The Child from the Ash Pits

by Chrissie Walsh

  George received the news of Bella and Emma’s departure in much the same way as he accepted anything these days. He nodded glumly, asked a question or two and then forgot about them. When Cally relayed Annie’s jeering remark, she had a premonition there was worse to come.

  It came two weeks later, on the morning of her fourteenth birthday.

  Cally woke early and stretched lazily, her arm colliding with Daisy’s back. Daisy grunted and turned over, smiling sleepily. ‘Happy birthday, Cally,’ she mumbled. Cally hugged her. Daisy now shared the bed, but Cally didn’t object; she loved Daisy.

  ‘Today’s special, isn’t it?’ Daisy whispered.

  Cally smiled dreamily. ‘Yes, it’s my fourteenth birthday; it’s very special.’

  She turned on her back and stared at the ceiling. Come Easter I’ll leave school and start work in the Council Offices. A frisson of excitement ran through her as she imagined catching the bus to Barnsley each day wearing a smart skirt and blouse and then sitting behind a desk doing whatever they asked of her. She gave Daisy another hug. ‘Come on, sleepy head. It’s time to get up.’

  The girls slipped out of bed and, shivering in the morning chill, they clutched at their nightdresses to keep in the bed warmth. Daisy used the pot first then Cally, giggling as the acrid steam clouded the air above it. Bernard woke, scowling. ‘Don’t you start carryin’ on,’ threatened Daisy, ‘it’s our Cally’s birthday and we don’t want owt spoilin’ it. If Mam hears you cryin’ she’ll blame us. Then I’ll blame you.’

  Bernard closed his mouth then opened it again to whisper, ‘Happy birfday, Cally.’ He too, loved her.

  The two girls washed in the bowl on the dresser and put on the clothes Cally had left out the night before. Daisy’s hair neatly braided and Bernard dressed, the three of them clattered down into the kitchen.

  At the kitchen table a large brown paper parcel occupied the chair Cally usually sat on. Excited, she lifted it, attempting to judge the contents. It was heavy but soft to the touch except in one place. She traced the outline of what felt like the sole of a shoe and smiled. Had her dad bought her new shoes and a smart costume for when she started work? It was a pity he wouldn’t be here to watch her open it; he was working the early shift. Suppressing mounting curiosity and pleasurable anticipation, Cally set the parcel on the table, raked the coals in the range, set the kettle to boil and smeared dripping onto slices of bread.

  Annie plodded into the kitchen, bleary eyed. She nodded approval when she saw the pile of drip-bread and grunted ‘thanks’ as Cally set a steaming mug of tea in front of her. When they were all seated round the table Cally lifted the parcel, plucking at the thick, hairy string with trembling fingers.

  ‘Don’t be undoing that.’ Annie rapped the back of Cally’s hand with a spoon, ‘I was up half the night packing it.’

  Cally’s fingers froze. ‘I thought it was my birthday present.’

  ‘Birthday present?’ A derisory smirk accompanied Annie’s mocking tone. ‘It’s yours all right; it’s your belongings. I’ve packed ’em up, ready for you to take with you. I’m chucking you out.’

  Cally’s mind reeled. ‘But… but… I don’t leave school till Easter.’

  ‘You can leave when you’re fourteen – and now you are I’m getting rid of you.’

  Cally’s breath caught in her throat and she glanced around wildly, trying to make sense of the situation before asking feebly, ‘Where will I go?’

  Annie lifted another slice of bread, chewing on it contemplatively before answering. ‘Bradford. It’s all sorted. I’ve got you a live-in job.’

  Cally’s eyes widened. ‘Bradford! But I’ve got a job in the Council Offices. I don’t need to go to Bradford. I can stay here.’

  Annie’s voice was as thick and sweet as treacle as she said, ‘That’s just it, Cally; you can’t.’ She smirked triumphantly, her next words authoritative. ‘Your dad wants you out of the house too. He says you’ve driven him to his wit’s end since your mother died what with you always wanting to be better than everybody else. You pestered him to let you make friends with the la-di-da Gilmores, then you went off with that Jessop trollop, and you carried on alarming when he wouldn’t let you go to the Grammar – he wants rid of you.’

  ‘My dad liked the Gilmores, and Harriet. It was you wouldn’t let me go to the Grammar, Annie.’

