her belly stretching the front of her skirt and pulling it upwards. ‘I fair fancy a vanilla wafer to finish off me dinner.’

  Cally narrowed her eyes. Annie did have a baby in her belly; that’s how her mam had looked when she first told Cally about the baby that never came.

  ‘I’ll go,’ chirped Cally, hopeful that Annie would give her enough money to buy one for herself. She loved the strawberry cornets Jim Hepplestone sold in his shop on the corner of School Road.

  ‘I’ll go meself.’ Annie’s eyes glistened spitefully as she took pleasure in denying Cally an ice cream treat. Reaching for her purse on the mantelpiece she strode out of the kitchen.

  Cally’s face crumpled. ‘Can I have a cornet, Dad?’

  George wiped up the gravy on his plate with a piece of Yorkshire pudding then stuffed it into his mouth. ‘Annie’ll get you one,’ he mumbled.

  Doubting him, Cally ran up the yard and out from under the arch, just in time to see Annie strolling across the road to Jim’s corner shop.

  A gaggle of women stood outside Nellie Hudd’s house, Nellie perched on the windowsill, holding court. The women followed Annie with their eyes. Winnie Hizzard stooped and picked something out of the gutter.

  Thwack! The small, round pebble found its mark. Annie stumbled then glanced round wildly, at the same time gingerly fingering the spot behind her ear. Cally stopped in her tracks. She could tell by Annie’s face that she too was shocked.

  Before Annie could gather her senses, a dollop of mud landed squarely on the back of her neck then, as she swung full circle to face her attacker, another dollop landed on the front of her blouse. Cally drew a sharp breath.

  ‘Mucky bitch!’ Winnie’s strident voice echoed between the houses. Carelessly wiping her hand on her apron she glared across the distance into Annie’s bewildered face. ‘Mucky slut, so you are. You couldn’t even wait till Ada wa’ cold.’

  Ice cream forgotten, Annie scuttled back across the road, the women’s taunts urging her on. Another missile connecting sharply with her ankle, she dodged under the arch. Oblivious to Cally, she charged down the yard.

  Cally raced after her.

  George dropped the boot he was about to put on as Annie, screaming hysterically, burst into the kitchen. Cally hung back in the doorway trying to suppress the smile that threatened her lips. Annie had got her comeuppance.

  ‘Hey up, lass. What’s to do?’ George stared at the mud-splattered blouse and the thin trickle of blood snaking from behind Annie’s left ear.

  ‘They… they called me a slut, threw stones and mud at me. They�
�re all talking about me.’

  George gaped. ‘Threw stones? An’ what do you mean, talkin’ about you?’

  Annie widened her eyes at his obtuseness. ‘This!’ she spat, patting the lump under her skirt. ‘This is what they’re talking about.’ She started to blubber. ‘They said I didn’t even wait until Ada was cold. Don’t you see what you’ve done to me?’

  ‘They did, Dad, they did. They called her a mucky bitch,’ cried Cally, hopping from one foot to the other. ‘Why did they do it?’

  Cally desperately needed answers to the strange new happenings. And what did the women mean when they said Annie couldn’t wait till her mam was cold?

  The beer in his belly turning sour along with his temper, George wished he’d stayed in the Miner’s Arms instead of coming home for his dinner. He glared at Annie.

  ‘You brought it on your bloody self. You threw yourself at me when Ada wasn’t givin’ me owt. Now you’re wantin’ me to marry you.’

  Marry!

  Annie, marry her dad!

  Horrified, Cally looked at George. Indifferent to her presence, he slammed his foot into his boot and, laces flapping, he pushed Annie to one side and barged out, nearly knocking Cally off her feet as he tore past.

  Cally ran too. Crouched behind the ash pits she shed bitter tears. She cried for her mam and she cried for herself. If Annie married her dad she’d stay forever. The thought was too awful to bear.

  *

  The wedding, in Barnsley Register Office, was a quiet affair witnessed by strangers. Rather than it recall the ceremony he had shared with Ada, it reminded George more of the day he’d appeared in court, charged with causing affray in the Miner’s Arms.

  Neither George nor Annie told Cally they were now man and wife, and although there was no apparent shift in their day-to-day relationship, Cally could not fail to notice the new sleeping arrangements; Annie now shared George’s bed. Cally puzzled over this for some time.