by Polly Heron
The pink deepened to puce.
‘I think what Mrs Wardle means,’ said Miss Watson, ‘is that the children are rather dirty.’
Oh crumbs. He hadn’t noticed. Faces and clothes were smeared; hair was streaked with a fine dust of soil; and as for the girls’ pinafores…
‘This is a disgrace,’ Mrs Wardle declared. ‘You might as well have told them to roll in the mud – isn’t that so, Miss Watson? This will disrupt the orphanage’s routine, as this washing can’t wait till Monday. How many changes of clothes do you imagine each child possesses?’
‘Mrs Wardle, why don’t I take the children indoors so they can clean up and get changed?’ said Miss Watson. ‘Perhaps the maids can put the clothes in to soak.’
‘And I,’ declared Mrs Wardle, ‘shall speak to Mrs Rostron.’
Aaron and Bunny were left standing there as the children were led away, a couple of them daring to slouch with disappointment until Mrs Wardle clipped them round the ear as she marched past on her way to blacken his name with Mrs Rostron.
The superintendent, however, took it remarkably well. Was that so as not to give Mrs Wardle the satisfaction? Impossible to tell. Mrs Rostron was discretion itself.
‘I have no objection to the children helping you with the ivy,’ she told Aaron. ‘It will foster community spirit and pride in their surroundings; but in future they must wear old sacking aprons.’
Later on, in the Horse and Jockey, Bunny grinned at Aaron. ‘You didn’t get booted out, then? I be that’s what that snooty lady wanted. Who is she, anyroad?’
‘It’s in the orphanage’s charter that a member of the local Panel must be appointed as the official visitor. It started out as a means of communication, given that the Panel had often had dealings with the children’s families before the children ended up in St Anthony’s, but Mrs Wardle uses it as a ticket to come and go as the fancy takes her.’
‘Who was the pretty lass she brought with her?’ asked Bunny, taking a sup of his pint. ‘Her daughter, learning how to be Lady Bountiful?’
‘She works at Upton’s sweet shop near the station. I can’t imagine what she was doing there this afternoon.’
It was a good question. What was Miss Watson doing hanging onto Mrs Wardle’s coat-tails – or should that be her fox-fur tails? Something twitched beneath Aaron’s skin. Miss Watson’s unusual hair colour and her intelligent greeny-hazel eyes had appealed to him, as had the generous nature that had prompted her to raise money to buy sweets for the orphans. His visit to Upton’s to pay back the stolen money had left him in no doubt that the fund-raising had happened entirely at her instigation. He valued initiative and kindness in anybody and he was willing to bet Miss Watson possessed both in spades. It had been a long time since a girl had had this effect on him. He had gone back to Upton’s to see her again, only to be told she had left. He had cursed himself for missing his chance, but now they had crossed paths once more. He raised his pint of bitter to his bent head to hide his smile.
Then his facial muscles rearranged themselves. Miss Watson had arrived with Mrs Wardle this afternoon and been quick to jump on the ‘Aren’t they dirty?’ bandwagon. Was she that pompous lady’s acolyte? When she had given him a piece of her mind over the penny tray, had that been less a flash of honest annoyance than a chance for her to assert herself over an interloper who had spoiled her plan to dispense bounty? Surely not. Surely his instincts about her integrity were right.
But she had turned up in Mrs Wardle’s wake and had given that disagreeable lady her support.
There was nothing for it. Any ideas he might have had about developing a serious interest in Miss Watson needed to be stamped on and squashed flat. He had more self-respect than to allow himself to get sweet on a girl like that.
Rather to Prudence’s surprise, Lucy seemed bent on settling in, making herself at home to the extent where she and the p.g.s were soon on first-name terms.
‘I’m not happy about that,’ Prudence groused privately to Patience. ‘Lucy shouldn’t treat our p.g.s so casually. It’s inappropriate.’
‘Why? They’re all young. It’s friendly. In fact, I’m considering whether to ask Mrs Atwood and Miss Watson whether I might use their first names; not during lessons, of course, and never in public; just when there’s only us, en famille, as it were.’
