The Child from the Ash Pits

by Chrissie Walsh

  *

  The next morning, Mrs Fogarty nowhere to be seen, Cally breakfasted and set out again, this time into the side streets off Manningham Lane that housed countless sewing businesses. By late afternoon she despaired.

  ‘Is it any particular shop you look for?’ queried the wizened old Jew, his smile revealing stumps of decaying teeth and his small, black ‘currant bun’ eyes noting Cally’s desperation.

  ‘No,’ groaned Cally, ‘just one wanting workers.’

  A sharp intake of breath and a deepening of the wrinkles in his forehead told Cally she wasn’t about to appreciate his reply. ‘Oi vey, trade is bad. When trade is bad gentlemen no buy suits, their ladies no buy fine dresses and the machines stand idle.’ He shrugged helplessly. ‘Try Manny Goldheim on Simes Street, his shop is bigger than most. Manny always has custom.’ He flashed the stumps of his teeth at Cally, bade her Shalom and went on his way.

  By now the sky was darkening, the wind chilly. Cally plodded to Simes Street and stood, cold and miserable, in the outer office of Emmanuel Goldheim, bespoke tailor.

  ‘Can you baste, bind or fell?’ A beam of sunlight glinted on the gold between Manny Goldheim’s teeth. Cally’s blank expression told him all he wanted to know.

  ‘You’re no use if I have to show you how to do the job,’ he whined. ‘Experience is all; amateurs I have in plenty.’

  To cheer herself up Cally went to the market and purchased a large brown leather bag. It was second-hand but still serviceable and she would need it to carry her possessions when she left the Cratchley’s. Her purchase might have pleased her but the reality of finding work didn’t. She walked up Manningham Lane older and wiser than when she had walked down it the previous day. Job or no job, she had to get away from William.

  Back in her room, wearied by the events of the day she drifted into sleep, waking some hours later hungry and thirsty. She wandered down to the kitchen to make something to eat. There was still no sign of Mrs Fogarty.

  The silence in the empty house oppressive, Cally went up to her room and sat by the window listening to the night sounds from the street below: a rumbling wagon, the clatter of feet, a purring car engine and the thud of its doors closing.

  Outside the window the sky was black, save for a handful of stars twinkling over the rooftops of distant houses. One star shone brighter than all the rest, and although common sense told Cally it was the Pole Star, she decided it was beaming especially for her and made a wish on it. ‘Star light, star bright; grant the wish I wish tonight.’

  The front door slammed, then the vestibule door, feet thudding on the stairs. Cally leapt to her feet and secured the door with the hasp and staple then hurled her weight at the end of the chest of drawers, her nightly barricade.

  The doorknob rattled. She knew without a doubt William was outside the door – back four days too soon.

  ‘Cally, open this door. It’s the Master.’ Although he spoke with authority his speech was slurred. He’s tipsy, thought Cally.

  The hasp jiggled in its staple. Keep him out, her mind screeched as she inched the chest of drawers towards the door. The hasp pinged! A screw shot across the room. Then the chest refused to budge.

  Cally knelt to see what was holding it back. The bun feet, loosened by too many night time manoeuvres, had broken and were wedged underneath.

  Ping! Another screw dislodged, then another, the hasp and staple dangling uselessly.

  The door flew open. Cally leapt to her feet. William swayed drunkenly in the doorway, his florid features moist with perspiration and his lips twisted in a vicious sneer.

  Cally lunged for the opening, yelling at the top of her lungs: surely Mrs Fogarty would hear and come to investigate. She kept on yelling, her screams rising to a crescendo as William dragged her back into the room and kicked the door shut. With one almighty shove he sent her sprawling halfway across the bed. Then he was on top of her.

  In a room on the floor below, Kathleen Fogarty snored peacefully in a gin induced sleep.

  Cally’s fingernails raked William’s face as he clawed at her blouse. It tore apart, her heaving breasts revealed beneath the flimsy cotton of her chemise. Inflamed by the rosy nipples straining at the thin, white cloth, William ripped it as easily as if it had been tissue paper then sucked feverishly on the pretty buds. Held fast by his weight, Cally raised her hips in an attempt to offload him, but instead of shifting him it excited him all the more.

