The Surplus Girls' Orphans

by Polly Heron

  ‘Lucy’s parents will have nothing to complain of when they see the house,’ said Miss Hesketh.

  ‘No, indeed.’

  ‘Mrs Ayrton provides a pleasant environment for the girls in her care; and it is a discreet distance from any other habitation, so the girls can be taken out for walks without being stared at.’

  ‘And there is plenty in the house to keep them occupied,’ Molly added.

  ‘Yes. I have to say I’m very pleased with the house and its location. It seems ideal.’ Miss Hesketh leaned forward and raised her voice. ‘Mr Jimbo, would you please turn this vehicle round at the first convenient place and take us back to Maskell House. Thank you.’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  SUMMER HOLIDAYS WERE meant to be the best time of the year and this would have been a wonderful summer if all Jacob had to think about was mucking about with his friends and spending time with Mikey. Mikey was popular in the orphanage and the other children were well-disposed towards Jacob because he was Mikey’s brother. How different it was to when he had clutched onto Thad’s coat-tails. Everyone had been scared of Thad and Jacob had been the most scared of the lot. He didn’t want to seem like a sissy, but it felt good to have a big brother who was kind and funny. Already there were whispers among the children about what a good head boy he would make. Thad would have laughed his socks off. Thad would have viewed a possible head boy as a toady and a swot. But Jacob knew better. He admired Mikey as well as liking him.

  The trouble was he was under Shirl’s thumb. He had moved from one thug to another and Shirl was scarier because of what he made Jacob do. With Thad, he had stolen off other kids and off the market, had pinched flowers from graves and sold them at the cemetery gates for coppers to the poorer sort of folk, for whom the appearance of the family plot was a constant juggling act between pride and economy. All that felt like child’s play now. Delivering the strange little packets on his own was frightening. Well, he wasn’t going to be alone for today’s job, was he? Daniel Cropper would be with him.

  Yes, but after that Cropper was going to go away to live with his uncle. Lucky beggar! A proper home, and no more working for Shirl. What more could anyone wish for? Jealousy created flashes before his eyes that dazzled his vision.

  He was on his way to Cuffy’s for the afternoon, as dictated by Shirl. ‘I bet they’d let you out of the orphanage to visit a friend from school,’ Shirl had said – commanded. Accordingly, Jacob had asked Cuffy if he could come round and play now and again in the summer.

  Cuffy had shrugged. ‘Yes, why not? Any time you feel like it.’

  But that wouldn’t do, either for Shirl, who wanted a regular arrangement, or for Mrs Rostron, because she wasn’t happy unless she had full control of every aspect of the orphans’ lives.

  ‘It has to be a definite day and time,’ Jacob explained to Cuffy. ‘We’re not allowed out unless there’s a reason.’

  ‘A reason?’

  ‘Aye. Like going to the library.’

  ‘The library?’ Cuffy spluttered with laughter, covering Jacob’s face in a faint mist.

  ‘I don’t mean I go.’ Strewth, what an idea. Reading was for school, not for pleasure. ‘That’s just an example. Some kids go every Saturday, but in the holidays they can go in the week as well.’

  ‘What other reasons are there?’

  ‘You can ask to go to the park to play on the see-saw and the roundabout, or to the rec to play cricket; but you can’t just ask to go out. If I said, “May I go to Stretford and see if Cuffy’s home?”, the answer would be no; but if I said, “Cuffy’s asked me round to play” that would be all right.’

  They had agreed that Jacob would go round on the Thursday of the first full week of the holidays and Jacob had duly reported this to Shirl, scared silly that Shirl would sense the waves of relief leaking from him because of knowing how much Shirl-free time lay ahead between now and then.

  Getting permission to go to Cuffy’s hadn’t been as easy as he had imagined. It was one thing, apparently, to let the children go out and about nearby, but quite another to let him trail over to Stretford. Jacob had kicked himself. Why hadn’t he thought of saying that to Shirl?

  No one had ever asked for permission to go to Stretford before and Nanny Mitchell had handed the matter over to Mrs Rostron.

  ‘We do allow the orphans who attend Chorlton schools to accept invitations from their school-friends,’ was Mrs Rostron’s verdict, ‘so it’s only fair to extend the same privilege to Layton Two.’

