When Wilby pushed the front seat of the car forward and got Ruby to climb into the back, she saw this as a way of preventing her escaping. Even giving her some sandwiches and an apple to eat felt like buying her trust. But it turned out to be a very long drive, and Ruby grew tired of remaining alert for a chance to escape, so she curled up on the seat, her head on a cushion left there, and fell asleep. The last thing she remembered thinking was that she’d run for it as soon as they got to this woman’s home.
It was dark when she woke, and Wilby said they were nearly there. Ruby needed to pee, and it crossed her mind she could use that as an excuse to get out of the car and run for it. But she couldn’t see a single house, and she didn’t much fancy roaming around fields in the dark without any idea of which direction to go in, and without any money.
Finally they came into a town, which Wilby said was Torquay. ‘My house is in Babbacombe just a few miles further on,’ she said. ‘Tomorrow you’ll see the sea.’
Ruby was sure she was expected to be excited by that. But even though she was, she had no intention of showing it.
She said nothing when they went into the house either, even though it was almost as grand as some of the houses in Hampstead.
Wilby told her that she’d had many children staying with her over the years. She said she was getting a bit too old to run around after little ones, so now she only had children over the age of ten.
‘It can be difficult at your age to fit in at a new school,’ she went on to say. ‘So I’m going to teach you myself, at least for the time being. Now let me show you your room.’
The bedroom with two beds and lovely polished furniture was twice the size of the one room Ruby had lived in with her mother in Kentish Town. She so much wanted to sit at the dressing table and admire herself in the triple mirror, but to do so would show some enthusiasm for both Wilby and this house. So she said nothing.
It was the bath that made her say plenty. The only bath she’d ever been in was a small tin one and she’d had to stand up in it to wash. She didn’t use that very often either, because it took at least a shilling in the gas meter to heat the water. Her mother went to the public baths every week, but she had never taken Ruby with her.
But confronted with a huge white bath filled with water, she was really scared, not just of the water but of taking her clothes off in front of Wilby. And it was clear the woman intended to be there, because she said she’d wash her hair for her.
‘I’m not getting in there, you want to drown me,’ she bellowed at Wilby. ‘I’ll be at your bleedin’ mercy in there, and I ain’t the sort to let anyone push me around.’
‘What a very silly thing to say,’ Wilby said with a smile. ‘Why would I want to drown you when I took the trouble to drive up to London to meet you?’
‘I dunno, but it seems like you want me as some kind of skivvy,’ Ruby shot back at her.
‘The police officer who told me about you and suggested I came to the court is a very old friend. Through him I’ve had quite a few children to stay with me, mostly when they’ve been neglected by their parents. I do this because I wasn’t lucky enough to have any children of my own, and it gives me pleasure to see children blossom with good food, fresh air and affection. That’s what I’m offering you, Ruby. I don’t need a skivvy, I’m hoping you and I will be happy together for a very long time. But children who live in my house have to have baths and their hair washed.’
‘I’m not a bleedin’ child. I’m old enough to go to work,’ Ruby retorted.
‘You have been made to think like an adult to get by,’ Wilby said. ‘I don’t think you ever got to have a real childhood, but it’s not too late to do some of the things you missed out on. Let’s start with the bath?’
Ruby felt something kind of ping inside her; it was a realization that this woman was a good one, and living here might not be so bad. Suddenly she was crying like a baby and when Wilby put her arms around her to comfort her, she blurted out that she was afraid to take her clothes off.
‘Well, I’ll turn my back while you take them off,’ Wilby suggested. ‘Not that you’ve got anything I haven’t seen a hundred times before. And I do have to wash your hair. But how about being really brave and peeling off and hopping into the bath? You’ll find it’s lovely.’
Wilby was right, of course, just as she was about everything.
It was lovely for Ruby to soak in warm water, to feel really clean and have her hair washed. Later Wilby gave her a pretty flannel nightdress and some slippers, and let her go back downstairs for her hair to dry by the fire.
‘You’ve got beautiful hair,’ Wilby said, winding a curl around her finger. ‘It’s your crowning glory, so you must take good care of it. In a day or two I’ll take you to a hairdresser who will trim it up into a good shape and make it easier for you to manage.’
When it was time for bed, Ruby went up to her new bedroom and sat at the dressing table. She hardly recognized the girl looking back at her in the mirror, because she was pretty, with pink and white skin, hair the colour of new pennies, shining like Christmas tinsel. It felt so good to be really clean and smelling of lavender soap. She felt that the old Ruby – the dirty, thieving one – had gone down the plughole with the bath water, and this girl here in the mirror was a brand-new Ruby.
She wondered what Verity would make of her new appearance, and if she’d ever get to see her again.
Verity sat on the bed in the tiny box room at Aunt Hazel’s and the tears which had been threatening all day finally fell.
The bed was hard and lumpy, she had nothing but a nail on the back of the door to hang her clothes, there were damp patches on the walls, and the ancient wallpaper was peeling off in places.
All her books, toys and doll collection had been left back in Daleham Gardens. It might be true she was too old for dolls and toys, and she’d read all the books, but without any of the props of her childhood she felt orphaned. Downstairs her mother was bickering with Aunt Hazel, because there was no wardrobe in the spare room to hang up all her clothes.
‘Best thing you can do is sell them,’ Aunt Hazel shouted. She had been grumpy from the moment she saw the cab driver hauling the heavy trunk to the front door. ‘You certainly won’t be going anywhere to wear them now.’
For once Verity felt sympathy for her mother. She might be vain, selfish and empty-headed, but surely her sister could understand that she was distraught at leaving her home? So why cast even more gloom over how her life would be from now on?