  ‘I’m only telling you what he’s told me. Look how well we’ve been getting on since he knew he’d soon be seeing the back of you.’

  A wave of nausea fluttered in the pit of Cally’s stomach as, slowly and painfully, she digested Annie’s words. It was true – these days George and Annie rarely fought: George as passive and pliable as a tame lamb and Annie smug with satisfaction. Cally stared into Annie’s face, seeking verification. Annie stared back implacably, her eyes bright with certainty.

  With the awful realisation that she was to blame for George’s depression, Cally slumped over the table and buried her face in the folds of her arms. Daisy reached out and stroked the top of her head. Bernard wailed in sympathy. ‘We don’t want Cally to go,’ they bawled in unison.

  Annie thrust back her chair. ‘See what you’ve started. And don’t sit there slobbering. If you want to take owt else with you you’d better get it, because by the time I’m dressed we’ll be leaving.’ She swept from the room, shouting as she went, ‘I’ll be just as glad to see the back of you as your dad will. You’re nowt but trouble, always have been. Now get yourself ready.’

  Cally stood, light headed, gripping the edge of the table in case she fainted. Her dad wanted rid of her. Two unhappy little faces watched her, and for their sakes she struggled to control her emotions. On legs that scarcely bore her weight she climbed the stairs.

  In her bedroom she opened the drawers in the chest. They were empty. Annie must have sneaked in during the night and taken the few items of clothing Cally owned. She lifted a handful of books, putting them in a calico bag along with a hairbrush and ribbons and then put on her good coat; she was leaving. If her dad wanted rid of her there was no point in staying.

  Across the landing she could hear Annie moving about, dressing for the journey. She waited until she heard her descend the stairs, then sneaked into the bedroom. Keeping one eye on the door should Annie return, she opened George’s wallet on the bedside table and took out a photograph. She gazed at the image of the tall, handsome man in uniform standing next to a table on which she was seated, dressed in her best baby gown. George stooped slightly, one hand placed around her back to support her, the other holding her hand. Love and pride softened his hard features. Placing it between the pages of a book she ran from the room.

  At the foot of the stairs Cally paused to take one last look at the parlour. Annie’s threat was now reality: two down, one to go. I’ll go to Bradford, Cally thought angrily. I don’t have to stay there, and the job will tide me over until I decide what to do next.

  Annie strode into the room looking extremely smart in her best black coat and hat. ‘Don’t stand there gawping. Gertie Snell’ll be here any minute to mind the young’uns. We’ve got to be on the first bus, in time to catch the train. Have you got everything?’

  Numbed to the core, Cally could only nod.

  A cry from the kitchen signalled Gertie’s arrival. Annie turned threateningly to Cally. ‘Don’t go giving me any trouble now. I’ve put up with you for long enough and now I want you out of here – so does your dad. It’s you made him the way he is. Him and me can be what he always wanted us to be once you’re gone, a proper little family – just us and our children.’

  On feet that felt as though they did not belong to her, Cally walked into the kitchen. Gertie Snell wished her well but Betty, her younger sister, looked down at the floor and said nothing. Cally kissed Daisy and Bernard’s upturned faces, promising to bring presents when next she saw them. They started to cry all over again, their wails wakening Arthur.

  Cally went over to the pram and stroked his cheek thinking, you’v
e plenty to cry about but I’ve no tears left in me. Then she lifted the parcel and followed Annie out of the door, up the yard and under the arch. None of the neighbours came out to call farewell and wish her luck; they didn’t know she was leaving, no longer wanted, not even by her dad.

  *

  The house in Manningham Lane was an imposing edifice of York stone, wrought iron railings separating it from the broad, tree lined pavement. Several large windows looked out onto narrow rectangles of paving and flower borders. A central path led to a stout front door. A house of quality, thought Cally, but I don’t want to live in it.

  Annie scrabbled in her bag, producing a piece of paper with an embossed heading. Cally deduced it was a letter. Annie stuffed it back into her bag, straightened her hat and brushed imaginary fluff from the front of her coat. Annie’s nervous, thought Cally. Maybe I should be too, but I don’t feel anything.