  So today after dinner, he walked to Stretford and spent the afternoon playing out in Cuffy’s road. Playing out was grand, and who cared about a bit of drizzle? He hadn’t played out since before Thad went to the bad. Mrs Rostron’s idea of playing out involved either the orphanage playground or the rec or Chorlton Park, certainly not larking around up and down the street. It was daft, really, when you thought about it, because if an orphan was invited round to play with a school-chum, they would always play out. It was what you did; what your mum told you to do to get you out from under her feet.

  Sometimes the Church Road children would loiter near to the orphanage gates on purpose, while the orphans within begged them for invitations to come out and play in the street, invitations that might or might not be forthcoming. Sometimes the Church Road inhabitants would hang about just for the sense of power it gave them. Even though there was loads more space in the playground, everyone wanted to play outside in the road. It was the ‘proper’ place to play. Everyone knew that.

  Jacob had a top-hole afternoon. He knew most of the other kids from school, apart from those who were too young to have started yet. They ran relay races and played ticky off the ground and hide and seek. The kickstone was the wall under Cuffy’s front window and Jacob, running for its safety, yelling ‘Kickstone, one, two, three,’ at the top of his voice, took a mighty leap at it, imagining it was Shirl’s rotten head on the receiving end of the flying drop-kick, only for a brick to drop out of the crumbling wall; but even this, after the first wash of panic, turned out to be fun, causing much sniggering as they forced it back into its hole, not quite all the way in, but far enough to keep it there for the time being. Next time it fell out, no one would know the help it had had from Jacob Layton.

  Mrs Loudwater was really nice too. She gave Jacob a slice of bread and dripping. Jacob had wanted to ask if he could come again the same time next week, but he didn’t like to with the bread and dripping in his hand, in case it sounded like that was the real reason he was asking.

  It was a wrench to leave. The kids in Cuffy’s road lived in houses, however shabby, and had families of their own. Maybe their family lives weren’t anything special. Jacob knew all about that. His own family had specialised in bickering, but now that he had lost both home and family, he understood how much they had meant to him. As he made his way back to St Anthony’s, he felt weighed-down and tired, and not because he had been running round all afternoon.

  ‘Heading for home, Jemima?’ Shirl stepped out in front of him, making him stumble to a halt, almost tripping over his own feet in his effort not to bump into the bigger boy. ‘Had a good time with your mates?’

  ‘Aye,’ he said, adding, ‘Thanks,’ as an afterthought, in case Shirl picked on him for his lack of manners. It didn’t do to show lack of respect for Shirl.

  ‘And now you can have a good time doing me a favour,’ said Shirl. ‘Here.’

  Jacob automatically took the packet. It was bigger than usual. Heavier an’ all. He shoved it in his pocket and felt the seam give way. He took it out to move it to his other pocket, the one without the string, the penknife, the handkerchief the orphanage made him carry and the marble Cuffy had lent him.

  Shirl grabbed it back. ‘Whadder yer think you’re doing, idiot-brain, waving it around for all to see?’

  Jacob’s gaze flew in all directions, but there was no one about. Course not, or Shirl wouldn’t have handed it over. Gingerly he transferred the parcel to his other pocket. It
was a snug fit but was hidden from view.

  ‘Danny-boy all set to go with you?’ asked Shirl.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Two lads out together in the school holidays is less obvious, less suspicious-looking, to those of us with suspicious minds. You’re to take it to the meadows.’

  ‘I can get there down Limits Lane.’ It wasn’t far. It was on his way back to the orphanage. And he didn’t need Daniel Cropper.

  ‘No, not down Limits Lane. You’ve got to take it right into Chorlton. Do you know that garden village place, Chorltonville? Just before that, there’s a path what goes down a slope onto the meadows.’

  ‘I know. That’s the way they take us from the orphanage onto the meadows for walks.’

  ‘For walks? Lucky you, I don’t think. The path has trees and bushes on both sides and it’ll be a quagmire after all this rain, but you don’t have to go down it. Wait at the top. The packet will be collected.’

  ‘We can do that,’ said Jacob.

  ‘Yes, we can, by which I mean Danny-boy can cos he’s got guts, and you can cos you’ll trail along behind him.’

