The Child from the Ash Pits

by Chrissie Walsh

  This proved to be true. As one week dragged into three, Cally dreaded having to tell Bella she was still dependent on their charity. With each passing day she could tell that Bella’s patience was wearing thin.

  ‘Did you find owt today?’

  Cally shook her head. ‘Honestly Bella, I’ve tried everywhere. There are no jobs.’

  Bella gazed at her, dispassionately. ‘If you can’t afford to pay your way, you’ll ’ave to do like we do.’

  Cally shuddered. ‘I don’t think I can.’

  ‘You’ll have to if you want to stay here.’ Bella’s tone brooked no refusal. ‘Get yourself ready an’ come wi’ us tonight. You might not like it but you’ll get used to it, an’ it pays better’n any job you’re likely to find even with all your lah-di-dah ways.’

  Bella marched into the bedroom, coming back with a flimsy red dress. ‘Put that on,’ she ordered Cally, ‘fellas’ll not look at you in them prim an’ proper things you’re wearin’.’

  Cally inspected the dress. It was cut in the new, shorter length with a tatty frill attached to the neck and hemline. Her expression mirrored her repugnance. It was a tart’s dress.

  ‘An’ you can take that mardy look off your face. You can’t sit here on your arse all night expecting free board and lodgin’, said Bella, ‘an’ don’t be fastening your hair up; leave it hangin’ down. Fellas like a woman with long hair.’ She crossed the room and picked up her handbag. ‘Get a move on, cos if you don’t you can get out now.’

  Emma came out of the bedroom, her hair a brassy cloud of squiggles and curls and her flowered frock stretched tight over her plump behind. She gave Cally a pitying glance. ‘Go on,’ she said, sympathetically, ‘it’s not that bad. Some chaps don’t want you to go all the way wi’ ’em, an’ it’ll keep her off your back.’

  Cally went into the bedroom and undressed. She washed her hands and face and wiped under her armpits with a damp flannel, thinking her underwear could do with washing, and what about her serviceable black stockings: should she keep them on?

  A nauseous knot formed in her stomach. The thought of a strange man seeing her underwear – removing her underwear – sent shivers down Cally’s spine. She’d go to keep Bella quiet, but she wasn’t doing what they did with any man. Perhaps, as Emma suggested, she’d get by with just a bit of kissing and cuddling.

  She loosened her hair, letting it fall in glossy, black waves about her shoulders and then she donned the red dress. She wished there was a long mirror in which to view her appearance. Did she look as hideous as she felt?

  Back in the living room Bella shoved a small pot into Cally’s hand. ‘Put a bit o’ rouge on your cheeks, you look like death warmed up. An’ when we’re out there, try smilin’. You’ve a face like a smacked arse.’

  Cally smeared a smidgen of the sticky substance onto each cheekbone then crossed to the mirror to inspect her reflection. The patches of rouge made her look like a clown and she rubbed at them furiously then wiped her fingers under each armpit; the stains wouldn’t show against the colour of the dress. Feeling foolish in the borrowed garb, like a child dressed up in its mother’s clothes, she stood miserably in the centre of the room. Bella gave her a deprecating glance before walking into the bedroom. Over by the window Emma groaned. ‘It’s pourin’ down. We’ll need us coats. Bring mine out o’ t’bedroom, Bella.’

  Thanking divine providence, Cally hid the red dress under her sensible, navy blue coat. Maybe there was a God after all. Now she wouldn’t have to parade through the streets looking like a whore. Bella emerged, a frown darkening her features. ‘You can take that off as soon as we get in t’pub,’ she ordered, glaring disparagingly at Cally’s coat. ‘They’ll think we’ve brought somebody from t’Sally Army wi’ us.’

  Emma giggled. Cally braced herself.

  12

  The Spinners Arms was thick with smoke, noise and the greasy smell of millworkers. Heads turned as the three girls walked into the public bar and several voices called out greetings. Bella led the way to a table where a beefy man and two blowsy women sat nursing frothy pints of mild and bitter. Stools were dragged into place and they joined the company. The beefy man ordered drinks; three gins.

