Each weekday morning, after delivering Arabella to Miss Porter’s Academy, she whisked through the household chores and minded Billy. With no one supervising her work Cally performed only the most vital tasks, the Cratchleys and Mrs Fogarty oblivious to any shortcomings.
Every afternoon, along with Billy, she collected Arabella and together they explored their immediate environs. They played in the parks and shopped at the open market, Cally fascinated by the mix of people in the city: wealthy cloth merchants exiting huge blackened mills, the loud, jolly market traders and the mysterious Jews in the garment district, their long greasy black curls dangling from under homburg hats or yarmulkes. There was so much to see and do, and as long as she had the children home in time for tea no questions were asked.
Sometimes they visited the Public Library, Cally roaming the shelves, satisfying her love of reading whilst the children looked at picture books. Then, at night when the children were in bed, Cally sat at the nursery table compiling notes on good housekeeping, etiquette and gentility; attributes for future use. She even recorded Mrs Fogarty’s menus, for although the old bird was short on words, she was a prodigious cook. Acquiring knowledge afforded Cally some consolation; at least her schooling was not entirely going to waste.
Her dealings with William Cratchley were limited to handing him his hat and coat whenever he left the house, and reversing the process on his return. Of his wife she saw even less. Each day before tea she presented the children to their mother in the drawing room, Dora entertaining them for no more than half an hour before ringing for Cally to collect them.
However, having little free time and no opportunity to meet people of her own age, there were occasions when she felt thoroughly dissatisfied with her station. The positive aspect of having nowhere to go and no one to go with meant that she saved most of her wages; she called it her nest-egg. Watching it grow gave her a sense of power. With money she could control her own destiny.
*
The day Cally turned sixteen she was in the nursery with William and Arabella when Molly Parsons bustled in. ‘Here you are, Cally, I’ve brought you these.’ Molly handed her a fine woollen black skirt and a white blouse with neat pin tucks and pearl buttons.
Cally smiled warmly as she accepted them. Not only did she appreciate the offering, she was glad to see Molly: a friendly face in a house devoid of adult company.
‘They’re lovely,’ said Cally, and unbuttoning the grey shirtwaist that she had altered to fit, she slipped the blouse over her head then stepped into the skirt.
‘When Madam said to dispose of them I thought of you,’ said Molly, ‘you being slim enough to wear them.’ She smiled ruefully, patting her own ample middle as she gazed admiringly at Cally’s pert bosom and slender waist. These, along with her glossy black hair, lustrous eyes and tawny skin made an enchanting combination: one that wouldn’t escape notice.
‘My, Cally, you’re growing up fast. It seems no time since you were a plain little waif of a thing, but now you’re every bit a beauty.’
Cally blushed at the compliment.
Molly pursed her lips thoughtfully. ‘You’re a lovely young woman, Cally. You take care now.’ And on that mysterious note Molly hurried back to attend to Dora.
When she’d gone Cally went into Arabella’s bedroom and gazed at her reflection in the cheval mirror. Molly’s right. It’s not only my compendium on good housekeeping and my nest-egg that’s grown, so have I, she told herself, at the same time wondering what Molly had meant when she told her to take care.
*
It was the evening after Molly’s visit to the nursery, and William was preparing to attend a Council meeting. When Cally, wearing the neat, white pin tucked blouse and black skirt, handed him his silk scarf his fingertips fondled the palm of her hand. She hated it when he did that and swiftly withdrew her hand. The scarf fell to the floor. When she stooped to retrieve it, William fondled her buttocks and said, ‘My, Cally, but you’ve grown awful pretty these past few months. What age are you now?’
‘Sixteen, sir,’ Cally muttered, handing him his scarf.
‘Sixteen. Ripe and ready for plucking.’ William moved closer, his whisky breath hot on her face. She stepped back defiantly. ‘Watch your manners, Cally,’ he leered, ‘I have my eye on you.’