  Waiting for the next move, Cally objectively viewed her immediate surroundings. Across the road from the house was a park; large areas of manicured grass and mature trees: beech, oak and sycamore. Cars, omnibuses and carts rumbled up and down the road in a constant stream; more moving vehicles than Cally had ever seen before in one place.

  Annie opened the gate. It squeaked impatiently. Cally followed her up the path to the door, the thud of the brass knocker reverberating in the space behind it. Minutes later the door opened. An elderly woman dressed in black glared at them.

  ‘We’re here to see Mrs Cratchley. We’re expected,’ Annie gabbled. Without a word the woman stepped aside, a curt nod indicating they should enter.

  In the large vestibule a hallstand sprouted knobs draped with fine woollen overcoats, a cape of coarse tweed and two bowler hats. A long, carved sideboard sported wilting plants in tarnished brass urns, Cally wondered vaguely whose job it was to clean the brasses; or not, in this case.

  ‘Wait here.’ The woman disappeared through an inner door, closing it firmly behind her. Annie shuffled her feet on the Turkish carpet runner. Stonily, Cally watched her fidget but still she felt nothing. It was as though her mind and body no longer mustered emotions.

  After what seemed an age the woman in black came back, silently beckoning for them to follow her into an inner hallway, its floor a chequerboard of black and white tiles. Cally counted the number of doors leading off the hall, two to the right and three to the left and another directly ahead. She glanced up the wide, curving stairway leading to the upper floor: a big house indeed.

  The old woman tapped delicately on the first door on the right, opened it and ushered Cally and Annie forward. ‘Madam will see you now,’ she said, her tone suggesting they were fortunate. Annie mumbled ‘thanks’ and tottered into the room. Cally trailed behind.

  The room was almost in darkness save for a solitary lamp burning dimly on the mantelpiece and a miserable fire sputtering in the grate.

  ‘Come forward.’ A shrill voice emanated from the depths of the room and an arm, draped in mauve chiffon, appeared round the wing of the chair to the right of the fireplace. A slender hand, index finger crooked, urged them to move closer. ‘Come where I can see you. I can’t talk at a distance.’

  Cally looked to Annie to lead the way but Annie dithered so Cally resolutely manoeuvred between chairs and tables until she stood behind an overstuffed couch. Annie followed.

  The figure in the chair now partially visible, Cally made out a pair of long, narrow feet elegantly shod in calf leather pumps. They peeped from beneath a purple silk skirt, delicately ruched to the knee. The beckoning hand now rested languorously on the arm of the chair. Then, like a fakir’s snake uncoiling from its basket the occupant of the chair revealed herself, and striking a pose in front of the fireplace she inspected her visitors. The letter fluttered in Annie’s fingers as she mumbled a few words of introduction.

  Dora Cratchley pursed her thin lips and scrutinised Cally from head to toe. Cally stood tall and straight, gazing directly back at her, noting the pale, cold eyes, the pointed chin and tapering nose. Although she was wonderfully attired and her white-blonde hair perfectly coiffured, Dora Cratchley was no beauty.

  ‘She’s rather small for her age,’ Dora observed. ‘Is she up to the duties required of her?’

  Annie nodded vigorously then finding her voice replied, ‘Oh yes, madam. She knows how to look after children and keep a good house. I trained her myself, so I can vouch for her capabilities.’

  Ah, thought Cally, so that’s what I’m here for: to look after children and do the cleaning. It’s a far cry from the Council Offices.

  Dora sighed. ‘I suppose she’ll do; the last girl up and left without notice.’ Her pale, cold eyes narrowed and her lips twisted in a bitter sneer as though she was wrestling ugly thoughts. Then she blinked rapidly, gabbling, ‘you will attend to the children and household chores. Is that understood?’

  Cally stayed silent, cynically thinking – and in between minding the children and polishing and dusting, I’ll paper the parlour and paint the kitchen.

  Annie elbowed her sharply. ‘Answer the lady, Cally.’

  Cally nodded her head and mumbled ‘Yes, Mrs Cratchley.’

  ‘You will address me as Madam,’ Dora corrected curtly. ‘I do hope you’re not going to be difficult. The last girl was a problem.’

  ‘She won’t be a problem, madam, will you Cally?’

  Cally made no reply.

  ‘In that case I’ll keep her. Off you go now. Mrs Fogarty, the housekeeper, will instruct you.’

