The Long Walk Home (4 page)

Eleanor took another small bite of bread. She had been hungry too, but now her appetite seemed to have vanished. Poor boy, she thought. Yet he hadn't seemed too downcast; rather it had seemed as if he was trying to reassure her when her father had mentioned the hanging and she had given such a start. If I could only see him, she thought, I could warn him of what might become of him if he continues on this downward path. But then I don't suppose he would listen. I'm only a girl and not very wise, and only know about spelling and art and music, and even if I was grown up it would be the same, except that, like Mama, I would know my duty.

'I'll do as I like.' Bridget tossed her head and turned her back on her mother.

'That you won't, Bridget Turner. You'll do as I say and you will not stay out half the night like a wanton.' Her mother shook a dish rag at her daughter. 'If your dada finds out—'

'He'll not find out and if he did he wouldn't care. He's drunk in 'alehouse more often than not.' Bridget knew her mother had no answer to that. She had escaped from a merrymaking Irish family only to marry an English drunkard. 'Anyway, I was doing nothing, onny chatting with friends.'

'Until two in a morning! Sweet Mary, what kind of reputation will that get you?'

Bridget shrugged. 'Don't care. Folks can think what they like.'

'Was Rosie Quinn with you?'

Bridget gave a scornful laugh. 'That bairn! Her ma won't let her out of her sight.'

'Quite right too,' her mother responded.

'With a son in prison she must be at her wits' end to keep her other children on the straight and narrow.' She gave a deep sigh. 'Poor woman. What a disgrace. Such shame, and he seeming such a grand lad. I'd never of thought of Mikey Quinn's being a thief.'

'For heaven's sake, Ma! He onny stole a couple o' rabbits. They were hanging there right in front of his nose. If I'd seen 'em I might have done 'same. And I'd have run faster,' she added.

'Don't you dare! Never set foot in this house with stolen goods. Do you hear?' Una Turner raised her voice as she always did when her unruly children ignored what she was saying. 'The Irish get blamed for everything in this town. It's always our fault.'

'I'm not Irish,' Bridget disclaimed. 'Onny half.'

'True! You're your father's daughter all right.' Her mother knew when she was beaten. 'You'll go to the bad just the same as he has.' She threw the dish rag on to the table and put her shawl round her shoulders. 'I'm going out. Somebody in this house has to try for honest work.'

She banged out of the door and Bridget crashed into a chair. Her head was splitting. It wasn't true that she had only been talking with friends last night. She had been talking; but to seamen in a hostelry in the town and with a glass of gin in her hand. Not an inn which her father frequented, for had he seen her he would have sent her off with a humiliating sharp word or a slap. It wasn't only the boys in this family who had felt the lash of his belt.

The seamen had plied her with drink, urging her to have another and then another. She accepted two and then offered to go up to the bar counter to collect a further jug of ale. 'I know 'landlord,' she'd said with a wink. 'He knows me.'

There was much ribald comment on this remark and as she'd leaned over to collect the jug from the table she'd felt a rough hand up her skirt. She'd opened her palm for money for the ale and smiled sweetly at the bleary-eyed seamen who dropped in the coins. She bought the ale and asked the landlord to top up her gin glass with water, slipping the change into her skirt pocket.

She poured them all a glass of ale, then tossed back her gin and water and, with a little hiccup, swayed towards the door. 'Shan't be long,' she slurred. 'Must just go outside.' She blew them a kiss. 'Don't go away.'

She had run to the next street and into another hostelry, where she had again met up with a group of seamen. 'Just looking for a friend,' she said, leaning provocatively over them. 'Have you seen her? Fair hair, pretty, dressed in a blue shawl?'

'No, darling, but come and join us until she turns up,' they'd insisted. 'You shouldn't be on your own. It's not safe.' And once again she had felt their wandering hands and escaped with their loose change, but by then she had partaken of a generous accumulation of gin, which this morning was causing her headache.

She stretched and considered having a lie-down on her parents' bed. It was more comfortable than her own pallet, which at night-time she unrolled in front of the fire. Her brothers too had either a pallet or a blanket, whilst their two youngest sisters slept at the bottom of their parents' bed.

