Mary's Child (9 page)

Chrissie stood small and pale between Daniel and Bessie while the five boys were lined up on the other side of the grave. The branches of the trees waved above them, black and dripping with rain. Chrissie could smell the soaked and battered flowers as they were lifted from the coffins. She listened to the words of the vicar without taking any of them in, watched the coffins lowered into the grave then turned and walked away as Bessie led her by the hand.

The Milburns’ house lay on the edge of the warren of narrow streets that was the old East End of the town. It was one of a long terrace, like all the others in the street, but it was bigger with a sizeable yard behind it. It needed to be bigger. Daniel and Bessie slept in the downstairs front room, the boys occupied one of the two rooms upstairs and the four lodgers shared the other.

Chrissie’s room was little more than a cupboard over the stairwell and just as wide. It was given to her because it was not long enough for any of the boys to stretch out in. It held a narrow bed, a curtain with a hanging-rail behind it to serve as a wardrobe, and her box. It had been Mary’s when she was in service, but Bessie had packed Chrissie’s few clothes in it. Under the window stood a dresser with a china bowl and a jug filled with water.

Bessie saw Chrissie into bed on the night of the funeral, helped her to undress and climb in, telling her, ‘I’ve put your bottle in.’ That was an earthenware hot-water bottle she had brought from the Carters’ house. The room was chill because, as was usual, the only fire in the house was that in the kitchen. Bessie sat on the edge of the bed and asked, ‘Are you all right, pet?’

‘Yes, Aunt Bessie,’ Chrissie answered obediently, without expression.

Bessie sighed and took an envelope from the pocket of her apron and showed it to Chrissie. ‘Don’t open this. I’m putting it in here to be safe.’ Then she dug down to the bottom of Chrissie’s box and laid the envelope there, smoothed the clothes over it. ‘You keep that in your box till you’re older.’

‘Yes, Aunt Bessie.’

Bessie kissed the small face. ‘Goodnight.’ She turned off the gas and left the child to sleep. Chrissie was not in darkness because the tiny room was lit by the streetlights that cast shadows on the ceiling.

Bessie went down to the kitchen and to Daniel, sprawled in an armchair before the fire. He held his pipe clenched between big, yellow teeth and a glass of dark rum stood on the table beside him.

Bessie said, ‘How much of that have you had today?’

Daniel growled low in his barrel chest, ‘Too much and not enough. Poor little bugger. Did you see her face in the cemetery?’

‘I did.’ Bessie sighed. ‘But she’s never cried. All through, she’s never cried. I can’t understand it.’

But she was wrong. Chrissie was crying now.

Chapter 6

February 1901

Chrissie slept at last and woke to a new day. The sun had not yet risen but the wind had blown the sky clear of cloud and smoke in the night. Beyond the yellow pools cast by the gas lamps in the street there was a high, dark blue ceiling pricked by paling stars. The street that had been silent came alive now with the clatter of boots as the first men hurried on their way to work in the yards.

She rolled off the bed and shivered in the chill of the room, but pulled the nightdress over her head then washed in the bowl of water under the window. She dressed quickly, taking her old, worn clothes out of the box. Her new ones had been hung up behind the curtain by Bessie the night before. Chrissie knew they had to last and would only come out again on Sundays. She ran a comb through her hair, seeing herself in the mirror of the dresser, big eyed with nervousness. She wielded the comb quickly because she could hear the house already alive around her.

Out on the landing she saw the doors to the lodgers’ room and that of the boys were open and the rooms were empty. At the turn of the stairs was a window that looked out over the yard at the rear. She glanced out of this in passing and saw Daniel Milburn and his five sons already hard at work. They earned their living as hawkers, selling fruit and vegetables off horse-drawn carts going from street to street.

Now they were mucking out the stalls of the horses by the light of two flaring gas lamps in the yard and lanterns hung up in the stables. These stretched along the right-hand side of the yard. The midden was a walled enclosure sticking out from the stables, with a hatch from the stables leading to it. Steam rose from the muck forked out through the hatch into the midden. At the far end of the yard was the gate, still closed, and down the left-hand side were ranked the flat carts that would carry the fruit and vegetables.