  ‘I said I’d have you and now I will,’ panted William, yanking up her skirt and pulling down her drawers. William thrust his fingers into Cally’s most secret places, her tender flesh smarting under his probing.

  At last, gasping and slobbering, William withdrew his hand, and coming half upright he tugged at his trouser buttons, tight against the bulge beneath. His attention diverted, Cally reached for the nightstand beside the bed, her hand groping blindly until her fingertips touched cold, smooth metal. Stretching further, she gripped the stem of the heavy brass lamp. William, engrossed in his unbuttoning, knew nothing until the lamp smashed into his left temple. He jolted sideways.

  Cally brought the lamp down again. It landed with a dull thwack, William’s sparse red hair turning a deeper shade as blood spurted from a gash in his scalp. He slid to the floor.

  Bruised and aching, Cally scrambled to her feet and then stooped over him. Had she killed him? Breath rasped in his chest. Sagging with relief she sprang into action; there was no time to lose.

  Suppressing the urge to wash herself and expunge his filthy touch, she stripped off her drawers then threw on her topcoat. Its high-necked collar rubbed against the stinging wheals left by his cruel fingers and she soothed them with her own, her hand stilling abruptly and her breath caught in her throat; her locket was missing.

  Panic consumed her. She must find it: she couldn’t leave it behind. It was her most treasured possession.

  Cautiously stepping round William’s prostrate carcass, Cally searched for the locket, the terrible consequences of what she had done crowding in on her. If he died, would she be guilty of murder? She bent over the still, prone body and peered closely. William’s head lay awkwardly to one side, blood oozing from his scalp, a pulse beating steadily in his stretched neck.

  Cally released her breath and continued to hunt. William groaned.

  Another groan followed by incoherent mumbling had her crying with frustration as she abandoned the search, her precious locket lost at the hands of this evil man. Resisting the temptation to kick him hard, she dashed about the room cramming clothes, her household manual, and the photograph of her and her dad into the leather bag. Finally she wedged her savings deep inside. So much for making an organised departure, she thought, glancing regretfully at the books she would have to leave behind. She was being forced out into the night, to God knows where – and without her locket.

  The leather bag stuffed to bursting she lifted it and, anxious to make sure William was still alive, set it down and stooped over him yet again. The pulse in his neck throbbed and breath rattled in his chest. Thank God he’s not dead, she consoled herself, I wouldn’t want anyone’s death on my hands. A great, gulping sob escaped her throat, the sob changing to a cry of relief.

  Close by William’s hand, entangled in a clump of her hair was her locket. She scooped it up and stuffed it in her coat pocket, hair and all. As she did so, William raised his battered head. Cally leapt as though stung. Grabbing her bag, she fled.

  Manningham Lane was almost deserted. Cally trudged towards the city centre, her feet carrying her she knew not where or to what. High above her head the Pole Star had not lost its lustre. Sourly she recollected the exact words of her wish: Please God, speed my journey. He’d done that all right, but not in the way she intended. William Cratchley, damn his eyes, had seen to that.

  The leather bag was heavy; Cally paused to swap it into the other hand and an elderly couple walking towards her paused too. She could tell by their puzzled expressions they were wondering why a young girl
, toting a heavy load, was traipsing the streets at this late hour. They looked as though they were about to ask, but at the last minute they changed their minds and hurried on by. Cally walked until she came to Cheapside.

  The city centre never slept and the sight of lone men, some in a drunken state, strained Cally’s nerves to breaking point. I must find somewhere to stay, she thought, a room where I can clean myself up and stay the night; then I might be able to think straight. She plodded on, into the back streets, the most likely place to find cheap lodgings.

  In Balme Street she spotted a notice in a window:

  ROOM TO LET

  She knocked on the door, praying the landlady would still be awake at this hour. A light went on and a voice called out. ‘Who is it? What do you want?’

  ‘A room for the night,’ Cally called back.

  Bolts scraped and the door opened a crack. A woman in a dressing gown and her hair in curlers peered out. ‘I’ve come about the room,’ Cally blurted.

  The woman pulled the door open wider. In the hallway behind her a statue of the Virgin Mary stood on a small table, a picture of the Sacred Heart above it.