Her father hadn't come home last night and she surmised that he was either under a table in one of the inns or bedded down in some woman's room. 'I'll risk it,' she murmured. 'I'll just have ten minutes.'

She dropped off to sleep in minutes and an hour later was rudely awakened when her father crashed in through the door. He didn't notice her, and perched on the edge of the bed to take off his boots, which he threw across the room. He tore off his trousers and fell back on the mattress clad in only his grey shirt. Then he saw her.

'What you doing?' He glared at her. 'Is it Bridget?'

'Yes, Da.' She pulled the blanket up to her chest. 'I didn't feel well so I came to lie down.'

He grabbed hold of her arm. 'Where's your ma?'

'Gone to look for work.' She bit nervously on her lip. Please God, don't let him be violent.

He gave her a smack across the face. 'That's where you should be instead of your ma.' He grabbed her shoulders and shook her. 'Go and look for her. Tell her I want her back here.'

'What if she's in work, Da?' Bridget rose hastily from the bed.

Her father gazed narrowly at her. 'Then you come back; and bring me a jug of ale.'

'Yes, Da.' She had no intention of doing so, or of searching for her mother. Too often had she listened to her cries when she had been forced into the marital bed by a drink-sodden, abusive husband. No, she would wander the streets until she was sure that her father had had time to drop off to sleep, and then she might or might not return home, depending on what else was on offer.

I'll not lead a life like my mother's, she pondered as she went out of the narrow Todd's Entry and headed towards Silver Street, where bankers and silversmiths and their well-to-do customers didn't even notice the poor who lived amongst them. She passed the White Harte Tavern and on impulse turned back and went inside. The landlord eyed her keenly. He didn't like lone women in his inn.

'Give me a neat gin and a slice o' bread and beef.' Bridget handed him some coins. 'Don't worry. I'm not stopping.'

She drank the gin in one gulp and waited whilst he carved the beef and put it on a slice of bread. Then she took it without a word and went outside. She slid round the corner of the building and sat on the step to the side door, and hungrily devoured the food. Easiest money I've ever made, she thought as she chewed. If I had somewhere else to live I could manage on my own. I need enough money for a room but I'm not going to beg for it, nor slave in a factory or mill.

Having finished eating, Bridget got to her feet and wandered aimlessly down towards the Market Place. There was generally something going on there: traders shouting out their wares, preachers telling of kingdom come, soldiers on leave idling away their precious time and eyeing up the girls. Hm, she mused. Soldiers with a coin or two to spare.

She caught sight of Rosie Quinn and her mother in front of her and slowed down so that she didn't have to speak to them. She only cultivated Rosie's friendship because of Mikey. Whiney little Rosie, she thought. As if I'd have her as my friend, a bairn like her! But Mikey! He wasn't like any other lads she knew, and when he was older, say in a year or two, he would look at her with different eyes. They would be good together, she knew. He was nice-looking now in a boyish way, with a humorous gleam in his eyes, but he would become handsome and all the girls in the district would be after him; but he'll be mine.

She continued into the Market Place, walking with a swagger, swinging her hips, her head held high. There was nothing demure about Bridget Turner; she was confident and aware of her own good looks, her dark glossy hair and green eyes, and aware too of the admiring glances cast her way by men old and young, pouting and tossing her head or giving an appealing smile when she thought it was merited.

'Hello, Biddy,' Jamie, a local man with a dubious reputation, called to her, but she ignored him, not even acknowledging him.

I'll not speak to the likes of him, she thought. Dirt, that's what he is. He should be in jail. He uses women to line his own pocket. Well, he'll not use me. I'm above that. I'll give myself to a man when it suits me, not before.

Her plan was to meet a rich older man who would buy her nice clothes, give her flowers, chocolate and perfume and pander to her every whim. They would leave Hull and live somewhere like London in a grand house and have their own smart carriage. She had not yet fathomed out how she would attract such a man, for she knew in her heart that she was shabby and poor, and in spite of her beauty he wouldn't even notice her if she should meet him.