He strutted out through the front door, Cally slamming it behind him. She leant against it recalling how, just lately, whenever she attended him he made a point of standing too close, touching her whenever the opportunity arose. Her skin crawled at his nearness, yet her duties made it impossible to avoid him. Now she understood what Molly had meant: beware of William Cratchley. Cally had heard stories about young girls seduced by their master and now, as she mounted the stairs, she gave serious thought to the matter of moving on.
By the time she reached the nursery she had decided to give notice when she received her wages at the end of the month. In the meantime, she thought, I’ll watch out for Willie Cratchley’s straying hands and his lewd suggestions.
*
The following morning, Mrs Fogarty announced that the Cratchley’s were entertaining at home that evening, and as Cally prepared the dining room she thought long and hard about William and moving on. What was it Arabella had said about the other nannies who left without saying goodbye? Had they left for the same reason? Molly Parsons had warned her to take care; and why had Bessie Lawson been shocked to learn she came from Calthorpe? Cally needed some answers and she was determined to get them.
In the kitchen, Cally’s curiosity got the better of her. Throwing caution to the wind, she quizzed the housekeeper. ‘Mrs Fogarty, what did they call the girl who was here before me?’
The hand beating the batter for a sponge pudding froze. ‘We don’t talk about that wicked girl in this house,’ the housekeeper hissed, ‘and I’ll thank you not to expect me to engage in frivolous rumour. I have a dinner to prepare.’
Mrs Fogarty resumed beating, lips clamped. Cally knew when to admit defeat, but a short while later the rattle of Bessie Lawson’s bucket in the scullery alerted her to Lizzie’s whereabouts. Cally asked her the same question. This time she met with success.
‘Ooh, that one?’ Bessie whistled through blubbery lips. ‘She didn’t half cause a ruckus, I can tell you. It wa’ summat to do wi’ the master. She got blamed o’ course but it weren’t all one sided.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘The one afore her left in t’same way, and the one afore that. If you take my advice you’ll steer clear of him.’
Cally pulled a face to indicate she understood the wisdom behind the words. ‘What did they call her, the girl before me?’
‘Now, let me think, what wa’ her name?’ Bessie clamped a roughened hand to her chin, deep in thought. ‘Snell; that were it, Betty Snell; a big, plump lass but pretty wi’ it, an’ always laughin’.’ Bessie looked Cally up and down. ‘You’re a bonny lass an’ all now that you’re grown, so mind what I say; watch out.’ She picked up her bucket and stumped off. She’d said her piece.
So that was it; Betty Snell, sister of Gertie; Annie’s best friend. That’s how Annie had known about the job. Well, Betty Snell might be daft enough to get caught but I’m not, Cally told herself firmly; Willie Cratchley won’t catch me.
*
It was the evening of that same day, Cally in the vestibule helping the guests divest their outer garments before ushering them into the inner hall where William, standing like a sentry, awaited their arrival. A portly figure with a florid complexion and sparse, red hair, he was the complete opposite of his pale, lethargic wife.
‘Hargreaves, Brook; good to see you,’ bellowed William, his ebullient handshakes almost disconnecting hands from wrists. He bowed courteously to the ladies, then engaged his guests with loud, meaningless chatter, all the while casting irritable glances up the stairway. Cally hid a smile. He was waiting for Dora.
William’s pleasantries petered to a halt, his guests glancing uncomfortably at one another and then startled out of their
wits as he roared, ‘Ah, here she is – at last.’
Like an imago emerging from its cocoon Dora teetered at the head of the stairs, an alabaster wraith clad in floating chiffon of mauves, purples and palest greys. She trailed elegantly down the sweeping staircase to proffer a limp hand to each guest.
Cally watched Dora’s approach, sarcastically thinking this is a woman who stays in bed till eleven, rests in the afternoon and entertains her children for half an hour before tea each day: the poor lamb’s worn out; the effort of dressing for dinner must have exhausted her.
William glared at his wife, annoyed by her tardiness and lack of enthusiasm. Laughing inwardly, Cally opened the dining room door and the party trooped in. William was the last to enter, he deliberately pressed against Cally as he passed by.
Throughout the evening, along with Mrs Fogarty, Cally served at the table. Whenever she attended William his straying hands made contact with her buttocks or, as she reached in to place or remove a plate, her breasts. Cally’s cheeks burned. Would that it were all over.
