by Polly Heron
‘Daniel Cropper,’ said Mrs Rostron. She sat back, shaking her head. She wore her hair in what looked like a loose bun, but there must be a couple of dozen pins secreted inside it, because it never lost so much as a strand.
The mass of silk flowers on the front of the visitor’s hat quivered as she leaned forwards. ‘Now will you find that boy a place in Southport? I said no good would come of having him here. He’s nothing but trouble.’
‘He’s just a lad—’ Molly began.
‘He’s a runaway,’ said Mrs Rostron. ‘We get them sometimes, children who keep trying to go back where they came from. Not that Daniel is from Southport, but he’s desperate to get there.’
‘Do you think he’s on his way there now?’ A cold feeling uncurled in the pit of Molly’s stomach. She had been vexed at the boy for stealing, had even wanted to get him into trouble, but now that felt petty. All that mattered was his safety.
‘I’ll ask Miss Allan to telephone the police.’
‘Quite right too.’ The visitor tilted her head in unconcealed satisfaction. ‘That boy isn’t just a runaway. We now know he’s an out-and-out thief. The sooner we see the back of him, the better.’
Aaron jumped off the tram and headed for Victoria Station at a sprint, dodging a handsome shire dray-horse and a motor-van as he zigzagged across the road. The middle of Manchester smelled of smoke and old buildings. Petrol fumes, too. Some folk swore you couldn’t smell the motorised vehicles, but he could, maybe because after four years of inhaling the thick stink of mud, the sour smell of gun-smoke and the overpowering rotten-egg stench of entrails, he now spent as much time as he could outdoors in air far purer than that here in town. A day or two walking in the Peak District was an occasional treat, but mainly tramping across the meadows that stretched alongside the banks of the Mersey had become a necessary and deeply appreciated feature of his life.
He strode into the station, passing the vast bronze memorial tablet that had been unveiled earlier this year, with its long lists of the names of the men of the Lancashire and Yorkshire Railway who had given their lives for King and country in the Great War. In other circumstances, he would have paused to pay his respects, but this situation was urgent. He came to a halt, scanning his surroundings.
A couple of bobbies were already in the booking hall. Would they be here anyway or were they on the look-out for a young runaway? They headed for a ticket-office window, excusing themselves to the queue as they made for the hatch. Aaron sidled closer to listen.
‘Have you sold a Southport ticket to a young boy this afternoon?’
He didn’t wait for more. He marched towards the platform gates.
‘Southport?’ he asked a porter pushing a sack-trolley loaded with brown suitcases with labels glued on.
The porter jerked his chin. ‘Over there. Best get a move on.’
Aaron shoved a ha’penny in the slot and took a platform ticket, then dived through the gates and hurried alongside the train. The sharp-sweet aromas of coal and steam filled his senses, awakening an answering spark in himself. He had always loved travelling by train.
It wasn’t a corridor-train. Good. Each door opened straight into a compartment, which meant that that pesky young feller-me-lad wouldn’t be able to leg it down the length of the train when Aaron found him. At the top end, where the massive black engine was building up steam ready to haul its load from the station, the peak-capped guard started walking towards him, slamming doors as he went. Aaron looked into another compartment, then glanced back the way he had come. The coppers were on the platform, accompanied by a fellow in the round-brimmed cap and longer jacket of a senior railway guard. Aaron bounced on the balls of his feet, wanting to hurry but needing not to draw attention.
In the next compartment, a small figure sat in the far corner, back straight, chin up. You had to hand it to him: he had spirit. He was good-looking too, which came as a surprise. Aaron had seen Daniel Cropper’s face pinched with worry, taut with frustration, cold with anger, blank with heartache; but never before with this open, hopeful expression. He looked relaxed and determined at the same time. Vulnerable, too, when you knew the reason behind it.
He opened the door and climbed in, pulling the door to behind him without slamming it shut. Daniel looked at him, then slumped in the seat, his chest caving in, shoulders curling round them; but only for a moment. He lifted his chin, slanting Aaron a sideways glance through narrowed eyes. Aaron could practically see the cogs turning as the boy calculated his chances.