‘We aren’t a family,’ Prudence objected.
‘We are, in a way, having meals together, spending evenings together after lessons. And it won’t be for ever. The p.g.s will leave once they’ve finished attending our school, and Lucy will go home. Then we can return to formality with the next pupil-lodgers. But at present don’t you think a less rigid atmosphere might benefit Lucy?’
‘We don’t run this house for Lucy’s benefit.’
But apparently they did, because Patience started calling the p.g.s ‘Vivienne dear’ and ‘Molly dear’, much to Prudence’s discomfort. When had she lost control of the household? That was how it felt. She liked things to be ordered and fixed. Then everyone knew where they stood. Well, they still knew where they stood with her. Patience could go round Vivienning and Mollying if she must, but Prudence doggedly continued with the use of their formal names, as was right and proper.
That dreadful child! What a shocking nuisance she was.
Lawrence turned up unexpectedly one evening, though at least he had the wit to arrive before lessons started. He stood with his back to the empty fireplace, glaring down at her and Patience, as if he were the lord of the manor.
‘I’ve come to take Lucy home.’
‘But you agreed to let her stay,’ cried Patience.
‘I’ve changed my mind. I don’t know what silly game she’s playing at, but it’s over.’
‘Do I take it that your influential friends are wondering why she isn’t at home?’ Prudence taunted him.
Lawrence shifted on the balls of his feet. ‘As a matter of fact, people have asked after her. It was that blessed Bambrook boy that started it.’
‘Honestly, Lawrence,’ said Prudence, ‘don’t you possess the gumption to tell your friends to mind their own business? You’ll require gumption if you’re to be an alderman or you’ll never do any good. Or is it just the title you’re after?’
‘Prudence, please,’ Patience whispered.
A white slash appeared along Lawrence’s tightened jawline. ‘There’s nothing to discuss. She’s coming home.’
‘Lawrence, listen,’ said Patience. ‘You’re concerned about appearances, aren’t you? Prudence and I know all about that, believe me. We spend our lives maintaining a respectable, comfortable front when really we’re living from hand to mouth and have been for years, thanks to Pa’s desire to be a scholarly gentleman who didn’t go out to work. Your friends must find it odd that Lucy is staying with us. Blame it on me, if you like.’ Her smile wavered: evidently she wasn’t as confident as she was trying to sound. ‘Say I’m finding it hard coping with the business school and you’ve sent Lucy here to make a fuss of me and help me through. I don’t mind what you say, only please let her stay. She wanted to come here and she’s settled in nicely. Let her stay a little longer and we might get to the bottom of what brought her here in the first place.’
Lawrence stared at the faded carpet. ‘It goes against the grain to have anyone other than Evelyn care for my daughter, but under the circumstances, I shan’t give an outright refusal.’ A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. ‘But I won’t need to, will I? Prudence doesn’t want her here. You’ll tell her to pack her bags, won’t you, Prudence?’
Here it was, the moment she had yearned for, the moment when that dreadful child could be shipped home and domestic life in Wilton Close returned to normal – ordered, formal, predictable. About time too.
But the words that emerged from her mouth were, ‘It’s true I wasn’t keen on her remaining here, but if Patience wants her to stay and thinks it will benefit the child, that’s good enough for me.’
The afternoon sun had soaked deep
into everything. In Aaron’s small workshop the air was as dense as rice pudding. He had long since shed his waistcoat and rolled up his sleeves, but his skin still felt swollen with heat. If he had had a bucket of cold water, he would cheerfully have upended it over his head.
He stood back from the drawer he had just finished mending. Time for a breather. Heat slapped him as he stepped outside and made his way to the big scullery off the back of the kitchen. He dunked his arms in cold water up to his elbows before splashing his face and the back of his neck, giving himself a cursory dry using the roller-towel on the back of the door.