At long last Mrs Fogarty ordered, ‘Take the coffee through and make sure the brandy and cigars are to hand.’ Cally lifted the heavy silver tray and went back to the dining room. Hawk-like, William watched her every move.
Her duties fulfilled, Cally went and sat in the nursery, writing yet another letter to George. William’s lascivious attention had left her feeling unsettled and now, unable to sleep and her mind and heart filled with the need to know if George had truly wanted rid of her, she penned the same phrases she had written so many times before, at the same time dwelling on the fruitlessness of the task. As yet, he hadn’t replied to any of them – but she had to know if Annie had spoken the truth – had he really wanted rid of her?
Lost in thought, Cally was startled when William strutted into the nursery. She dropped her pen and sprang to attention. Do something – and fast, she told herself. A few quick strides took her to Arabella’s half open bedroom door where, in a falsely confident and overly loud voice she asked, ‘Have you come to say goodnight to the children, sir?’
Like a buzzard circling carrion, William closed in on her. ‘No Cally, I came for you,’ he slurred suggestively. The sharp reek of brandy oozed from his pores and his pale eyes, moist and bulging, reminded Cally of a cod on a fishmonger’s slab.
Cally pushed the door wider, at the same time shouting, ‘What did you wish to see me about, sir?’
Arabella stirred. ‘Is that you, Cally?’
William’s hot breath fanned her cheeks as he hissed ‘I’ll have you yet.’ Barely able to control his fury he spun on his heels and marched out of the nursery.
Cally darted to Arabella’s bed and flopped down on it, relief washing over her and the thudding in her chest gradually subsiding as she rewarded the unsuspecting child with a hug.
Safe in her own room, her thoughts on fire, Cally acknowledged that Willie Cratchley was dangerous. The thought made her shudder; she knew what the outcome might be if she didn’t get away from him – and soon. But, with his wife and children and Mrs Fogarty in the house he’s hardly likely to attempt anything other than a bit of fumbling, she reasoned. And when he does I’ll outsmart him; I did tonight and I’ll do it again. Bolstered by rash confidence she told herself she could fend him off until next payday; after all, she thought, I’d be a fool to leave now – without my wages. Satisfied she had the situation in hand, Cally fell into a restless sleep.
*
‘You run the horses round the track, Billy, while I brush the stairs.’ Cally yawned as she set the lead animals on the racetrack she’d concocted out of strips of cardboard. She’d barely slept the night before but the chores still had to be done, and Billy entertained.
On the short flight of stairs leading to the nursery floor Cally sang lustily, letting the little boy know she was still close by. Dustpan in one hand, brush in the other she stooped, her pert bottom high in the air.
She was halfway through the last verse of ‘Lavender’s Blue, Dilly, Dilly’, a firm favourite with Billy, when she felt a hot, clammy hand stroke her calf then her thigh, questing upwards to her crotch. She leapt as though stung, fluff and dust spilling from the pan. Whirling round, she came face to face with William.
Cally raised the brush defensively. A sardonic smile twisted William’s features, his ugliness exaggerated by the beads of perspiration on his thick upper lip. He wondered why it had taken him so long to realise what a tempting creature she was.
Cally took a deep breath. ‘Billy,’ she called in loud, cheerful tones, ‘come and see who is here.’ She sounded bold, but her knees were trembling.
Billy appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘What you want me for, Cally?’ His eyes registered surprise at the sight of his father, ‘Hello, Papa. Is it bedtime?’ Unused to seeing his father at this hour of the day he thought it much later.
‘Hello, Billy,’ William barked, his tone falsely jovial. ‘Off you go back to your toys like a good chap.’
Billy didn’t move. ‘Come see my horsies. They’re galloping round the track.’
Cally giggled despite her nervousness. ‘Yes sir, go and see the horses.’
Looking as though he was about to explode, William growled, ‘My children won’t save you next time.’ He clattered down the stairs without a backward glance, his son calling after him.
