The House by Princes Park (15 page)

Without exception, the customers were women, not solely from better-off places like Aigburth or Princes Park. There were poverty-stricken families in the Dingle, too proud to let their neighbours know they had to pawn the man’s best suit on Monday to make ends meet, redeeming it for weekend use on Friday when the wages arrived. Ruby had to call at some ungodly hour, early morning or
late at night, in case she was recognised, earning only a penny or twopence for her pains.

Not all the pathetic bundles of bedding, children’s boots, canteens of cutlery, chiming clocks, or wedding rings, were redeemed. At the end of the week, Ruby might be told, ‘Sorry, luv. I can’t afford it. I’ll get in touch once I’ve got the cash together.’ Until then, beds would remain bare and childish feet unshod, or they might stay that way for ever.

Mrs Hart, the nicest of her customers, had so far never redeemed a pledge. Her big house was gradually being stripped of the pretty things that had been wedding presents or had belonged to her or her late husband’s family since before she was born, to pay the ever-increasing debts of her son, the awful Max.

‘I’d get much more for the damn things if I sold them,’ she groaned, ‘But I pawn them in the hope that one day I’ll get them back, though where the money will come from, I’ve no idea.’

‘They only keep them six months, then they’re put up for sale,’ Ruby said as she nursed the growing kitten, appropriately called Tiger.

At first she had been intrigued as to why so many apparently well-off women should so frequently require an urgent injection of cash. After a while she was able to tell the signs. There were women who drank, women who gambled, who overspent the housekeeping, who juggled a load of debts, borrowing from one source to pay off another. One sad lady she regularly called on was secretly supporting her dying father, unable to tell her husband because he wouldn’t approve.

Some of the posh houses Ruby went in were anything but posh inside, with bare floors and mean furniture little better than Foster Court. The only decent things were the curtains on show to the outside world.

She was becoming a familiar figure on the streets of the
Dingle. ‘There’s the pawnshop runner,’ people would say as she walked by. ‘Which tuppenny-a’ penny toff are you off to see today, Ruby?’ they would call, but Ruby would smile enigmatically and put her finger to her lips.

Martha Quinlan was no longer prepared to let an increasingly pregnant Ruby clean her bar and insisted she leave. ‘You make me feel terrible, luv. But promise you’ll still come for a cuppa regularly. I’ll miss you something awful and so will our Agnes.’

‘I’ll miss you too.’ Martha and Agnes/Fay had become her friends. She was sorry to lose her job, but was earning enough to manage without it, particularly now that Jacob was working, earning twenty-one and sixpence a week.

At long last, Jacob had found a job where his past experience was relevant – he knew about horses. For the past month he had driven a horse and cart around Edge Hill delivering coal. He hated it with all his heart. The black, pungent dust got up his nose and on his chest, making him cough and wheeze. At six o’clock, he came home covered in the stuff, his clothes stiff with it, his face and neck filthy. Ruby had to boil pans of water for him to wash in, though he never seemed able to get the dirt out of his hair. But she couldn’t wash the clothes and the room stank of coal. Jacob could smell it even when he was asleep. One of the worst times of the day – and there were many – was getting out of bed and putting on the moleskin pants and the shirt that felt like a suit of armour they were so hard. And, finally, the leather waistcoat to protect his back and shoulders when he humped the heavy sacks down narrow entries into someone’s back yard or emptied them down a manhole into the cellar.

Even the horse had no personality, not like Waterloo, the horse who’d been his companion on Humble’s Farm. It was a dull, tired creature, as miserable as himself, showing no interest when he tried to talk to it.

Unlike Ruby, Jacob could see no end to this wretched
existence. While she talked about leaving Foster Court and how their life would improve, he couldn’t envisage a brighter future.

Winter was coming to an end, the nights were getting lighter, the days warmer. It was March and the baby was due in six weeks’ time. A woman was coming to deliver it at Jacob’s command, no matter what the hour. She charged ten shillings, but was very reliable and experienced.

Jacob came home one Friday, his spirits at their lowest. Charlie Murphy, their landlord, was sitting on the step, sunning himself in the evening sunshine. ‘Nice day,’ he remarked.