  Jacob stiffened in resentment, but it was true. ‘Cropper’s going to be waiting for me when I get back. We can slip out right away.’

  ‘And back in time for bread and jam at teatime,’ sneered Shirl. ‘Nope. You’ve to take it later on. Be at the head of that path at seven o’clock sharp.’

  ‘We can’t—’

  ‘You can. You have to.’

  From somewhere came the sound of a policeman’s whistle.

  Shirl looked round. ‘Got to go.’ And he legged it.

  The hairs lifted on Jacob’s arms. Was that bobby’s whistle for Shirl? But now he, Jacob, was the one carrying the packet. Hell’s bells. Better scarper.

  It had been one of the longest days of her life. Prudence, normally so aware of living economically, splurged out on a taxi to take them home from Victoria Station. The thought of catching a bus and then walking, after the exhausting day they had all endured, was too much. Besides, Lucy needed to get home and be put to bed.

  As they climbed out of the taxi in Wilton Close, the front door was thrown open and Patience came pattering down the path in her carpet-slippers to open the gate.

  ‘Lucy! You’ve brought Lucy home. Oh, Prudence.’ She gave a great gasp, which sounded dangerously as though it might be followed by a spurt of tears.

  ‘Announce our business to the neighbours, why don’t you?’ Prudence remonstrated in a fierce undertone, grasping her sister’s arm and leaving Miss Watson to scoop up Lucy and bring her indoors. ‘Please will someone put the kettle on.’

  ‘I will.’ Mrs Atwood appeared from the sitting room. ‘Oh! You’ve brought Lucy back. Oh my goodness! I never expected—’

  ‘A cup of tea would be most welcome, thank you, Mrs Atwood.’ Was she the only person present capable of keeping things moving? ‘Yes, I’ve brought her back, as you can see.’

  ‘But… No, Miss Patience, allow me. You sit down; I’ll put the kettle on.’

  But Mrs Atwood still hovered, cluttering up the hall while Patience shepherded Lucy into the sitting room and Miss Watson saw to the coats.

  ‘What’s the time?’ Prudence glanced through the doorway at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘It’s not quite six. What brings you home so early, Mrs Atwood?’

  ‘I’m playing truant, I’m afraid. I had to call on a widowed mother in Fallowfield this afternoon and I couldn’t bear to go back to the office. I wanted to be here to comfort Miss Patience. I knew how hard today would be for her.’

  ‘It’s not been easy for any of us,’ said Prudence.

  ‘And you’ve brought Lucy back. May I ask?’

  ‘What you may do, Mrs Atwood, if you would be so kind, is put the kettle on. Thank you.’

  Only self-respect and an unshakeable belief in the importance of standards prevented Prudence from collapsing into her armchair. On the sofa, Lucy sat wrapped in Patience’s arms, leaning into her like a child. Well, she was still a child in many ways. Certainly immature: all that nonsense about not naming the father and wanting to be in love. A child having a child of her own. Poor Lawrence and Evelyn. This would devastate their comfortable, self-satisfied lives. Would they pin some of the blame on her for not leaving Lucy at Maskell House? Well, if they did, they did. And if they wanted to ship Lucy back there, that would be up to them, but leaving her there had been more than Prudence could bear to do.

  Mrs Atwood brought in a tray of tea and started pouring, which was really Patience’s job, but she was busy hugging Lucy and didn’t look like stopping any time soon.

  ‘Was the place just frightful?’ Mrs Atwood asked, serving herself last and sitting down with her cup and saucer.

  ‘Not at all. Why would you think so? It was perfectly decent, wasn’t it, Miss Watson?’

  ‘It was comfortable and clean and obviously the girls were well looked after,’ Miss Watson agreed.

  ‘I thought maybe I’d chosen somewhere horribly unsuitable,’ said Mrs Atwood.

  ‘On the contrary.’ Prudence spoke matter-of-factly. It was annoying that Mrs Atwood should be inserting herself into the upset in this manner. ‘Maskell House is everything it should be and if my brother deems it the appropriate place for Lucy to see out her time, I won’t have any doubts or reservations on the subject.’

  Lucy raised her face from Patience’s chest for long enough to whisper in a quavering voice, ‘I don’t want to go back.’

  ‘You may not have an option,’ said Prudence, again matter-of-factly. Sometimes it was tiring being the one in charge.

