The Children from Gin Barrel Lane

by Lindsey Hutchinson

  ‘I suppose so. Well, if she’s to stay she’ll have to work the same as the rest of us, and that gammy leg won’t do as an excuse!’ Nellie said sternly.

  ‘She’s a game young thing, I can’t see her shirking her work so don’t you worry on that score,’ Nancy said, already slipping into the role of protective mother hen. ‘There’s another thing an’ all – when are you going to tell young Jack…?’

  ‘Don’t let’s go through that again, Nance, I’ll explain it all to him one day,’ Nellie interrupted.

  ‘You know, if you keep him in the dark much longer, he won’t be happy when he finds out,’ Nancy pushed her point forward.

  ‘I know but I have to take that risk,’ Nellie said with a yawn.

  ‘I can understand that, but think about it, Nell. He needs to know and sooner would be better than later.’

  Nancy could see how exhausted her friend was but continued nevertheless. ‘What about the lies you told him when he asked about his father?’

  ‘I know, Nance, but he doesn’t ask any more,’ Nellie replied, tired at having the same old conversation yet again.

  ‘Nell, the boy needs to know you never had a husband and the bloke you said died of fever weren’t his father. It ain’t fair on the kid!’

  Seeing Nellie yawn again prompted Nancy to continue with, ‘And another thing, don’t you think it’s time to abide by the law and close this place at eleven o’clock?’

  ‘Bugger that! The place was packed tonight. Besides, have you forgotten about the riots two years ago when Parliament had to lighten the Sale of Beer Act for Sunday hours? They said we now have to shut between three and five and close up at eleven. Can you imagine what would happen if I did that? I’d have the windows bosted and the gin pinched – there’d be murder done!’ Nellie shook her head, dismissing the idea.

  ‘The coppers will shut yer down, Nellie, the time will come – then what will you do?’ Nancy tried again to persuade her friend to adhere to the law.

  ‘It’ll be all right; half the time the bobbies are in here anyway! Besides, I’m still paying back the distillery for financing my refurbishment in the first place.’

  ‘I know that, but how long will that take? A lifetime, Nellie! I understand they paid to make this place nice in exchange for you only selling their gin, and that you have to repay them, but if you go on like this you’ll kill yourself!’ Nancy was pacing the kitchen like a caged tiger.

  ‘It’s all I know, Nance,’ Nellie said with a huge sigh.

  Hearing the tiredness in her friend’s voice, Nancy relented. ‘Come on, let’s get to bed – it’s been a long and eventful day.’

  The two friends tiptoed past Dolly’s room in order not to disturb her sleep, but unbeknown to them she was still awake.

  Snuggled up warm in the bed which she and Poppy had made up with linen from the landing cupboard, Dolly thought about the last months of living out on the streets. She had scavenged for food and slept in doorways. Her hand instinctively went to the necklace she’d worn since it had been willed to her by her mother. It was worth a great deal of money and she had a letter of authentication to prove its value. She could of course have sold it and used the money, but something always prevented her from doing so. The necklace had a higher purpose she was sure, but just what that was she had no idea. It would all become clear in the fullness of time she was certain.

  Closing her eyes, she drifted into a deep dreamless sleep – the first she’d had in a long time.

  4

  The following morning over breakfast Jack asked, ‘What happened to your leg, Dolly?’

  ‘I was born with it like this,’ she answered simply.

  ‘Does it hurt?’ Jack pursued.

  ‘No, it’s just not very strong, so I use a stick.’

  ‘How ever did you manage after you ran away from home?’ Nancy asked as she topped up Dolly’s teacup.

  ‘I begged mostly. I scavenged what I could from the market. I didn’t ever steal because it’s wrong and I couldn’t exactly run from the police with this.’ Dolly tapped her left leg and smiled.

  ‘Where did you live?’ Jack asked.

  ‘I slept in doorways or in Park Street Gardens. It wasn’t too bad, but it was hard to keep warm. A tramp told me to put old newspaper between my clothes which helped. Then someone stole my coat and bag while I wasn’t looking so I was left with nothing.’ Dolly answered with a sigh.