He returned to his workshop, rolling down his sleeves en route. Taking his waistcoat and jacket from the hook, he set his cap on his head and set off for the ironmonger’s to buy the putty he needed to fix a broken window; and he would get a couple more gardening knives while he was at it. He would probably be in time to meet some of the children on their way back from school. Was it the hardest part of the day for them? When the bell rang and your classmates went off to a proper home, with a mum, how did that feel for the orphans? Even those classmates who lived in stinking, overcrowded conditions, even the ones whose one meal a day was eaten in the poor corner at school – even they had something the orphans lacked. So Aaron made a point of sometimes meeting the kids on their way from school. Was it foolish to hope that in some small way, being met by an adult gave them the feeling that they mattered? When he was a lad, his mum had always greeted him with a smile, no matter how busy or tired she was. She had broken away from what she was doing to hug him as well, until he decided he was too old for hugs. These days, he looked at the orphanage kids and wished they could all have someone to hug them.
He was longer than intended in the ironmonger’s, as Wally Poole wanted to show off a new hose director that could change from rose to jet spray with a simple wrist action. Another customer had joined in and the three of them passed the time of day for a while.
On his way back to St Anthony’s, it wasn’t worth putting on a spurt, as the kids would all be there by now. They attended three schools around Chorlton, as there were too many of them to dump them in one school. Did Mrs Rostron use this as a means of separating children who were likely to be trouble? He wouldn’t put it past her.
Approaching the corner of High Lane, he could hear children’s voices in the orphanage playground and as he rounded the corner, he saw the St Clement’s School lot walking through the gates. He twitched onto his toes, ready to sprint across the road and run through them, flicking off the boys’ caps and starting a mad chasing game, when Danny Cropper, at the rear of the group, hung back in a way that put Aaron’s senses on alert. That lad was up to something. Not another attempt at running away, surely? He hadn’t tried it since May Day and Aaron had dared to hope that the support he had provided on that occasion had helped young Danny settle down. How big-headed of him. Had Danny merely been biding his time?
Danny let the others disappear through the gates, then struck out up Church Road, head down, pace swift, the sort of walk you do when you’re trying not to run.
Keeping his distance, Aaron followed, increasing his speed as Danny turned the corner onto Beech Road. He was in time to see Danny twist his face away, shielding it with his hand, as he passed Brown’s the stationer’s, where Mikey Layton worked in the afternoons as a half-timer. On Danny went, past what until recently had been the bookshop, all the way down, past the tea-room opposite the Trevor pub. Could he be heading for the little chippy on the corner? But the orphans didn’t have any money…unless he had swiped some. Aaron’s mouth tightened. Please don’t let Danny have done any more thieving.
But no, the boy rounded the corner, vanishing briefly from sight. Aaron followed, Chorlton Green coming into view. It was as if Danny was leading him home to Soapsuds Cottage, but then Danny crossed onto the Green itself and sat on one of the benches.
And sat there.
Aaron stopped. Watched. Waited. The boy just sat there. To start with, he perched with a hand on either side curled round the lip of the bench. Then he sat back; or rather, he slouched. He wasn’t tall enough to have his bottom at the back of the bench at the same time as keeping his feet on the grass. He opted for leaving his feet on the ground, his spine curving as he leaned backwards, his shoulder-blades resting against the back of the bench.
And still he sat.
Standing here watching wouldn’t butter any parsnips, not to mention he felt as though he were spying, even if he did have the child’s best interests at heart. Taking a moment to ensure he strolled rather than strode, Aaron walked over to the bench and sat down.
‘Afternoon, Danny.’
‘Mr Abrams!’
And that was another odd thing. Danny didn’t look up until he spoke. Surely, no matter how lost in thought you were, you would instinctively glance up when somebody joined you on a bench.
‘What are you doing here?’ Aaron asked.
‘Nothing.’
‘You’re meant to go straight back to St Anthony’s when you finish school.’
Silence.
‘It’s a beautiful day.’
Silence.
‘Did you feel like a walk?’
Shrug.
Aaron felt a snap of annoyance. ‘If you don’t intend to answer me, at least show some respect by sitting up straight.’