  Back in the inner hall, her face pink with embarrassment, Annie patted Cally’s arm. ‘I’ll be off then,’ she said. ‘I think you’ll like it here. She seems nice, doesn’t she?’

  ‘What would you know about nice?’ hissed Cally, the look on her face making Annie recoil as though she had been stung. ‘I’ll tell you what’s nice, Annie. It’s nice for you now I’m out of the house. You couldn’t wait to get rid of me, could you? You turned my dad against me; you stopped me getting a decent job and do you know what? I don’t care any more. I’ll stay here for as long as it suits, and not a minute longer. And when I move on, you’ll be the last person I’ll tell.’

  She grabbed the parcel she’d dumped in the hallway and ran towards the door behind which she presumed she’d find Mrs Fogarty. Annie fled in the opposite direction, slamming the outer door behind her.

  10

  It didn’t take long for Cally to realise that the Cratchley household was extremely dysfunctional. Although she had scant knowledge of household management she had imagined there would be at least one other live-in servant of a similar age to herself – but there was only Mrs Fogarty. A woman of indeterminate age, Cally reckoned she must be at least seventy, she spoke only when necessary.

  ‘I don’t engage in idle chit-chat,’ she snapped, when Cally attempted to glean some knowledge of the Cratchley family. ‘Off you go and attend to your duties. You’ll find the children in the nursery.’ Cally left the kitchen feeling utterly friendless.

  In the hall a large, blowsy woman mopped the floor. Cally said, ‘I’m the new maid; Cally Manfield from Calthorpe.’

  The woman’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Calthorpe! Another one,’ she said, looking Cally up and down before adding, ‘but you’re a plain little thing.’ She slopped the mop into the bucket. ‘I’m Bessie Lawson; I come in twice a week to do the heavy work. They’re a queer lot in this house so watch your back.’ She picked up the bucket and barged into the vestibule, leaving Cally to puzzle over the garbled information as she climbed the stairs in search of the nursery.

  She found the children playing quietly in a large airy room with two small bedrooms leading off it. A chubby little boy and an older girl smiled a welcome; the only friendly faces Cally had seen since she arrived.

  ‘Hello. I’m Cally. Who are you?’

  ‘I’m Arabella and this is William, but we call him Billy so as not to muddle him with Papa. Are you our new nanny?’ Cally assured them she was.

  ‘We’ve had lots of n
annies,’ said Arabella, ‘they all leave without saying goodbye. Will you stay forever?’ Her solemn expression seemed to indicate she would prefer it.

  Cally grinned. ‘Just as long as it takes.’

  *

  Later that day, Dora Cratchley’s part-time maid, Molly Parsons, showed Cally where she would be sleeping. When Cally commented that the poky, ill-furnished room down a side passage was a long way from the nursery, Molly said, ‘All the other nannies slept here; master’s orders.’

  Cally shrugged; yet another of the Cratchley’s idiosyncrasies.

  On her first morning in the house in Manningham Lane, Cally rose early. Dressed in the uniform provided by Dora and handed to her by Molly Parsons, she hurried to the nursery. The children were playing quietly with a Noah’s Ark; Cally was pleased by how biddable they seemed. She went to make their beds.

  In Arabella’s room was a long cheval mirror. Cally stood fascinated, gazing at her reflection; the first time she had seen herself full length. A small girl, her slender figure shrouded in an overly large, drab grey shirtwaist and black skirt, stared back at her. Even her pretty, elfin features looked peaky now that, at Dora’s insistence, her hair was scraped back into a bun at the nape of her neck. This is a far cry from the smart suit I thought I’d be wearing in the Council Offices, thought Cally, rolling too long sleeves up to her elbows and turning over the waistband of the skirt until it no longer swept the floor. I look a sight, she told herself. I’ll have to stay here till I’m fifty to grow into this lot.

  She did indeed look a pathetic little creature, her only redeeming feature a pair of warm, brown eyes, and on that first day she didn’t for one moment think that she would still be caring for the Cratchley children two years later.

  Although the job was not of Cally’s choosing, she made it far less irksome than it might have been. Quick to realise that no one cared what she did as long as they were not inconvenienced, she devised her own routine. All it took was common sense and logic, and she had plenty of both.