  Surreptitiously, Cally glanced to left and right, observing the bustling throng. Over at the bar men in flat caps and rough jackets, greasy with the handling of raw wool or machinery, laughed raucously and argued loudly between taking deep draughts of ale. At the far end of the room men in suits, wearing trilby hats or bowlers talked quietly, no doubt discussing business. A large woman, wearing a market trader’s apron stood up and sang a bawdy ditty, her voice like gravel washing over stone.

  The noise throbbed and so did Cally’s head. She took a sip of the drink Emma had placed in front of her. It tasted vile and she pursed her lips to prevent herself spitting it out. She swallowed. A burning sensation fired her gullet and stomach.

  ‘Take your coat off,’ hissed Bella. Feeling self-conscious in the cheap, red dress, Cally’s cheeks flamed to match it.

  A tall, gangly chap in a worn suit strolled over to Emma and whispered in her ear. She laughed and gulped the remainder of her gin. ‘I’ll be off; see you later.’ Her arm hooked through that of the young man, she sashayed out of the pub.

  Minutes later, Bella approached a man in a dark overcoat and trilby hat. Cally knew they were talking about her for every now and then they glanced in her direction. When Bella came back to sit with Cally, the man came with her.

  Bella gave Cally a meaningful look. ‘This is Alf.’ Then, a threat in every word, added, ‘You’ll like Alf.’

  Cally looked up into a pair of cold grey eyes in a pockmarked face. Alf leered, his blubbery lips showing the flesh on the inside of his mouth.

  ‘Come on, love, let’s not hang about.’ He placed a hand under Cally’s elbow. ‘I’ll take you back to my place an’ we can get down to business.’

  Cally sat glued to the seat, her bladder feeling as though it might burst and her knees trembling.

  ‘Go on,’ urged Bella, leaning close to whisper in Cally’s ear, ‘and be nice to him, he’s a boss in one o’ t’mills, and a bloody good customer. Don’t let me down now; t’street’s are cold and lonely at night.’

  Cally winced at the veiled threat.

  Alf levered her from the stool. Cally grabbed her coat and he helped her into it. Out on the street, she thought of making a run for it but Alf gripped her firmly by the arm, forcing her into a waiting hackney carriage. As it trundled through the streets, Cally told herself she’d ditch Alf at the first opportunity, even though it meant being homeless.

  In a long narrow side street off the main thoroughfare the carriage’s engine coughed and spluttered and then came to a juddering halt. ‘Sorry mate,’ said the hackney driver. ‘It’s been playing me up all week; it dun’t like rain.’

  Alf kept a tight hold on Cally as they alighted. When the cabby demanded his fare Alf objected, the furious row causing him to loosen his grip. A quick glance up and down the street, and Cally spied an opportunity. A mere few feet away was the open vestibule door of a public house, its welcoming light a beacon. Cally dashed inside. Maybe the pub had a rear door and a means of escape, she thought, as she stumbled in through the inner swing doors.

  Unlike the Spinners this place was quiet. Most of the clientele were couples seated at polished wooden tables; green velvet curtains and brass jugs giving the room a homely feel. Behind the bar a large, jovial man dispensed drinks and bonhomie.

  Cally faltered, glancing round wildly, shrouded in embarrassment. A stout, pretty woman with a mass of permanently waved red hair entered the room by a rear door. She made cheery remarks to the regulars before going behind the bar to wash glasses. Cally gathered herself and walked purposefully towards the door by which the woman had entered the room.

  Meanwhile, out on the pavement, Alf looked up and down the street. Where had the bitch gone? The street was too lengthy for her to be already out of sight and the only accessi
ble building showing any sign of entry was the public house. Fuming, he strode inside.

  Beyond the rear door Cally looked to left and right. The dimly lit passage contained four doors, two bearing metal plaques, ‘Gents’ on one, ‘Ladies’ on the other. Hopeful that the first unmarked door led to a yard and a means of escape she tried the handle. It was locked. Hurrying past the lavatories she tried the other unmarked door. It opened easily, but before she could see what was behind it a voice brought her to a sudden halt.

  ‘Where do you think you’re goin’?’ She recognised the voice. It belonged to the red-haired woman. Cally turned slowly, colour suffusing her cheeks.

  ‘I was looking for a… a way out… He… I… I need to get away from him…’ She blinked away unshed tears.

  The woman smiled sympathetically. ‘You mean the big fellow wi’ blubbery lips out there.’ She flicked her thumb in the direction of the bar. ‘Are you runnin’ out on him?’