‘Is it?’ Jacob grunted. He hadn’t noticed anything nice about it.

Charlie regarded him thoughtfully. ‘Pay days are always a bit special, lad.’

‘I suppose.’ He always gave his entire wages to Ruby who handled the family’s finances.

‘While you’re flush, d’you fancy putting a tanner on a horse running tomorrer? Twenty to one, a sure-fire winner.’

‘How much would I get if it won?’

‘It’s bound to win, mate, and you’d get ten bob plus your place money which isn’t a bad return in my book.’

‘And if I put on a shilling I’d get twice as much?’

‘You would so.’ Charlie nodded emphatically.

‘Then I’ll risk a shilling,’ Jacob said recklessly.

Ruby called him the biggest fool under the sun when he told her. He had to tell her because she counted the wages carefully, pointing out he was a shilling short. She still claimed he was a fool when the horse won and he gave her a pound, keeping the place money for himself. On Sunday night, he celebrated his win with a couple of pints of ale, the first he’d had since coming to Foster Court. In the pub he got chatting to a group of young men who called him
‘Jake’, and made him feel one of the crowd, a proper man, unlike at home where he felt worthless.

All the following week he felt better about himself. On Friday, Charlie Murphy was waiting on the step when he came home and Jacob put another shilling on a sure-fire winner running next day. The horse lost and Ruby flatly refused to give him a few coppers so he could drown his sorrows in drink.

‘I still want things for the baby, a shawl, and where’s the little mite to sleep I’d like to know?’ she said crossly. ‘We need a cot. You’re being very irresponsible, Jacob.’

The next time he was paid, Jacob, feeling daring, deducted half a crown before giving Ruby his wages, a shilling for a bet, the rest for ale. He’d go to the pub, the Shaftesbury, tonight. She could rant and rave all she liked, but he’d put in a hard week’s work and was entitled to a bit of relaxation over a pint. Other men did it. Why not him?

Ruby didn’t rant and rave. ‘I’ve worked hard, too, Jacob,’ she said quietly. ‘But if that’s how you feel...’ She shrugged.

It
was
how he felt. In the pub he could forget about Foster Court, Ruby, and the coming baby. She made him boil his own water to wash in and silently perused the little notebook in which she kept a record of her pawnshop dealings while he changed into his newly cleaned suit. She didn’t look up when he said ‘Tara’.

In the Shaftesbury he was made welcome with shouts of, ‘Hello, there, Jake, ould mate. We didn’t think we’d be seeing you again. What are you drinking?’

There were eight of them altogether, including Jacob. He felt obliged to buy a round and by closing time he’d consumed eight pints of ale, more than he’d ever had before. He was pickled to the gills when he got home, to find Ruby sitting up in bed with a sleeping baby in her
arms. A strange woman was folding blood-stained sheets. She looked at him with contempt.

‘You’ve got a daughter, Mr O’Hagan,’ she said in a voice full of loathing. ‘Fortunately, your poor wife was fit enough to send one of the downstairs’ kids to fetch me. Christ knows what she’d have done if I hadn’t been here.’

‘She’d have managed.’ Sober, Jacob would have felt ashamed, but brimming with ale, he didn’t care. Left alone, Ruby could have delivered the child on her own, cut the cord, done whatever else was necessary, saved herself ten bob. And he resented being called ‘O’Hagan’. There was good reason for not admitting to Veering which would be on the police files, but having to use Ruby’s name instead of his own only added to his feeling of inferiority.

‘I’m off now, Mrs O’Hagan. Are you comfortable, luv?’ Ruby nodded. She looked flushed and happy. ‘I’ll pop in tomorrow, see how you are like. You can pay me then.’

‘Thank you.’

The woman left. Overcome with curiosity, Jacob swayed drunkenly towards the bed. ‘It’s a girl?’

‘Yes, she’s only little,’ Ruby said distantly. ‘Mrs Mickelwhite reckons about four pounds. It’s because she came early. She wasn’t due till next month. She needs fattening up.’

‘What are you going to call her?’ He took for granted he would have no say in the naming of his daughter and he was right.

‘Greta, after Greta Garbo.’