  Nancy passed over more toast and muttered under her breath which caused Dolly to giggle; the words having likened the thief to a bovine carry-all.

  ‘Ain’t you bitter about it all?’ Jack was amazed at how Dolly had taken all that had happened to her in her stride.

  ‘There’s no point dwelling on what I can’t change. It was bad luck, that’s all.’ Dolly shrugged her shoulders before she finished her food.

  ‘Well, I think you’re a brave little wench,’ Nancy said as she stroked Dolly’s hair. Clean and dry now, it shone like a raven’s wing and Nancy longed to brush and plait it. The beaming smile she received back for her troubles melted her heart and Nancy was sure this was as close as she was ever going to feel to maternal love.

  Nellie’s voice was heard before she was seen. Boots stomping on the tiled floor, she swept into the kitchen yelling, ‘Jack! Come on, lad, that bar needs a good clean!’

  Jack rolled his eyes and banged his cup on the table. ‘No rest for the wicked.’ he mumbled as he slapped his flat cap on his head and got to his feet.

  ‘You work that boy too hard,’ Poppy said as she followed Nellie into the kitchen. ‘He’s only ten years old – he should be in school.’

  Nellie rounded on the girl saying, ‘It ain’t none of your business, madam! I give you board and lodging to tend the bar, not to stick your nose into my affairs!’

  ‘Yes, but you don’t pay me a wage, do you? So, I think we should come to an arrangement about that else I’m off!’ Poppy retaliated.

  Nellie’s mouth fell open at the girl’s sudden change in demeanour. Usually a pusillanimous person, Poppy’s outburst took them all by surprise.

  ‘Just where do you think you’ll find work in this God forsaken town then?’ Nellie asked sarcastically.

  ‘Somewhere – anywhere – I’ll get a job doing something where I’ll be appreciated and paid accordingly!’ Poppy countered. Her blood was up and she was not about to relent.

  ‘After all I’ve done for you! I took you in off the street when you were starving! Is this how you repay me?’ Nellie was furious.

  ‘I will always be grateful for that but there comes a time when gratitude is repaid in full. Now is that time, Nellie Larkin!’ Poppy banged her hand on the table in emphasis setting her blonde curls bouncing.

  Everyone stared at the young girl wondering what would happen next. Would Poppy make good on her threat and walk out? Would Nellie concede and pay her a wage for all her hard work?

  Nancy debated whether to intervene and tell them both to quit arguing but she didn’t think it was her place to speak out.

  However, it was Jack who finally spoke up and broke the impasse. ‘Mum, it’s only fair. Poppy works hard and long hours in that bar, same as you and me.’

  Nellie glanced at her son, angry that he had taken the side of the barmaid over that of his mother.

  ‘A maid earns about six pounds a year and what do I get? Bed and board! And – I work a sight harder than a maid!’ Poppy went on.

  ‘Six pounds a year! You’m joking, ain’t you?’ Nellie snorted.

  ‘What about Nancy? What do you pay her? About eleven pounds a year would be my guess,’ continued Poppy.

  ‘Don’t you be dragging me into this, young lady,’ Nancy said, all thoughts of trying to quell the argument now gone.

  ‘Stop it! All of you!’ Jack yelled, making Dolly jump out of her skin. ‘This is getting us nowhere. Mum, Poppy deserves a wage of some sort so work it out with her. Me and Dolly will go and fill the bottles in the cellar, and by the time we’ve finished t
his should all be done as well!’

  Jack stomped from the kitchen and Dolly limped along behind him.

  Down in the cellar, Jack passed his new friend a bottle half filled with gin and Dolly topped it up with water. ‘Do they argue like that often?’ she asked.

  ‘I ain’t never seen it before,’ Jack replied, shaking his head, ‘but I believe Poppy was right to ask for wages.’

  ‘Do you get paid, Jack?’

  ‘No, bed and board, same as you,’ he answered blithely.

  ‘But you should,’ Dolly pressed her point of view as she corked another bottle.

  ‘I’m her son, Dolly, so she thinks I should work for nowt – being family and all that.’

  ‘That’s rather unfair though,’ she said sadly.