  Cally shook her head affirmatively.

  The red-haired woman covered the short distance separating them and pushed wide the door that Cally had partially opened to reveal a large, cluttered kitchen-cum-sitting room. This was obviously the living quarters; Cally was attacked by guilt. Immediately she apologised, denying any ulterior motive other than looking for a way out of the building. Then her knees sagged and in between choking sobs and much blowing of her nose she explained her predicament.

  ‘You poor lass,’ soothed the woman, ‘best stay here while I go an’ see what’s what.’

  She was back in seconds. ‘He’s hangin’ on an’ he doesn’t look too pleased. What are you goin’ to do?’

  ‘Can you let me out the back way?’

  ‘I could, but you’d only end up on t’street. Better you stay here till he’s well clear o’ t’place. I’ll go an’ tell him you must have slipped out the back way. That’ll shift him. Make a cup o’ tea, love; an’ pull yourself together. I’ll let you know when he’s gone.’ She’d no sooner said this than they heard a din in the passage.

  ‘Come on out o’ there, you daft bitch,’ Alf shouted, banging on the lavatory door. ‘You can’t stay in there all night. I paid good money for you an’ if you’re not out in two seconds I’ll—’ They were never to know what he intended to do.

  ‘Hoy,’ bellowed a deeper voice, ‘what the bloody hell do you think you’re up to?’ It was the landlord. ‘I’ll not have any o’ that carry on in my establishment an’ I’ll ask you to leave, right now.’

  Thuds and scuffles reverberated in the narrow space, then silence. The woman with the mop of red hair peeked round the edge of the door. ‘He’s gone, the nasty bugger; Henry’s seen him off. Now you hang on for a bit; you don’t want to go bumpin’ into him again.’

  Left alone, Cally set the kettle to boil on the gas stove and feeling the urge to be gainfully occupied she washed and dried dirty dishes, leaving them stacked neatly on the draining board. She swept the hearth and plumped the cushions on the sofa and chairs, folded scattered newspapers and swept the linoleum. She was just disposing of the fluff and crumbs when the door opened and in came the landlord and the red-haired woman. They paused in the doorway, surprise and pleasure lighting their faces.

  ‘By, bloody hell, but she turned out to be a funny sort o’ thief; one as comes in an’ cleans up for you,’ exclaimed the landlord. ‘You got a good ’un when you caught her.’ The red-haired woman laughed.

  Cally blushed. ‘I hope you don’t mind. I couldn’t sit at peace. I feel better when I’m busy. It helps take my mind off things.’

  ‘Mind? I should be thanking that rotten sod that chased you in here,’ said the woman. ‘I never find time to do it, what wi’ sellin’ ale all day. Thanks love, you’ve done a grand job.’ Eased by the compliments, Cally offered to make a fresh pot of tea.

  They sat nursing mugs by the fire, Cally feeling safe enough to tell them of how she had come to be in such a dreadful situation. At the mention of William Cratchley she said, ‘The police might be looking for me.’

  Henry snorted. ‘He’ll not press charges. He has ’is reputation to think of – and he’ll not want his wife to find out what he’s been up to if he has any sense,’ he reasoned.

  Dolly agreed. ‘Stop your worrying. If he hasn’t done owt about it by now, chances are he never will.’ She heaved herself out of her chair, adding, ‘It’s late. You’d best stop here for tonight, an’ as far as I’m concerned you can stay for as long as you want. That’s if it’s right wi’ you, Henry.’

  *

  Henry and Dolly Brook had been licensees of The Royal Oak for more than thirty years. Situated in an area no longer fashionable, they had witnessed the growth and decline of trade in their establishment as the city centre thrived.

  ‘It’s like this,’ Henry explained to Cally one night as they sat drinking tea after the public bar had closed. ‘There’s too many places in the city offerin’ accommodation an’ a bit o’ grub. We can’t compete when it comes to attracting the right sort o’ custom, an’ I’ll not let rooms to any Tom, Dick an’ Harry. We always had wool merchants, businessmen an’ travellers, fellows what represented t’companies they worked for. They were decent chaps and you didn’t mind havin’ ’em under your roof for a night or two. Any road, Dolly’s not fit for runnin’ up an’ down stairs like she used to be; her legs are bad.’