  ‘At this hour,’ the woman snapped, her accent letting Cally know she was Irish. As her eyes flicked from Cally’s dishevelled hair and ravaged face down to her boots, her expression soured. ‘I don’t take your sort. This is a respectable house, not a knocking shop.’

  Cally paled. The woman had mistaken her for a prostitute. She turned, running back the way she had come, the landlady’s eyes piercing holes in her shoulder blades. Close to tears, Cally tottered up Petergate and back into Cheapside. In front of her was the railway station, Bradford Exchange. It was too late to take a train to Barnsley, and why would she go there? Annie wouldn’t welcome her. Neither would her dad. Furthermore, pride would not allow her to return.

  The large, iron gates at the entrance to the station were closed, but further along the imposing façade a narrow passageway tempted her to seek refuge. It was pitch dark in the alley and she stumbled over the cobbles until she came to another gate, this one set in a stone surround with raised blocks at either side. Wearily she rested her aching body on the nearest block and shrank into the corner, the leather bag at her back. Her head drooped and her eyes closed and, although she tried to keep alert, sleep overcame her.

  *

  Cally wakened to the hiss of steam and the violent thrashing of metal against metal. A dull grey light penetrated the passageway, and when she looked up, the sky was streaked with the first light of dawn. She couldn’t believe she had slept for so long on her uncomfortable perch. She stood and stretched her cramped limbs. Then she froze.

  Her bag! Where was her bag? Foolishly she cast about for it, knowing full well it had been stolen whilst she slept. Silently chastising herself for her foolishness, and cursing the thief who had made off with it, she brushed herself down and straightened her hair. Fury at William Cratchley burned in her breast. He had brought her to this. Praying for him to rot in hell she trudged up the passageway into Cheapside.

  Two constables, arms swinging in tandem, were walking towards her. Cally quaked. Were they looking for her? Had Cratchley pressed charges? Ducking her head she slipped back into the alleyway as the constables sauntered past. Cally sagged with relief. She must get off the streets but now, with no money, where could she go? She trudged along Cheapside to Petergate, her body aching not only from the awkward position in which she had slept but sore from William’s probing fingers and savage mouth. She felt utterly defiled.

  In Petergate, Cally lost the will to go on. Faltering to a halt outside a hat shop, her back to the street to hide her face from passers-by, she caught sight of her reflection in the window’s mirrored interior. Dark circles ringed her eyes and angry, red blotches were visible above the collar of her coat, the bite marks of an animal. She slumped down on the window’s broad sill, her spirit broken.

  Then she spotted them, two giggling girls walking towards her, arm in arm: Bella and Emma Godber. Not once since her arrival in Bradford had she sought them out. They belonged to the past and she, who had had such great notions, had never given them a second thought. Now she noted their clothing, gaudy and wanton in combination, but nevertheless fashionable. They looked happy and successful.

  They saw her and stared. Then teetering on heels too high they ran and hugged her, asking a hundred questions. Cally flatly informed them of her predicament. They oohed and aahed as the story unfolded, Cally crying pitifully as she ran out of words. Emma, always the more sensitive of the two sisters, glanced at Bella, her eyes seeking approval for what she was about to say. Bella shrugged carelessly.

  ‘You could always come an’ stay wi’ us till you get sorted. That way, you won’t have to go back to that miserable cow in Calthorpe. She couldn’t wait to get rid of us an’ she never liked you neither.’

  Cally’s heart swelled at the unexpected gesture, the warmth in Emma’s blue eyes evoking memories of their friendship.

  Emma took Cally by the hand, Bella leading them to a café and treating them to mugs of tea, pork pie and cream slices. After that they walked to Bella and Emma’s lodgings, Cally silently reflecting on how she had once considered herself superior to the Godber girls. Now she felt humbled by their generosity.

  Bella and Emma rented two rooms over a Betting Shop in Canal Road, and as Cally followed them up the iron stairway at the rear of the premises she mused on their good fortune. They had a place of their own, their clothes were obviously new and judging by the flagrant spending on tea and cakes they were not hard up. Wages in the biscuit factory must be better than wages in service, she thought. When Cally voiced this opinion Emma flushed. Bella gave her a dirty look and unlocked the door.