  ‘Ain’t it just. But you saw what happened when Poppy broached the subject, God knows how Mum would react if I asked the same.’ Jack stacked the bottles in a crate to be taken to the bar. ‘I’ll take these up if you can sawdust and sweep the floor.’

  ‘All right, that sounds a fair deal to me,’ Dolly said with a giggle.

  Jack grinned. Dolly’s positive outlook and happy nature was infectious.

  Working quietly together in the bar they heard no more raised voices and a moment later Poppy came through sporting a huge smile.

  ‘All sorted out?’ Jack asked.

  Poppy’s blue eyes twinkled and she nodded. ‘She’s agreed to pay me six pounds a year and you two, three pounds a year.’

  ‘Blimey!’ Jack spluttered.

  ‘So, don’t either of you let me down after I fought your corner for you,’ Poppy said in a whisper.

  ‘We won’t, we promise,’ Dolly assured her; she considered herself very lucky for only a couple of days ago she was starving on the streets. Now she had a home, a job earning a wage, new found friends, and a surrogate mother as well if she could put her question to Nancy. Dolly determined she would work hard in exchange for Mrs Larkin’s kindness.

  Nellie bustled into the bar and nodded her approval at the work being undertaken.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Larkin,’ Dolly said as she approached the woman, ‘it’s so very kind of you to think of me too. Not only have you taken me in when I had nowhere else to go, but now you’ve given me paid work, I’m very grateful.’

  Nellie looked down at the girl with the eyes the colour of chocolate and felt her heart melt. She would have loved a daughter such as this but it was not meant to be. Suddenly all her bluster was gone and she held open her arms. Dolly stepped forward and Nellie hugged her tightly. Then in the next moment she let go of the little waif and stamped out of the bar, brushing away a tear as she went.

  ‘Blimey!’ Jack said again before he, along with Poppy and Dolly, burst out laughing.

  5

  Arthur Micklewhite picked up the newspaper to be greeted with a headline announcing that the Queen had given birth to a daughter, Princess Beatrice. He glanced at the date on the top of the paper, 14 April 1857, and worked the numbers in his head. Queen Victoria was thirty-eight years old and still bearing children.

  He grunted as his mind took him to Dolly Daydream. Where was she now? Slamming the paper down on the kitchen table he was angry that his step-daughter had run away. That young’un would have kept his bed warm for a long time to come. She could have cooked, cleaned and maintained the house as her mother had previously.

  Arthur looked around at the dirty dishes piled up in the old brownstone sink, the crumbs on the floor and the pile of washing by the back door. It was no use, either he undertook these tasks for himself or he had to find a woman to do it for him.

  Wondering how he could find the money to pay a cleaner/washerwoman, Arthur ambled outside to the privy. On his return to the kitchen he searched the cupboard for something to eat. Nothing. It was empty, barring a few breadcrumbs and a fly. Batting away the pesky insect, Arthur dropped onto the chair feeling completely miserable.

  He was hungry, but with no money, his cupboard would remain bare. It was time to go and find a few wealthy folk and relieve their pockets of their wallets. Maybe a trip to the market where unsuspecting housewives might leave their purses unattended in their baskets.

  Pulling up his braces, Arthur then shoved his feet into his boots. Grabbing his jacket from the nail hammered into the back door he slung it over one shoulder and left the house. Number twenty-seven was at the end of Rea Terrace and quite a way from the market hall but it was a sunny day and Arthur walked with a spring in his step; the prospect of having a meal that day lightening his mood.

  The Macassar oil on his centrally parted hair had kept it in place despite his having slept, so he had no need of a comb. Too lazy to sharpen his cut-throat razor on the leather strop, Arthur was out and about with a day’s growth of whiskers. His shirt was none too clean but the waistcoat covered most of the grime. Worsted trousers would soon prove too warm in the clement weather as he strode forth towards the market.

  Arthur Micklewhite had weasel-like features and eyes so dark they appeared to be black, giving him a sinister look. As he proceeded further into the town, he thought about the life he’d led when wed to Avril Perkins.

  Scouring the newspaper columns of the deceased, he had spotted the notification announcing the funerary arrangements of a prominent manufacturer who lived in the wealthier area of Great Charles Street. Mrs Perkins, the widow, would be an excellent candidate to take care of him he had surmised, which had proven to be the case.