She continued on, stopping for an occasional chat with stallholders who offered her an apple or an orange and asked for nothing in return— or not at the moment anyway, she thought, smiling sweetly as she accepted, thinking that most people did nothing for nothing. She passed the apothecary's shop and pondered that he had a son worth cultivating. Oliver Walker was young and handsome and had good prospects, but she shuddered as she thought of the boredom of being wed to a man in such a dull profession and having to stay in this town, when she longed for excitement and the chance to travel to other places.

'Now then!' A uniformed policeman stood in front of her, barring her way. 'And where are you off to?'

Bridget frowned. Why had he stopped her? She was doing nothing, just wandering about. Then her face cleared. He wasn't a street bobby, though he wore the top hat and white gloves and carried a rattle. He was the prison officer who had let her in to see Mikey.

He grinned at her. 'Didn't recognize me, did you?'

'I'll be honest, I didn't. I didn't know you all dressed up in your best topper and gloves,' she said. 'Quite a dandy, ain't yer?'

He nodded. 'We're supposed to keep toppers on at all times, but my head itches sometimes, wearing it all day.'

She gazed at him. He was an enormous man, rotund and very tall, towering above her. He hadn't asked for much of a favour in return for his. Merely to slip his hand inside her blouse to touch her breast and nipple, and she hadn't minded that.

'Are you on duty at Kingston Street?' she asked innocently. 'That's where Mikey's gone.'

'Aye, I know.' He gazed down at her. 'They've got regular warders in there, not police officers like me, so I can't help get you in.'

'That's a shame,' she pouted, pushing out her bottom lip. 'I thought I'd be able to cheer him up.'

He shook his head. 'Don't even think of it. You'll get him into worse trouble than he's in now.' Surreptitiously he ran his hand over her waist and bottom. 'You could cheer me up, though.'

She gave a little shrug. 'We might both get into trouble if I did,' she said. 'Have you got a wife?'

'No. Who'd want to marry a bobby wi' hours we work, and all for a pittance?'

She raised her eyebrows. 'At least you're in work. Not everybody's so lucky.'

'Meet me later,' he cajoled. 'I get off duty at ten.' He saw her hesitation. 'Don't tell me you're sweet on that young lad? He's onny a bairn.'

She shrugged. 'He's a friend's brother, that's all. He's nowt to me.'

He laughed. 'Just as well. He'll go to the bad.'

'What do you mean?' She tried to appear unconcerned. 'He's all right is Mikey.'

'He might be now,' he said. 'But he'll get in wi' wrong company in Kingston Street prison. For a start he'll be wi' Tully. They shared a cell in Blanket Row and no doubt he'll come across him while he's serving his time.'

'Tully? Who is he? I've heard his name.'

'He's a villain, that's what. And he's allus on 'lookout for young lads to do his dirty work.' Benton shook his head. 'Warn Quinn, if you can. Tell him not to mix wi' Tully or he'll get short shrift and a long rope.' Then he grinned. 'Or a sail across 'ocean.'

'To Australia?' Bridget took a breath. 'But how is it that Tully hasn't gone to Australia, if he's as bad as you say?'

'He did. And then he came back.'

''Ere! Quinn.'

Mikey lifted his head slightly at the hissing voice. They were not supposed to speak. Not that he had the breath to talk as he smashed at the stones with the sledgehammer. His hands were raw and his shoulders burned with pain.

'Who is it?' he whispered back, raising the hammer once more. The guard was prowling. Mikey would have to wait until he reached the other end of the yard before he dared to turn round to see who was addressing him.

'Tully!'

Mikey felt even hotter and sweatier than before. He'd heard undertones in prison where Tully's name had been muttered. Why's he calling me? I don't need trouble. I just want to serve my time and get out of here.

'They've not broken you yet, then? Still in one piece, are you?'

'Yes,' he hissed back. 'I'm all right.'

He wasn't really. He was in pain most of the time; he felt as if a red-hot poultice had been applied to his back and shoulders. Breaking stones was a worse job than picking oakum, which had been his first occupation after being taken from his cell. He had been marched to a large room filled with old rope where other prisoners were picking away with their fingers at the rough coir. Most of them were elderly, and he could see that their bent, thin-skinned fingers were cracked and bleeding.

For the first few days he couldn't stop sneezing as the dust from the fibres got up his nose and made his eyes itch. Then, at the end of a week, he was told that he was to be sent outside to break stones.