Chrissie took in all this activity, the whistling, singing, calling young men going briskly about their work and the leather-lunged Daniel bawling orders at them: ‘I want Benjy today! I’ve got a big load and I’ll need him for the hills! Topper wants feeding but she’s not goin’ out wi’ that bad leg! Ronnie! What the ’ell ’ave you been doin’ all this time? You should ha’ finished that stall ten minutes ago!’ Chrissie remembered that Ronnie, fair haired, slim and tall for his age, was the youngest of the boys, just fifteen.

She went on, running down the stairs and into the kitchen. She fetched up beside buxom, red-cheeked Bessie Milburn who stood in front of a glowing fire. A big black iron frying-pan was balanced on the hob, hissing as rashers of bacon were spread across it. The huge kitchen table was set with places for a dozen. The lodgers, four men in well-worn overalls, sat at one end. They sipped at steaming mugs of tea cradled in their hands, enjoying early morning taciturnity. But then one of them grinned at Chrissie and said, ‘Hello, young ’un.’

Chrissie answered breathlessly, shyly, ‘Hello.’ Then asked, ‘Good morning, Aunt Bessie. Can I help?’

The woman glanced down at her and smiled. ‘You’re looking to have a bit more colour this morning. Aye, you can cut some bread. There’s the loaf and the knife.’

‘How many slices do you want?’

‘Just keep cutting till I tell you to stop.’ Then Bessie warned, ‘And I don’t want any o’ your fingers lying about on my clean table, so watch yourself!’

Chrissie sawed until the loaf lay across the board in slices and Bessie called to her, ‘Chrissie! Pass these plates!’ And she took the hot plates in turn, with an oven cloth to protect her small hands, laying one in front of each lodger. They reached for the bread she had cut and attacked the bacon and eggs in front of them. There was a rumble of talk and noisy splashing in the scullery that led off the back of the kitchen. Daniel and the boys had come in and were washing in the sink out there.

Bessie called, ‘We’ll want more bread, Chrissie.’ And as the girl began sawing at a fresh loaf Bessie set more mugs of hot tea on the table for her family.

They entered, the stocky Daniel grumbling, ‘You’ll have to wake your ideas up, my lad. You do bugger all if I’m not chasing you.’

Ronnie, of a height but only half Daniel’s width, protested, ‘I do my share! I did it this morning and you were only there at the finish!’

‘And you took your bloody time about it! You’ve got no interest in the job! You don’t try!’

‘I don’t
want
to muck out horses and shout round the streets selling taties! Mr  Gorman says I could get an apprenticeship in Ballantyne’s yard.’

Daniel glowered at one of the lodgers. ‘He does, does he? Well, Joe Gorman isn’t your father. I am, and this business was always good enough for me and I’ll say where you work for your living. Now eat up. You’ve wasted plenty of time today as it is.’

Chrissie handed out more hot laden plates, this time to Daniel and his sons. The lodgers drained their mugs, wiped their mouths on the backs of their hands, pushed back their chairs and stood up. Chrissie threaded her way between them as they picked up their ‘bait’, the packets of sandwiches for their midday meal that Bessie had prepared the night before. They lifted jackets off the backs of their chairs, shrugged into them and clattered off down the passage, wrapping mufflers around their necks and pulling on caps as they went.

Bessie winked at Chrissie. ‘That’s one lot gone.’

Daniel growled, ‘We’ll be out o’ your way soon enough.’ Then he, too, closed one eye at Chrissie.

It was not long before he and the boys were out in the yard again in the first light of day, backing the horses into the shafts of the carts then driving them out of the yard one by one.

Bessie said, ‘They’re off to the market, then on to their rounds.’ She patted Chrissie’s shoulder and told her, ‘You can cut some more bread, but this time for us. Then sit yourself down.’ And they ate together.

When they had done Bessie said, ‘No school for you today. It’ll give you a chance to settle in.’ She looked down at the face turned up to her.

Chrissie asked, ‘Can I go on Monday?’