  ‘Let’s not worry about that now,’ said Patience. ‘You’re back home and that’s what matters. A warm bath and bed, I think, don’t you, Prudence? And I’ll bring up something on a tray. Then you need a good night’s sleep. Come along.’

  Unwinding herself from Lucy’s clutches, Patience eased herself off the sofa and helped Lucy to her feet. Miss Watson got up too.

  ‘You see to Lucy, Miss Patience. I’ll bring the suitcase upstairs, and then shall I make a start on our meal? I don’t know about you, Miss Hesketh, but I’m famished.’

  ‘I ought to offer to do the cooking,’ said Mrs Atwood, as Patience, Lucy and Miss Watson left the room. ‘I will when Molly comes down.’

  ‘Thank you.’ It went against the grain to permit one of the p.g.s into the kitchen, but needs must. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I must go and tidy myself.’ She rose from her seat. Goodness, her bones were tired. She would be glad to get to bed tonight.

  Mrs Atwood put out her hand and almost – almost – touched her, pulling her hand back at the last moment. ‘May I ask why? Why did you bring Lucy back?’

  Prudence stiffened. ‘That is a question my sister and brother are entitled to ask, but no one else.’

  ‘Please, I’m not being nosy. I – I need to know.’

  ‘I beg your pardon? “Need” is an interesting choice of word.’

  Mrs Atwood’s hands shook; she clumped them together in her lap, then used them to cover her mouth and nose. This was ridiculous. What was going on?

  ‘I think it’s time to end this conversation,’ Prudence said in the voice that had quelled many a colleague over the years.

  She made to leave the room, but Mrs Atwood broke down in tears.

  ‘Mrs Atwood!’ Really, this was too much.

  ‘I’m adopted, you see. That’s why I want to know.’

  ‘I fail to see…’

  ‘I always knew I was adopted. My parents made sure I knew it made me extra special. Bless them, they gave me such confidence.’

  ‘If Lucy’s predicament has brought your adoption to the fore, I suppose that’s only to be expected, but I’m disappointed in you if you intend to wallow in your adoption, as if you are the person in the centre of this crisis, while the rest of us are thinking about Lucy. I thought better of you than this, Mrs Atwood.’

  The younger woman gazed up at her from swimming blue-grey eyes.
When she spoke, her voice was surprisingly steady.

  ‘It wasn’t until after my mother passed away last year that I found my birth certificate and decided to trace my real mother. That’s what brought me here.’

  ‘It doesn’t say much for your dedication to your new job, if it was merely the means to bring you here to Manchester.’

  ‘Not here to Manchester. Here, to Wilton Close, to this house.’

  Unease stirred. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘My birth certificate.’ Mrs Atwood swallowed. ‘It says Mother: Prudence Winifred Hesketh. Father unknown.’

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  AARON WAITED FOR the final stragglers in the dining room to finish their tea and leave. Instead of going home, he had had his tea here today in order to organise games for the children to while away the evening at the end of another wet day.

  When Danny came up to him, Aaron gave him a smile, wanting to tousle his hair, but restraining himself. He mustn’t do anything that suggested favouritism.

  ‘Would it be all right if I stop here at St Anthony’s tonight instead of coming to Soapsuds Cottage?’

  That was a good thing, wasn’t it? Danny must feel more settled, but Aaron experienced a stab of disappointment. He was growing attached to Danny. Well, he could jolly well unattach himself. It wasn’t appropriate. It wasn’t fair to the other children. Moreover he was laying himself open to an emotional wrench when Danny went to live in Cumberland.

  Speaking of which, where was Uncle Angus? Shouldn’t he have come by this time to take Danny to his new home? Mr Cropper had passed away last Saturday. Now it was Thursday, more than enough time for Uncle Angus to show his face.

  Tea was over. This week’s table monitors wiped down the long tables and swept the floor, working under the eye of Nurse Philomena, then Aaron took charge.

  ‘Move this table against the wall and put that one at right-angles to it. Layton One and Appleby, bring that table over here. Lift it up, lads! Don’t drag it along the floor. And I want the chairs spread about all over the place. We’re going to play pirates,’ he announced, causing a frisson of excitement. ‘Will everybody please check that everybody else is wearing slippers.’