‘Don’t, lad,’ he advised. He kept his voice quiet, gentle: there was an answering flicker of surprise. The boy had been braced for him to come down hard. ‘It’s time to come home.’
‘That’s not my home.’
Aaron sat down at the other end of the opposite bench-seat. He had to keep the situation calm if they were to evade the boys in blue. The upholstery dipped, the springs shifting to accommodate him.
‘Either you come back or you let the police take you back.’
‘The police?’
‘Two coppers are searching the train. Things will go a lot easier if you come with me. I’ll keep you out of trouble, if I can.’
‘I’m already in trouble.’ The voice of experience.
‘Not if I can help it. But you need to come right now, son.’
‘I’m not your son.’
‘This afternoon you are.’ Rising, he peeled off his jacket. ‘Put this on and roll up the sleeves.’
‘It’s miles too big.’
‘That’s the idea. It’ll hide your uniform. Fold your cap and stick it in the pocket.’
Daniel’s mouth bunched mutinously. ‘I always wear this cap.’
‘Your dad’s, is it? The police are looking for a young lad in orphanage grey with a man’s cap. We can’t take any chances.’
The boy blew a sharp breath. It sounded sulky, but his blue eyes were over-bright. He shoved his arms into the jacket sleeves and – no time to waste – Aaron rolled them up. Daniel removed his dad’s cap, revealing sandy hair whose colour made his freckles more noticeable, and pushed it into a pocket.
‘We’re going to walk over to that trolley of luggage, then we’ll cross to the other side of the platform and head back to the barrier. If anyone asks, your name is Roy and you’re nine years old.’
‘I’m eleven…almost.’
But his scrawny body would pass for nine. A spell at St Anthony’s would do him a power of good, would put some meat on his bones and probably see him shoot up an inch or two.
‘I’ll get out first,’ said Aaron. ‘Don’t look at the policemen. They’re nothing to Roy and Roy’s dad.’
He jumped down, then turned and, before Daniel could object, lifted him out, hoping to create the impression of a younger child. As they made their way back to the booking hall, he kept one hand lightly on Daniel’s thin shoulder. Who could say if he might take it into his head to bolt?
Beside the war memorial, Aaron stopped.
‘Now then, Daniel Cropper.’ The boys at the orphanage were called by their surnames; he added Daniel’s first name to sound less stern. ‘Before we set foot outside, hand over the money you’ve got left.’
The boy jabbed at the ground with the toe of one shoe. ‘My name’s not Daniel. It’s Danny.’
‘Oh aye?’ Most adults would have given him a thick ear for the backchat…only it wasn’t backchat, was it? There was no defiance in the lad’s demeanour, only misery. ‘All right then, Danny Cropper. The money, please. I know you pinched it.’ He held out his hand.
The lad dug deep in his pockets, bringing out two handfuls of small change, which he tipped into Aaron’s palm. Then he delved in his pockets again.
‘Crikey,’ said Aaron. ‘You had all this left over after buying your ticket? That collecting-box must have contained loads.’
‘No, it didn’t,’ Danny muttered. ‘There wasn’t nearly enough. I asked for my train ticket, but when the man finished counting my money, it wasn’t enou
gh. He was annoyed because it was all farthings and ha’pennies and it took him ages. He told me to hop it.’
‘But you still got on the train.’
Danny shrugged, pushing out his lower lip in a don’t-care way. ‘Platform ticket.’
Aaron pretended not to watch as the lad struggled with himself, obviously dying to ask but also desperate not to.
‘How do you know about the collecting-box?’ Danny asked at last.
‘I could ask you the same question,’ Aaron countered.
‘Everyone knows. Mrs Rostron told Mrs Atwood and she told the monitors. Mrs Wardle doesn’t agree with it.’
‘Did Mrs Rostron say that?’ He couldn’t imagine the orphanage superintendent being so indiscreet.
‘No, but we all know. Mrs Wardle doesn’t agree with anything apart from early bed and cold water. So how did you know I swiped the collecting-box?’ Danny persisted.
‘I overheard Miss Allan on the telephone to the police station.’