It was difficult to see, what with that man’s cap Danny wore overshadowing his face, but Aaron caught a glimpse of red in Danny’s cheek as he shuffled into an upright position; but if Aaron had hoped the lad would lift his chin and look him in the eye, he was disappointed. Danny’s gaze was locked on the daisy-strewn grass.
Injecting a smile into his voice that he hoped Danny would hear, even if he couldn’t see it, Aaron said lightly, ‘That makes me sound like a teacher, doesn’t it?’
Silence. Then, ‘A bit.’
‘Hallelujah! He can speak, after all.’ Aaron leaned back. If he adopted a casual pose, would Danny feel more comfortable? ‘Are you going to tell me what brings you here?’
The boy’s pale, freckled face swung towards him. ‘Are you going to report me?’
‘Should I? You’ve disobeyed the rules.’
Danny looked away again. ‘She’ll give me the strap.’
‘She has a name. It’s polite to use it.’
A pause. ‘Mrs Rostron will give me the strap. She says giving you the strap isn’t just for punishment. It’s to improve your moral fibre.’
‘Aye, the people who founded the orphanage had that written into its charter.’
‘What’s a charter?’
‘Rules, mostly; but also a way of looking at things, a set of values.’
And what a value that was. Discipline was essential, but the strap was a well-worn length of leather, one end of which sported six or eight four-inch-long cuts that fanned out when they made contact with a miscreant’s defenceless palm, presumably delivering a sharper sensation than uncut leather would have done. Was this the way to instil moral fibre? His own childhood canings had been more likely to fill him with resentment or defiance; and the long-lasting effect had been to make him determined never to say, ‘It didn’t do me any harm’ which you heard so many folk declare.
‘Do sanatoriums have charters?’ Danny asked.
Aaron’s heart creaked inside his chest. ‘The honest answer: I don’t know.’
‘If they do, they ought to say that sanatoriums should be everywhere, so that sick people don’t have to go so far away.’
‘Sanatoriums need to be in the country or by the sea, because that helps people get better.’
‘Then the charter should say that there should be rooms or cottages where the sick people’s families can stay, so they can all be close together.’
‘Even if the sanatorium did have accommodation like that,’ Aaron said gently, ‘you still wouldn’t be allowed to see your dad.’
‘But I could be nearby.’ Tears thickened Danny’s voice; Aaron’s throat ached in sympathy. �
�Instead of ruddy miles away.’
‘Language,’ Aaron warned and immediately wanted to kick himself. This poor lad was breaking his heart over his sick and very possibly dying father and what did Aaron do? Reprimand him for using the strong language that afforded him a moment’s release from the pain. Even so, it couldn’t be permitted. ‘If I hear language like that again, I’ll give you a thick ear.’
Surprise blossomed inside him as Danny turned to him with a smile. ‘That’s what my mum used to say. Not about the bad language, because I never swore in those days, but about the thick ear. She said it, but she never did it. She was a right softy.’
‘She sounds nice.’
The boy’s face clouded. ‘She was.’ He looked away. ‘Are you going to report me for swearing?’
‘I’d rather not. It slipped out because you’re unhappy, but you have to promise to watch your tongue in future. Does that make me a softy?’
‘You’re not soft, sir. You’re kind. I wish…’
‘What, Danny?’
Danny shrugged. ‘It would have been good if someone like you had come to our house that time.’
‘What time?’
Silence. Danny shifted and sat forwards. Was he about to jump up and run for it? He didn’t move.
‘When Mum died.’
‘I see.’
‘It happened while I was at school. I came home at home-time, same as usual, and a man and a lady were standing outside our house, with a suitcase packed ready. They said Mum had died and, with Dad being away in the sanatorium, they were taking me to the orphanage. They’d been inside our house and packed a case for me, and we walked straight to St Anthony’s.’
‘Didn’t they let you go into the house?’
‘They said they’d got everything I needed and the lady said they’d put in a photograph of my mum, but when I unpacked, it was a picture of Auntie Betty.’
Aaron gave Danny’s shoulder a brief squeeze. What this young chap had been through. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