  Dolly agreed. Neither of the Brooks were in their prime, and running a gentlemen’s hotel, as The Royal Oak had once titled itself, consumed time and energy.

  ‘Not that we couldn’t do wi’ the money,’ lamented Dolly. ‘You get twice as much for lettin’ a room as you do for pullin’ pints all night. I suppose we let things go when I was poorly. We had to turn folk away an’ when I was right again it was too late to bring ’em back.’ She sighed dejectedly. ‘I’m still not as fit as I’ve a right to be, for I never harmed anybody in me life.’

  Henry nodded sagely. ‘That’s right,’ he said, his words directed at Cally. ‘She was that bad I thought she wasn’t goin’ to make it but, thank God, she pulled through.’

  He reached out and caressed Dolly’s hand. She beamed at him lovingly, the show of affection warming Cally’s heart. At last she had found somewhere she knew she could be happy and safe.

  *

  A letter under the door of the house in Canal Street the next morning thanking Emma and Bella for their generous hospitality seemed the easiest way to say goodbye. In it she simply stated she had found a job with accommodation. Although she knew she would miss Emma, Cally deliberately made no mention of the Brooks or The Royal Oak; she didn’t want them to come looking for her.

  When she voiced her worries about Alf, Henry assured her he wouldn’t be back. Even so, for the first few weeks Cally rarely ventured far from The Royal Oak, and out on the street she was vigilant: Alf, Bella and Emma and William Cratchley belonged to a time she would rather forget.

  13

  ‘You’ll have to come an’ give us a hand, love. There’s a right crowd in what with it bein’ Harvest Bank Holiday, an’ I’m runnin’ short o’ glasses.’

  Henry’s request was Cally’s introduction to the licensed trade. Up until now she had simply cleaned the bar and helped Dolly with the shopping and cooking but now, with Dolly unwell, Henry required her assistance.

  Cally collected and washed dozens of glasses, the noise and the smell of smoke making her head swim. When an impatient customer asked for two Johnnie Walkers, she glanced tentatively at Henry. He handed her a shiny silver measure from a collection ranged along the back shelf of the bar and then pointed out a bottle.

  Nervously, Cally selected what she hoped were the correct glasses and opened the bottle. As the amber liquid streamed from bottle to measure and then to each glass, a frisson of excitement flowed through her veins. Proudly she set the glasses on the counter and asked for payment. Before the night was over she was pulling frothy pints of mild and bitter, twisting open bottles of stout and measuring spirits like a professional. As her c
onfidence grew she chatted to the customers, enjoying the merry banter; it didn’t seem like work at all.

  ‘Born barmaid, she is,’ said Henry, when they joined Dolly in the kitchen at closing time. ‘You should o’ seen her pullin’ pints. Got a right good head on ’em, so she did. What’s more, she livened up the bar. The young chaps appreciated her, I could tell.’

  Cally blushed at his fulsome praise and hoped Dolly would not take amiss the flattering remarks. Sure enough, Dolly did no such thing. Instead she grinned, even though her legs were paining her badly.

  ‘I knew she was a good ’un from first time I met her,’ she boasted, ‘an’ that’s what we need: a bit o’ young stuff to liven t’place up. You’re a good lass, Cally, and you’ve done us proud what with all the help you’ve been. It was our lucky night when yon nasty sod brought you to our door.’

  In that moment Cally resolved to make them even prouder. She’d turn The Royal Oak back into the thriving establishment it had once been.

  Two months later the guest bedrooms were, once again, ready for occupation. ‘I’ve made enquiries about getting gas fires fitted,’ she told Henry and Dolly one evening.

  ‘Gas fires,’ exclaimed Henry, baulking at the expenditure.

  Cally grinned. ‘I’ve promised Tommy Ward who works at the gasworks that I’ll walk out with him if he’ll fit fires and gas rings in every room on the cheap. Winter’s fast approaching and a warm, comfortable room where a traveller can make himself a hot drink at night will be good for custom.’ Henry, seeing the wisdom in this, relented.

  Next, Cally created a dining room in the unused snug. ‘We’ll serve food in here to anyone who fancies some good home cooking,’ she told Henry and Dolly. Finally she hand wrote a dozen white cards. In bold capitals she wrote: