The Child from the Ash Pits

by Chrissie Walsh

  *

  ‘Do you like my picture, Annie?’ Cally held it up. Green lollipop trees vied with pink and yellow flowers almost as big as the figures of a man and woman and a little girl. The man wore a black suit and large black boots, the woman and the little girl brightly patterned dresses. They danced across the page holding hands, the little girl between the man and woman.

  Annie was peeling potatoes for the midday meal. She glanced over to the table where Cally sat. ‘It’s nice,’ she said, apathetically. Cally waited for further words of praise. Her mam would have wanted to talk about a picture like this.

  ‘It’s a picture of me and my mam and dad in Lock Park. We like going there. It’s our favourite place.’

  Annie’s lip curled dangerously, her eyes darkening. Cally, intent on recalling happier days, did not notice. Nor had she noted the apathy in Annie’s brief comment. In fact, she had been thinking that Annie seemed quite pleasant today. Bolstered by this presumption she asked, ‘Why did my mam die?’

  Annie was taken aback. ‘How should I know! I’m not a doctor.’

  ‘What did she die of?’ Now she had started Cally was determined to continue, although she saw she was making Annie cross.

  Annie threw the knife and a potato into the sink, marched over to the table and leaned on it, her palms flat against the oilcloth cover. Glowering into Cally’s face she hissed, ‘She was having a baby and it killed her.’

  Cally was puzzled. How could a baby kill anybody? Out loud she asked, ‘Where is the baby?’

  ‘It’s nowhere. It never got born, and that’s enough questions for today, lady. Now get out from under my feet.’ Annie clumped over to fireplace, rattling the poker furiously amongst the coals. Sparks flew up the chimney, cinders clattering into the ash pan. Annie tossed the poker aside and turned, hands on hips, her protruding belly pushing against her apron. Intransigent, Cally eyed the mound, confusion narrowing her eyes and puckering her lips. Annie did have a baby in there, but who and where was her husband? And how could a baby that never got born be blamed for killing her mam?

  A surge of anger burned in her chest. Why couldn’t someone tell her – sensibly – why her mam had died? Everyone seemed to think it was enough to mutter things like ‘she’s gone to heaven’ and ‘the angels came for her,’ but it wasn’t enough. She needed to know why.

  Her dad and Annie wouldn’t even talk about her mam. They pretended she’d never lived here. Annie had taken her mam’s place in the house as easily as if her mam was a bunch of dead flowers, thrown out and fresh ones put in the vase; the vase her mam loved because it had been her mother’s; the vase Annie had smashed in a fit of pique.

  ‘I told you to get out,’ said Annie, menacingly.’ Cally’s legs trembled, but sheer frustration brought with it a false sense of bravery.

  ‘Why do you sleep with my dad in my mam’s bed?’

  Eyes black with bitterness, Annie slapped the mound of her belly. ‘Because he gave me this: I’m having his baby. I sleep with him because he married me. I’m his wife.’ She enunciated the words caustically.

  ‘You can’t be,’ yelled Cally, shock and horror flooding her veins. ‘I don’t want you to be my dad’s wife. I want you to go away and never come back.’

  The flat of Annie’s hand swiped Cally’s cheek, jolting her scraggy little neck and making her ears ring as, feet barely touching the floor, Annie ejected her from the kitchen. Out in the safety of the yard Cally shouted, ‘And that’s not my dad’s baby!’

  She tottered across the yard and slumped on the steps leading to the ash pits. She was still there when the clatter of clogs let her know her dad was back from the early shift at the pit.

  ‘Get up, lass,’ he said, gently, ‘you shouldn’t be sittin’ on t’cold flags.’

  Cally stayed where she was. ‘Annie says you’re married,’ she said, forlornly.

  George shuffled his feet, embarrassed. Then easing his bulk into the space beside her, he pulled her onto his knee. He was still wearing his pit clothes but Cally didn’t care if she ended up covered in coal dust. Her dad was holding her tight; something he never did these days. She snuggled against his chest, breathing in the smell of the pit bottom. Her tears fell faster.

  ‘Nay, don’t take on so,’ said George, ‘there’s nowt to cry about.’

  Yes, there is, there’s lots to cry about, thought Cally. My lovely mam’s dead, I’m sad, you’re sad – and Annie’s here for good. She was about to put her thoughts into words when George started talking again.