  The living room was festooned with cast off garments and the sink littered with dirty dishes. The fireplace bore evidence of a long dead fire, the ashes topped with screwed up chip papers. Cally wrinkled her nose. Through the open door into the other room she saw an unmade double bed. Under the window in the living room was a battered sofa with grubby blankets and a pillow tossed on top. ‘Who sleeps there?’ she asked, thinking there might be a third person sharing the rooms.

  Emma looked to Bella for guidance before answering. ‘It all depends,’ she said. ‘If one of us has company we go into t’bedroom and t’other one sleeps in here.’

  ‘Company?’ Cally innocently enquired.

  Bella sniggered. ‘Fellas. An’ they like a bit o’ privacy, so you keep out o’ t’way when they’re here.’

  Cally’s eyes opened wide. ‘You mean… like… men who go to bed with you?’ The words stumbled from her lips as she struggled to come to terms with the revelation, the steely gaze and harsh words of the landlady in Balme Street coming back to haunt her.

  ‘Aye, that’s right,’ Bella snapped, peevishly. ‘If you don’t like it you can always go somewhere else.’

  Cally didn’t like it, but she had no money to go elsewhere, so she asked, ‘Where will I sleep?’

  ‘On that,’ said Bella pointing to the sofa, ‘or that.’ She indicated a battered armchair. ‘You can take your pick.’

  It wasn’t quite what Cally had expected, but beggars can’t be choosers, she told herself, and that’s what I am – a beggar.

  And she soon temporarily forgot her parlous state as they sat eating biscuits and drinking cheap pop and reminiscing on life in Jackson’s Yard.

  ‘Arsehole Annie,’ jibed Bella, ‘the cruellest cow in Calthorpe.’ The girls laughed uproariously, Cally loudest of all. She had had no friends of her own age for two long years and now, despite her predicament, she was enjoying the girlish, giggling companionship.

  ‘The rotten cow knew all about dirty old Willie Cratchley but she still left me there,’ Cally revealed.

  ‘The filthy bitch,’ Emma exclaimed, ‘she should be locked up.’

  ‘She should be buried under t’biggest slag heap in Calthorpe,’ said Bella.

  ‘Give me a shovel and I’ll
do it myself,’ cried Cally.

  Later, after Bella and Emma had gone out, Cally boiled two pans of water and scrubbed her body, cleansing it of William’s vile touch. Dressed in fresh underwear and a blouse borrowed from Emma and her own sensible skirt she settled down to await their return. They came back late and, to Cally’s relief, they were alone.

  That night, as Cally tossed and turned on the lumpy sofa, she recalled the night the Godbers had come into her life. She had welcomed their intrusion from the start and, once again, she gave thanks for their intervention.

  The next day Cally went with the girls to the biscuit factory to ask for a job. It was raining, the early morning streets damp and depressing. Alone, Cally returned to the rooms in Canal Road, overwhelmed by her penury – no job, no clothes, no money.

  She spent the rest of the day bringing order to chaos, Emma and Bella arriving home to tidy rooms and sausage and mash, bought with money Bella had given to Cally for that purpose. After they had eaten, Emma and Bella got dressed up in gaudy outfits. ‘We’re off out, are you coming?’ Emma asked.

  Cally shook her head. ‘I’ll stay here. You go and enjoy yourselves.’ She wouldn’t let them know she was embarrassed to be seen in their company – and afraid of what they might expect of her. They left in a cloud of cheap perfume.

  Cally curled up in the chair with a book she had found behind the sofa. She was still there when Bella came back with an elderly, sheepish looking man.

  Bella looked pointedly at Cally and chivvied the man into the bedroom. For the next half hour Cally tried to close her ears to the rattle of bedsprings and the wild cries of a man in the throes of passion.

  The man and Bella had no sooner left than Emma returned with a young, very drunken sailor in tow. When Bella came back a second time accompanied by a foreign gentleman, Cally pretended to be asleep in the chair, her nerves in tatters. She couldn’t stay here.

  *

  It didn’t take long for Cally to realise the girls did not entertain ‘callers’ purely for pleasure. But she wouldn’t earn her keep in that way so every morning, dull eyed and desperate, she scoured the city for work. ‘It’s this Depression, lass,’ the kindly clerk at the button factory told her, ‘there’s more people than there is jobs.’