‘You mean Mrs Rostron got her to snitch on me?’
‘I’m sure Mrs Rostron simply asked Miss Allan to provide the police with all the information available, so they would understand the situation, including your need to get to Southport.’
‘That’s it, then. If Mrs Rostron knows about the moneybox, I’m for the chop.’
‘Maybe,’ Aaron agreed. ‘Then again, maybe not.’
Chapter Four
‘WELL, I DID tell you to stop collecting money this morning,’ said Mr Upton, as if Molly should have foreseen the theft. His I-told-you-so air was hard to take, but you didn’t answer back to your boss. She felt like answering back, though. No, she didn’t. She was too sick at heart. She had looked forward to giving the orphans a treat and now half the money had disappeared – no, not half. It was the other children’s box that had been taken. The dancers’ box was still here, containing more money even though it was for considerably fewer children.
‘Perhaps we could use the dancers’ money for all the children…’ she dared to suggest, but Mr Upton was having none of it.
‘That’s for the dancers. I said all along we should be collecting only for them.’
We? What had he done to help? He hadn’t asked a single customer for a donation, though he had been happy to take the glory when anyone praised the idea.
‘Excuse me a minute.’
She went into the back and took her purse from her handbag. She didn’t have much on her, but it was a start. Back behind the counter, she examined the contents of the farthing and ha’penny trays.
Mr Upton glanced up from behind a display he was constructing of chocolate boxes and Walnut Whips. ‘Do the trays need topping up, Miss Watson?’
‘No.’ Molly slid her money onto the counter, eyeing it in the hope that it was somehow more than it had been inside her purse. ‘If I buy dolly mixtures, I wonder how many each child would get.’
‘If they get just one each, it would be one more than they have any right to expect.’
Molly looked Mr Upton straight in the eye. ‘Will you let me have an advance on my week’s wages? I want to treat the children. Half a crown should do it.’
‘Two and sixpence!’ Mr Upton froze. A Walnut Whip fell from his lifeless fingers. ‘My dear Miss Watson, you forget yourself. What would Mr Hartley say if I let you fritter your hard-earned money in such a manner?’
‘This is nothing to do with Norris.’
‘Of course it is. He’s your fiancé and you know how careful he is with his money.’ He ducked his head behind the display once more.
‘Exactly: with his money. This isn’t his, it’s mine.’
‘Actually,’ Mr Upton corrected her, his face bobbing up briefly, ‘it’s mine at present.’
‘Which I’m in the process of earning.’ Oops: that sounded tart. She switched on a smile, injecting all the warmth she could into her voice since Mr Upton was concentrating on his display again. ‘I want to do the right thing. I’m concerned about letting Upton’s down, as well as the children.’
‘Upton’s?’ Mr Upton popped up like a jack-in-the-box.
‘Now that the collecting has gone wrong, I feel responsible. Please let me put it right.’
It was the right thing to say. Mr Upton gave her half a crown, which she spent on bootlaces, which she cut into pieces, and midget gems. It looked like a decent haul if you didn’t think closely about the hundred or so children for whom it was destined. Meanwhile Mr Upton, having finished his display, prepared the sweets for the dancers, each of whom was going to receive a paper bag of goodies from the ha’penny and penny trays, lucky beggars.
Shortly before four o’clock, Molly went through to the back. Removing her white apron, she put on her jacket and hat, slipped her handbag over her arm and picked up the cardboard box containing all the sweets.
‘The display is at half past for about twenty minutes. After that Mrs Rostron will say a few words and then I’ll give out the sweets. I’ll be back before half-five,’ she added quickly before Mr Upton could demand her earlier return.
When she reached the orphanage, the playground had undergone a transformation. Bunting hung from the trees that grew around the edge, in gaps that had been left when the tarmacadam was laid. A line of grey-clad boys carried wooden chairs, which they put down in rows under the direction of a girl in the uniform of the orphanage’s staff, a dark-blue dress which was mostly hidden beneath a long, plain white apron with a bib with wide shoulder-bands. She wore a crisp white collar and cuffs and a starched white cap. Behind the boys with chairs came bigger boys with long wooden forms, the sort that were used for sitting on or for PT, one lad at either end of the form. Girls in grey dresses beneath white pinafores hovered with cards in their hands, presumably name-cards to reserve seats for the most important guests. As if girls weren’t capable of carrying chairs!