  ‘I should have told you about me an’ Annie. She’s havin’ a babby. She’s your mam now.’

  Cally’s screech stung George’s eardrums. ‘No, she’s not! She’s my auntie. She’ll never be my mam.’

  4

  It was the first day of the Easter holidays, and Cally, head down and yearning for the solace of the classroom, was scrubbing the back doorstep. A tap on her shoulder had her turning so quickly she knocked against the bucket, water sloshing onto the flags.

  ‘Eh, don’t drown me,’ trilled a familiar, much-missed voice. Cally leapt up into Harriet’s waiting arms. ‘Oh, Harriet, I wished for you to come back and you did,’ she cried, wrapping her arms about Harriet’s neck.

  ‘Wishes are like fishes; you’re bound to catch one sometime,’ Harriet joshed, plopping a kiss on Cally’s cheek before setting her down. ‘Is your dad working or is he in?’

  ‘He’s on nights so he’s still in bed.’

  ‘In that case I’ll wait till he gets up.’ She stepped boldly into the kitchen.

  Annie lolled in a chair, a magazine rested on her distended belly. Harriet’s eyes widened and her mouth formed a perfect O. Annie saw the look and smirked. ‘Me an’ George are married now. I’m having his baby,’ she said proudly.

  ‘So I see,’ replied Harriet, thinking it rather too soon after Ada’s death.

  Annie stood, hands on hips. ‘What are you here for?’ she asked belligerently.

  ‘The usual,’ chirped Harriet, sitting on the nearest chair and crossing her legs. ‘I’ve come to take Cally to our place for a couple of days.’

  ‘Yippee,’ cried Cally, her heart soaring.

  ‘Have you donkey-stoned the step?’ snapped Annie. Cally admitting she hadn’t, Annie ordered her to do so. Cally slipped out hastily; it wouldn’t do to cause a row. Annie scowled. She didn’t know how to deal with Harriet’s forthright, calm demeanour. It made her feel inferior. She slammed the kettle on the hob. ‘I’ll make a pot of tea,’ she muttered, ‘he’ll be down shortly.

  Thuds overhead signalled George’s awakening, and minutes later he arrived in the kitchen, his lips curving into a broad smile when he saw Harriet. Over tea, Harriet made her request and George readily agreed. Annie seethed, not because she wanted Cally at home but at George’s delight and charming acquiescence every time this big, red-haired trollop turned up.

  *

  Cally and Harriet arrived in High Hickling to find the parlour table in number two, The Green, strewn with rolls of gaudy, flowered wallpaper, and Jim and Bob tittering behind their hands and casting dubious glances in their father’s direction.

  ‘I’m not for doin’ it, Lily,’ Bill Jessop said firmly.

  ‘Aw Bill, it’ll nobbut take a morning to put it on,’ Lily wheedled, ‘and we’ll all help. Won’t we?’

  Harriet unfurled one of the rolls. ‘It’s lovely. Where did you get it?’

  ‘Mrs Parfitt, the new minister’s wife gave it me,’ said Lily. ‘She were havin’ a clear-out and gave it me just like that.’ Lily snapped her fingers to verify the speed with which her employer had made the offer.

  ‘Bloody do-gooder,’ growled Bill.

  Lily giggled and wrapped her arms round his middle. ‘I know you’ll do it in the end, so why carry on?’ she cajoled. ‘Like I said, it’ll only take a morning.’

  ‘It’ll make this place look grand,’ said Harriet, her flamboyant gesture taking in the room.

  Bill sighed. Already w
eakening, he made one last desperate effort. ‘I’m a bloody collier, not a paperhanger. Get Joe Harris to do it.’ He clumped to the door. ‘I’m off to feed me pigeons.’

  ‘Why would I want Joe Harris when I’ve a lovely man like you?’ chirped Lily, close on his heels. Bill stooped to give her a peck on the cheek. ‘Why indeed,’ he capitulated as he patted her fat little rump.

  Cally woke the next morning to a house bursting with activity. Furniture had been dragged outside and gallons of flour and water paste mixed in a large zinc bucket. The table cleared ready for pasting, Cally ate her breakfast on the doorstep. Harriet rattled about in the knife drawer, searching for a pair of scissors. ‘Found ’em,’ she yelled, waving them aloft then proffering them to Bill.

  Bill stopped stirring the gooey mess in the bucket. ‘What do I need them for?’

  ‘For cutting the paper to fit the walls, clout head,’ scoffed Harriet.

  ‘Nay, I’m not cutting it in bits. It’ll take all day. I’ll put it on a roll at a time. I’ve thought it through, you see. I know what I’m doing.’

  Harriet looked confused. Lily bit her bottom lip and twisted the cloth she held ready to smooth the paper to the wall. ‘Joe Harris cuts it in strips an’ hangs it top to bottom,’ she said.

  ‘Ah, but I’m not Joe Harris. I’ve got me own way o’ doin’ it,’ Bill replied equably.

  He unrolled wallpaper the length of the table, lathered it with paste then stopped, confusion wrinkling his brow. ‘Jim, come here,’ he shouted, ‘get hold o’ this an’ walk back’ards over to t’door.’

  Jim did as he was bid, pulling the pasted length of paper with him, and as the roll crept over the surface of the table, Bill slapped on more paste. The entire roll pasted, and now supported by Jim, Bob, Lily, Harriet and Cally to prevent it trailing on the floor, Bill directed the next move.

  ‘Righty ho! Bring it over here an’ mind it doesn’t rip.’ He walked to the corner of the room nearest the fireplace and stepped onto a high stool. Cally bobbed along at the end of the line feeling happily useful, the choreography of the holding party equalling that of the most gifted Chinese paper jugglers as they inched their way towards him. Taking hold of the paper, Bill eased it into the corner where the wall met the ceiling then hopped off the stool, moved it further along the wall and repeated the process.

  Thus began a ritual round the room until the entire length of wallpaper was stuck to the wall. The process repeated again and again, Bill up and down like a yoyo and Harriet cutting in round the doorways and window. Cally shuffled along with the others in the paper chain, paste dripping on upturned faces and sticky rivulets running over hands and wrists. This is what families do, she thought, wiping a blob of paste from behind her ear. They work together, laugh together and help each other out. Even massive chores like this can be fun when you love one another.

  The last roll in place, the excess wallpaper trimmed off, they gazed in awe at the riot of chrysanthemums in Grecian urns that now adorned the walls. Horizontal, rather than vertical, they looked as though a high wind had tipped them over. So what? The Jessops didn’t care.

  They cleaned up the mess, removing dollops of paste from the strangest places; even the cat had not escaped. She sat in a corner licking her tail and paws as the boys lugged the furniture inside: a green plush settee and chairs near the fireplace, the ornate sideboard wedged below the slope of the stairs and the table and chairs under the window. Satisfied with their labours, everyone sat round the table to eat steaming plates of stew that had simmered all day on the stove in the scullery. In between mouthfuls they admired the chrysanthemum bedecked walls, singing each other’s praises, Cally glowing with pleasure when she got a special mention. She couldn’t recall a day when she’d had so much fun.

  She leaned back in her chair, as content as the cat purring on the hearthrug. Daylight was fading fast, a purple pall clouding the slopes of the slag heap and its summit starkly black against the darkening sky. It might be dark outside, Cally thought, but in this house it will always be light, even when the lamps are snuffed: alight with love and happiness.

  Sunday morning dawned warm and sunny. ‘I’m off to feed me pigeons afore going to t’Miner’s Welfare for a pint and a game of dominoes,’ Bill announced.

  ‘You’ll not be joining us in church to say thanks for t’wallpaper then,’ Lily quipped.

  After church, Harriet presented Cally with a large chocolate egg. Cally thought life couldn’t get much better, but later that day as she and Harriet were out walking, her joy evaporated.

  They were walking hand in hand down a country lane, Harriet chatting in her usual jolly manner and Cally thinking how nice it would be to live with the Jessops although, she reminded herself, she would miss her dad. Suddenly, she became aware that Harriet sounded awfully serious, and that the hand that held Cally’s had tightened its grip.

  ‘So you see, Cally, it might be years before I see you again,’ Harriet said tearfully.

  Cally stopped dead, squealing, ‘What?’

  ‘Were you not listening to me, love? I said I was getting married and going to live in Germany.’

  ‘Germany! Married!’ Cally floundered as she tried to understand what Harriet had told her. ‘But I don’t want you to go away for years,’ she cried.

  ‘Neither do I, love, but Fred’s in the army and we have to go wherever they send him.’ Harriet forced a smile. ‘Maybe our Bob or Jim’ll bring you to our house when I’m away,’ she said, her words lacking conviction.