Bessie, surprised, said, ‘I expect you can but you may as well stay at home today.’ She went on, ‘It’s going to be nice, having a lass in the house, a change from all these men. You could help me a bit about the place if you like.’

The solemn face broke into a smile and Chrissie said, ‘Yes, please.’

‘And we’ll start with the washing up.’

They worked together through the day and when the men came home in the early evening, Daniel last of all as usual, Chrissie helped serve the dinner.

That formed the pattern of the weekend. Bessie talked to the girl but Chrissie only answered politely, ‘Yes, Aunt Bessie,’ ‘No, Aunt Bessie.’

On the Sunday evening Bessie gave her a squeeze and told her, ‘There’s a good little lass you are.’

Chrissie asked, ‘So can I go to school tomorrow, please?’

Bessie was taken aback at that. Eager to go to school? But she answered, ‘O’ course you can.’

Chrissie beamed at her. She remembered what Mary Carter had told her: ‘Work hard at your lessons and get a good job, a place of your own  . . .’

School was a new place of echoing stairwells and passages, dark green walls, big rooms each with a fire in one corner and shivering children in the others. Over all hung a smell of chalkdust, disinfectant and carbolic soap. There was a strange yard filled with shouting strangers. But some knew of her.

In the morning break she stood alone on the edge of the milling crowd by the railings dividing the girls’ yard from that of the boys. A voice behind her said, ‘Here, you!’ Then a hand shoved her in the back so that she staggered. She looked over her shoulder and saw a boy a year or two older than herself, taller and heavier. He leered at her through the railings. ‘You’re the orphan.’

Chrissie did not answer him and turned her face away. He taunted, ‘Yes, you are! My mam says you’re lucky not to be in an ’ome!’

She still did not answer and now the bell rang for the end of the break. The boy swung away, tossing one last threat over his shoulder as he went: ‘I’ll get you after!’

She worried over the threat all that morning and was reprimanded for not paying attention. When dinnertime came she ran from the school, trying to get away from the boy. But he chased her, caught up with her and kicked at her heels so her legs tangled and she fell. He bent down, grabbed her arm and twisted it, shoved his face close to hers and said, ‘If you tell anybody, you’ll get it worse. Have you got any money?’

But she hadn’t. He dug his hand into the pocket of her pinny but found only her handkerchief. He told her, ‘You bring some this afternoon or you’ll get another bashing. And you’ll get one if you tell anybody, so keep your gob shut!’ He shoved her away then and she made her way home.

Bessie asked her, ‘How did you get on at school for your first day?’

‘All right, Aunt Bessie.’ Chrissie’s thin face was impassive, her eyes evasive. Would Bessie protect her from the bully?
Could
she? Chrissie did not know. This was yet another new experience and she didn’t know how to cope with it.

Bessie commented absently, ‘You’ve got yourself dirty. Was that playing?’ But, busy serving out the dinner to Daniel and the boys, she did not pursue it. ‘I’ll give you a clean pinny for this afternoon.’

The boy twisted her arm again and punched her after school finished for the day, then issued the same threats. That went on all week, twice a day, except for two occasions when Chrissie had been given a halfpenny for running an errand for a neighbour in the street. The boy took the money those times and left her alone. Truth to tell, he did not expect money from her because none of the children had any. He inflicted the pain for his own pleasure and the coppers were a bonus.

One morning Chrissie saw him kicking one of the smaller boys and a teacher shouted, ‘Stop that, Victor Parnaby!’ So now Chrissie knew his name, but it was no help to her. She had not been long enough at the school to have friends to confide in, or to be able to appeal to a teacher. She had not known Daniel and Bessie long enough to go to them. And Victor Parnaby had warned he would beat her worse if she told anyone. She was caught in a trap.

Her teachers grew irritable because of her inattention and sloppy work. She became the butt of the class.

Bessie told Daniel, ‘Something’s wrong with that girl.’

Daniel sucked at his pipe, scowled in puzzlement and said, ‘She seems all right.’

Bessie said, ‘She won’t tell me what it is.’