Later that night, after ironing the children’s clothes, Cally left the kitchen to go to her room. On the half-landing she sensed she was being followed; instinct told her it was William. Haring up the final flight and into her room, she dragged the chest of drawers away from the wall and set it across the door. Seconds later the door thudded against it and she heard William curse.
The next day, after another night of uneasy sleep, Cally bought a strong hasp and staple from the ironmongers, and leaving the children to eat their tea she screwed it to her bedroom door with the aid of an old kitchen knife. She had just finished the task when Mrs Fogarty ordered her to attend Dora in the drawing room.
‘Ah, Cally, there you are.’ Dora’s cheeks were unusually pink. ‘Pack the children’s bags, enough clothing for a week. We leave tomorrow morning for a stay in the country with my parents.’ She clapped her hands gleefully, her childish excitement palpable.
Cally, astonished to see her so animated, asked. ‘Am I to accompany you, Madam?’
‘No, my old Nanny will attend to them. She adores them just as she adored me,’ Dora enthused, her tinkling laughter foreign to Cally’s ears. Poor Dora, she thought, she’s just as miserable living in Bradford as I am; and with a husband like William, who can blame her.
‘Is the master going too?’
Dora’s reply affirmative, Cally flew up to the nursery, her heart light and her head filled with scheming.
11
Five days – five whole days for Cally to plan her future.
Before the Cratchleys departed Dora had said, ‘Mrs Fogarty will instruct you as to your duties in my absence. Do as she says.’
‘I will, Madam,’ Cally had replied, suppressing the bubble of mirth that crept into her throat at the notion of Mrs Fogarty showing an interest in what she did, let alone issuing instructions. She’d given Dora a bright smile, genuinely hoping the foolish woman’s holiday in Lincolnshire would bring her some joy.
Cally had wandered back into the silent house. Maybe she ought to check with Mrs Fogarty, just in case Dora had left instructions. The kitchen was empty, as were the other ground floor rooms, and still having no idea where in the rambling house the old woman’s private quarters were, Cally willingly abandoned the search. Feeling free as a bird she scampered up the stairs to her own room and, dressed in her smartest coat and hat, she was back on the street in no time.
Filled with a sense of purpose, Cally walked along Manningham Lane into the town centre to enquire about obtaining a decent job; one with prospects and that used her brain, she told herself confidently.
By the end of the afternoon she was fuming, her c
onfidence badly dented. How could she have been so foolish as to think she could talk her way into a job of her choosing? A publishing house, a bookshop, four mill offices, the library and a wholesale newsagents had all given the same response: what experience did she have and where were her references. Cally had neither.
Thoroughly disillusioned, and angered by her naivety she trudged out of the city centre. At the corner of Neal Street she paused outside a bakehouse with a tearoom, the tantalising smell of freshly baked bread making her tummy rumble. She hadn’t given food a thought until now.
The tearoom abuzz with gossip and heat, she found a seat by the window and ordered two toasted, buttered crumpets and a cup of tea. Melted butter oozed from the crumpets and dribbled through her fingers but she didn’t care. They were delicious, and along with a mug of hot, strong tea, they revived her spirits. Chewing and sipping, she salved her wounds. I’ll lower my sights and find work that doesn’t require previous experience.
A comely woman with a stout canvas moneybag tied round her ample girth wheezed into a chair at the opposite side of the table and set about demolishing a bacon sandwich. Cally presumed she was a market trader.
The woman shoved a last bit of bread into her mouth, took a gulp of tea and sat back in her chair. Her eyes met Cally’s and she smiled. Cally smiled back. ‘Excuse me,’ she said politely, ‘I’m looking for work. Do you know of anything?’
The woman sighed heavily. ‘Not that I can think of; work’s scarce everywhere what with this slump. There’s nowt on t’market, an’ they’re payin’ ’em off in t’mills and t’biscuit factory. You can always try t’garment district, that’s if you don’t mind workin’ for Jew boys.’ She sniffed disapprovingly. ‘Them Jews what runs the sweatshops are always lookin’ for labour. Mind you, they’ll work your fingers to the bone.’
The Child from the Ash Pits Page 9