  Cally recalled the last, and only, time Jim had called to collect her from Jackson’s Yard. It had been a wasted journey.

  *

  ‘Good riddance,’ jeered Annie, when George told her that Harriet was going to live in Germany. ‘I hope that’s the last we see of that trollop, coming here interfering.’

  ‘She’s not a trollop,’ Cally yelled.

  ‘No, she’s not,’ barked George, glaring at Annie, ‘and you watch your bloody tongue when you’re talking about her.’

  ‘Oh, you would say that,’ sneered Annie. ‘Don’t think I haven’t seen the way you look at her all lovey-dovey when you’ve got your heads together, talking about something I know nothing about.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, you nasty bugger; she’s a friend,’ George roared back.

  ‘Yes,’ Cally yelled, ‘she’s my best friend, Annie. She’s nice to me but you’re not.’

  Cally ran out into the yard and up to the ash pits, leaving Annie and George roaring at each other.

  Slumped in a corner of the ash pit, Cally thought about how much she loved Harriet, and how much it hurt to hear Annie say wicked things about her – and Harriet not there to defend herself. If she had been she’d have given Annie hell, thought Cally; Harriet wasn’t afraid of anyone. She was brave enough to go to Germany where the war had been.

  Cally wriggled into a more comfortable position against the ash pit wall and wondered what Germany was like. Then she thought about Harriet’s wedding, her spirits rising by the minute as she thought about her role as bridesmaid. She would wear a special dress Harriet was bringing from London. ‘Don’t grow ten inches while I’m away or it won’t fit you,’ Harriet had joked. Cally had laughed then, but now, the more she thought about the wedding the sadder she felt because, after the autumn wedding in High Hickling, Fred would whisk Harriet off to Germany. She might never see her again.

  5

  Cissie Sheard’s presence in number eleven sent shivers down Cally’s spine. Crouched on her hunkers in the corner opposite the stairs door she observed the sickeningly familiar bustle, remembering.

  This was how it had been before, except it wasn’t her mam upstairs. Her mam had gone to heaven. Cissie Sheard had sent her there. Was she about to send Annie? Cally pondered on the possibility and liked it. Perhaps her dad wouldn’t mind either if Annie went to heaven. But maybe he’d be sad if the little baby went too. Cally thought about the baby. Would this one get born? Or would it be like that other bab
y, the one that killed her mam?

  She listened to Gertie Snell and Molly Hamby whispering and giggling in the kitchen, heard the rattle of the sneck on the back door as, every so often, one of them opened then closed it. Unlike her other neighbours these two had formed a close friendship with Annie and were here to support her.

  The back door opened again, balmy air wafting into the parlour and Cally’s preoccupation was disrupted by a sudden shriek. Anxious to find out what caused it, she ran into the kitchen.

  ‘He’s comin’ down t’yard,’ squealed Molly.

  ‘Shall I give him a pot o’ tea as soon as he comes in,’ twittered Gertie, ‘or do you think he’ll go straight up to Annie?’ Cally watched them dither.

  George stepped inside, surprised to find two attractive young women in his kitchen. A roguish smile lit his darkly handsome features. Before he had time to enquire as to the reason for their presence the two girls began to babble, both at the same time.

  ‘Annie’s havin’ the baby… She’s doin’ rightly… Do you want a pot o’ tea? Is there anythin’ we can get you, George?’

  George suavely accepted their felicitations, old habits hard to suppress. He ignored Cally.

  Cissie Sheard panted into the kitchen, sat down heavily on the nearest chair and eased off her shoes, rubbing one foot on top of the other. ‘Give us a drop o’ tea, Molly, love,’ she wheezed, ‘I’m fair parched an’ me feet are killin’ me.’

  George looked questioningly at Cissie.

  Cissie took a long swallow of tea. ‘She’ll not have any bother. This one’ll slide out.’

  Her sympathetic expression let George know she was recalling that awful night some nine months before. He nodded to show he understood.

  ‘Is there anything else we can get you while you’re waiting, George,’ twittered Gertie, anxious to please. Even in his pit muck she still found him attractive.

  ‘Nowt,’ he said abruptly. ‘There’s nowt I want. I’m off to t’pub. I’ll be back later.’

  Without a backward glance he walked out of the kitchen.