He nodded, though he thought it a daft name. ‘Look, Ruby, I’m sorry I wasn’t around.’ He felt it necessary to make amends. ‘I wouldn’t have dreamt of going out if I’d known the baby would come tonight.’

‘It would have been nice if you’d been here to hold my hand,’ she said reproachfully.

‘Say if she had come when I was at work,’ he reasoned.

‘That’s different. Work’s necessary, not like ale.’

Jacob felt tempted to disagree, but held his tongue. ‘Did it hurt bad, Ruby?’ He suppressed a hiccup.

‘No, it was very quick and hardly hurt at all. Mrs Mickelwhite said it was one of the easiest births she’d ever known. Would you like to hold her?’ She must have decided to forgive him and carefully laid the tiny baby in his arms. It was muffled in clothes: a long, flannelette gown, knitted cardigan, bonnet, bootees, all well worn. Ruby had got them from a secondhand market stall. Only the shawl was new, a present from the woman in the Malt House.

The child felt as light as a feather in his arms, but to Jacob she weighed heavier than the sacks of coal he humped around Edge Hill. He stared at the perfect little face, the long lashes trembling on white, waxen cheeks, the prim, pale mouth, and wanted to run away and never come back. Some men might regard their first child as a blessing, but he saw it as a cross he would have to bear for the rest of his life. There would be no end to the years of dirty, back-breaking work, earning a measly few bob. He put his daughter back in Ruby’s arms. ‘She’s lovely,’ he said briefly.

‘Isn’t she?’ She stared at the child adoringly. ‘I love her more than life itself, Jacob.’

‘Do you, now!’ He felt jealous.

Within a week, Ruby had returned to work, the baby wrapped up warmly and tucked inside her shawl, acknowledging the congratulations from various passers-by with a queenly gesture of her hand, and moving the shawl a fraction to expose Greta’s pretty, pale face to be admired.

Mrs Hart gave the baby a tiny silver bangle. ‘My godmother bought that when I was born,’ she said to Ruby. ‘I’d like Greta to have it, otherwise it will end up in
Reilly’s along with everything else of value from this house.’

The christening took place the following Sunday, the day after Ruby’s seventeenth birthday. It was a quiet affair: just Ruby, Jacob, and their daughter, who was turning out to be an ideal baby, sleeping all night, sucking contentedly at her mother’s breast, burping on cue. Though she wasn’t gaining weight, Ruby reckoned, balancing Greta in her arms. ‘She’s hardly any different from the day she was born,’ she said worriedly.

‘How can you tell?’ Jacob wanted to know. He was fed up with Greta commanding her entire attention.

‘I just can.’

The night of the christening he went to the pub, saying he wanted to wet the baby’s head. The horse he’d backed the day before, which Ruby knew nothing about, had come in third and the odds had been good. He wasn’t sure which was more important, the drink or the horses. It certainly wasn’t Ruby, or their baby.

By the time Greta was three months old, Jacob was handing over barely half his pay. Every Friday he put a couple of bob on the horses. The occasional wins made his heart sing so sweetly they were worth the more frequent losses. The weeks passed more quickly, each day bringing Friday closer. There would be a feeling in his gut that this week he’d make a killing.

The hours flew by too, knowing the evening ahead would be spent in the Shaftesbury with his mates. Ruby could scowl all she liked; he was a man and he’d do as he pleased. The men in the pub boasted of how they gave their wives a clout if they stepped out of line. If Ruby didn’t buck up her ideas, show him some respect, one of these days he’d box her bloody ears.

Charlie Murphy had been badgered into repairing the window in their room and Ruby had made curtains, bright red. There was a patchwork cover on the bed, a rag rug on the floor, and a lace cloth hid the scratches on the chest of drawers. Everywhere was spotless, the room a little, bright oasis in the otherwise cheerless house.

When Jacob came home one hot evening in August, covered with coal dust as usual, the evening sun was pouring through the open window giving the place an extra sparkle. Greta was lying on the bed wearing only a ragged nappy, cooing and lazily examining her toes. She wasn’t an active child. She caught colds easily and was still underweight according to Ruby, who worried about her constantly.