In the centre of the square formed by the seating, the maypole rose, its red and blue ribbons tethered by a leather strap.
‘I wondered how they would erect the maypole with no hole in the ground for it,’ said a friendly voice beside Molly. A good-looking young woman had appeared beside her. She was smartly dressed in a fawn edge-to-edge coat, its demure colour livened up by fancy top-stitching on the collar and cuffs. Her eyes were a soft blue-grey colour, her hair light brown and fashionably bobbed beneath a hat that looked like a too-big beret. ‘But I see Mr Abrams has worked his magic as usual.’
The maypole had been erected on a square base with short wooden struts angled to hold it securely upright.
‘Mr Abrams?’ said Molly.
‘The caretaker and general handyman. He was a carpenter before the war. And you must be from the sweet shop.’ The stranger smiled and nodded at the cardboard box. It didn’t have a lid and the paper-bagged contents were on show.
‘Molly Watson, from Upton’s near the station.’
‘Vivienne Atwood, from the Board of Health.’
Her face was heart-shaped with clear, frank features, the faint lines under her eyes and at the sides of her mouth suggesting she was a few years older than Molly.
‘The Board of Health? I haven’t heard of that.’
‘Not many people have. It’s new.’
A pair of girls, hair tightly plaited, approached them.
‘Excuse us,’ said one. ‘Mrs Atwood, Mrs Rostron says please will you come to her office now?’
‘Are you the lady from Upton’s?’ asked the other. ‘You’re to bring the sweets inside, please.’
Molly followed her young guide up the stone steps and through the open front door. On the left was an opening without a door, with a couple of steps leading down into a big cloakroom, while on the right was a closed door through which excited young voices could be heard.
‘They’re getting changed for the dancing in there,’ said her guide in a tone of undisguised envy. ‘The girls are going to wear coloured dresses.’
Then came the corridor on the right which led to the staircase up which was
Mrs Rostron’s office. Straight ahead, down a few steps, was the dining room with rows of wooden tables, with long forms to sit on. How uncomfortable, having nowhere to rest your back as you ate. Presumably, the powers-that-be would say that if you were sitting up straight, you didn’t need a back-rest. A woman with a white apron over her dress and an old-fashioned mob-cap covering her hair appeared through a door at the far end. She had a tray in one hand, which she waggled briefly before setting it on a table and disappearing back through the door.
The girl fetched the tray and brought it to Molly. ‘This is for the sweets to go on. You can leave it here until after the dancing display. No one will pinch anything, not after the trouble there’s been today. Do you need me any more?’
‘No, thank you.’
Molly arranged the dancers’ sweet-bags on the tray. There wasn’t room for the other sweets as well. It was rather a relief. The sight of them made her cheeks tingle with shame.
She went back outside. The seats were filling up.
‘Neighbours, mostly.’ Mrs Atwood appeared at her side. ‘One or two parents, of course.’
‘Parents?’
‘Not all orphanage children are orphans. Sometimes a child, or a family of children, is sent here because the mother has died and the father has no female relative who can step in. Recently, Mrs Rostron took in a pair of brothers whose family lost everything in a fire and the mother couldn’t provide a new home for them because the father had absconded.’
‘I hadn’t realised orphanages did that,’ said Molly. ‘What brings you here? Does the orphanage have a health problem?’
‘We’re concerned with health in the most general sense. We aren’t doctors or nurses. One of our jobs is to assume the responsibilities previously held by the Boards of Guardians now that the last of the workhouses are being closed down. There’s a link between orphanages and workhouses – an unfortunate one, of course, all to do with children in dire need. Still, the main thing is the children are cared for. My hope is that the care will become kinder under the new Boards of Health.’
‘That sounds worthwhile.’ Molly smiled. ‘It makes my job feel very ordinary, but when I came back from the war, I found it a comfort to go back to it.’