  A smile lifted the corners of his mouth as he recalled attending the interment posing as one of her dead husband’s business acquaintances. Over time he inveigled his way into her affections and, after a suitable period of mourning, had begun to court her. He had been especially kind to Avril’s crippled daughter, Dolly, which had only added to his kudos as a prospective husband.

  Eventually they had married. Before long, he’d sold on her late husband’s business. Arthur never had any intention of working a day in that cardboard factory. It hadn’t taken him long to spend the money from the sale and even before Avril’s passing, he was on the lookout for another wealthy widow.

  As for Dolly Daydream, she would have been no use to him other than as a housekeeper and occasional bed warmer. Her withered leg would have prevented her from working, and she would have just been another mouth to feed. So, all in all, he felt he was probably better off without her.

  A frown replaced the smile as Arthur considered again how dire his circumstances were becoming. He had to find a woman with money – and soon. He could not afford to rely on the newspaper, he must now go in search of someone who would lift him from his impecunious state and restore him to being a sybarite. The question now was – how to go about it?

  The lifestyle afforded him when he had acquired money had suited him admirably. The seemingly endless stream of parties, soirées and balls; the mixing with the higher echelon of society was dizzyingly addictive, and Arthur missed it now it was gone.

  Folk were fickle; if you were monied, you were admired and welcomed. But once your wealth disappeared then so did your so-called friends. Now Arthur Micklewhite was alone and penniless, a situation he needed to remedy as soon as possible.

  The market hall which had opened in 1835 and the wonderful big Town Hall were things Birmingham could brag about and frequently did. The town was now producing 50 per cent of the world’s manufactured goods and would, in the future, be known as the city of a thousand trades. It boasted botanical gardens, gas street lighting and a wonderful new railway station. Five years ago, St Chad’s had been raised to Cathedral status by Pope Pius IX, and in 1853, Birmingham Mint had been contracted to produce the first pound sterling coins. Although it was set in the heart of the Black Country, and constantly covered in a layer of smoky grime from chimneys and factories, the people were fiercely proud of their town.

  Arthur passed the baker’s horse with its bread panniers and the smell of warm fresh baked goods made his mouth water and his stomach rumble. A little further on,
a blind beggar rattled a few coins in a pannikin, the clink of metal on metal ringing loudly. Stopping, Arthur dipped his fingers in the cup and took out a threepenny bit before moving swiftly on; the beggar’s ‘thankee guvnor’ making him grin.

  Wheelbarrows full of fruit and vegetables were being pushed between stalls, annoying crowds of women intent on finding a bargain. All around, vendors called out the prices of their wares, adding to the cacophony of noise. There was an excitement about the place as people pushed and shoved their way down the narrow aisles between the stalls. Here you could usually buy anything you needed, but if not, there was always a man who could get it for you.

  Arthur slipped on his jacket and began to weave his way through the throng of people, his eyes finding an escape route in the event he was detected. It was very busy so he thought his best option would be to mingle in with the crowd. Should he be lucky enough to pick a wallet or purse, he would empty it quickly before dropping it on the floor.

  Spotting a likely victim, Arthur stepped closer to the woman with a basket on her arm. Her purse was in full view and within reach but as he stretched to retrieve it the woman snatched it away. She gave Arthur a glare which could burn a man to a crisp. He muttered an apology as he leaned forward to examine a pair of second-hand boots on the stall. With a sniff, the woman paid for her item and pushed her way through the closely packed people. Arthur began to sweat – that was a close thing. Continuing on, he was determined to be more careful. He wanted to eat today – but not inside a gaol!

  Micklewhite’s jaunt into the market was successful and now back at home he congratulated himself on a job well done. He decided to steer clear of that particular place for a while as the bobbies would be out searching for the culprit once the thefts were reported.

  Buying food on the way home, Arthur’s larder was now fully stocked and sitting with a plate of bread and cheese and a hot cup of tea, he reflected on his life.

  After running away from the orphanage at the age of twelve, he had lived on the streets and fallen in with a bad lot. They had taught him how to lie, cheat and steal and this had then become his trade.