But that was Aunt Hazel all over, and Verity knew she was never going to like living under her roof one bit. Everything about 7 Weardale Road shrieked neglect and poverty – from the broken pane of glass in the front door, covered with a piece of board, to the musty smell and the lint-thin carpet runner going up the stairs. The house was probably at its worst today, because it was raining. As they’d got to the front door, water showered over them from a hole in the guttering. Back in Daleham Gardens the front gardens overlooking the street were bright with spring flowers, windows sparkled and brass ornaments on front doors were polished daily. The house there was full of light, it smelled of polish and baking, whereas this house was dark and sullen, and it didn’t even have an indoor lavatory or bathroom.
Saying goodbye to Miss Parsons was awful too. She might have been harsh and cold, but she was a great cook and she’d kept their home beautifully. In the last weeks after Archie Wood had gone, she had unexpectedly proved herself to have a really kind heart too, showing sincere concern for both her mistress and Verity.
‘You’ll have to think for yourself now, Verity, because your mother relies on other people to do things for her,’ she’d said yesterday, just before leaving to take up a position as housekeeper for a priest in Highgate. ‘Work hard at your new school, get your school certificate, then maybe you can have a good career. I know you are a clever, resourceful girl, and you’ll be in my thoughts and prayers.’
Verity hugged her, and for once the hou
sekeeper didn’t stiffen but hugged Verity back. ‘Keep my address by you and write now and then to tell me how you are getting on,’ she murmured into Verity’s hair. ‘Forgive me for not telling you before how much I enjoyed watching you grow up. But I always thought it wasn’t my place to say such things.’
It seemed tragic to Verity that in all the years this woman had run the house for the family, her famously starchy demeanour was what she believed was expected of her. If she had revealed her true nature years ago, maybe life would have been different for all of them.
Almost as soon as Miss Parsons left with her one small suitcase, mother had become hysterical. ‘What am I going to do?’ she wailed. ‘I can’t do this alone.’
Verity had to point out to her that Miss Parsons had already packed for them and had posted a set of keys to the solicitor. She’d cleaned the house from top to bottom and booked the cab to come and get them. There wasn’t anything further for her mother to do.
Yet it was plain to Verity that this was exactly what the housekeeper had meant about her mother expecting someone to do everything for her. And it looked as if that someone would have to be Verity, as Aunt Hazel wasn’t the kind to wait on anyone.
She had been trying to think of the move as an adventure for the last few days. She might, after all, make new and exciting friends; Aunt Hazel might turn out to be a lot nicer than she expected; and her new school might be better than her old one. But however optimistic she tried to be, the only real glimmer of light Verity could see was that the wide-open spaces of Blackheath and Greenwich Park were only a short walk from Weardale Road.
Lewisham did have some fine shops. One was Chiesmans, the department store where she’d once been taken to see Santa Claus. Aunt Hazel worked there, making soft furnishings. But then they wouldn’t have any money to spend in such a smart shop.
Yet however hard Verity tried to think positive thoughts as the taxi crossed the Thames into South London and her mother burst into tears yet again, Verity felt she’d lost everything she held dear.
Sitting dejectedly in the tiny bedroom, her memories of the journey to Aunt Hazel’s house were harshly interrupted.
‘What are you snivelling for?’
Verity looked up at the question. Aunt Hazel was standing in the bedroom doorway, her hands on her hips, and wearing an extremely disdainful expression. Like her younger sister she had sharp features, but Verity doubted she’d ever been pretty like Cynthia. Her eyes were small and a faded blue, and she had many wrinkles around her mouth – probably from constantly pursing her lips in disapproval. Her light brown hair had long since turned iron grey, and she wore it in a tight little bun at the nape of her neck. In a plain navy-blue, long-sleeved dress without a bit of lace, a brooch or a necklace to lift it, she looked closer to sixty than her real age of forty-eight.
‘I just feel sad and lonely,’ Verity said, not knowing any other way to express her feelings.
‘You’ll be off to school next week, so you won’t be lonely for long,’ Hazel said with a sniff. ‘You should be grateful I took you in, heaven only knows where you’d be without me.’
‘We are grateful. You’ve been very kind, offering us a place to stay,’ Verity said. ‘It’s just such a shock to have to leave our home.’
‘I’m glad to see you have good manners,’ Hazel said. ‘Now buck up and come on down and help me get the tea.’
Verity had always known that Aunt Hazel worked in Chiesmans, but her mother obviously thought it was something to be ashamed of because when, over a supper of bread and cheese, Hazel mentioned putting in a good word for her sister with the personnel officer at Chiesmans, Cynthia bristled.
‘Me work in a shop!’ Cynthia exclaimed in absolute horror, as if her sister had suggested sending her down a coal mine.
‘You have to earn a wage,’ Hazel said with a shrug. ‘I can’t afford to keep you for nothing. And Chiesmans is, after all, a prestigious store, the gown department is the finest outside of Regent Street. You are knowledgeable about fashion, so put it to good use.’
‘Would they take me on for a Saturday?’ Verity asked. She was impressed that Hazel made curtains, and for such a smart shop, though she wondered why she hadn’t made any nice ones for her own house.
‘I could ask,’ Hazel said.
‘You plan to make us a family of shop girls?’ her mother asked, eyes wide with horror.
‘Now look here, Cynny,’ Hazel said, using her sister’s pet name for the first time. ‘I know from a young girl you’ve always tried to pretend you came from some grand family, your ideas have always been well above your station. But this is reality now, lodging with your sister in a small terraced house in Lewisham. You have no home of your own, no money, and when Archie is found he’ll be sent to prison. And you have a child to support. You cannot afford to be a snob any more.’
Cynthia’s reply to this was a strangled sob. Hazel looked warningly at Verity, as if daring her to defend her mother.
But Verity had no intention of doing so; she knew Aunt Hazel was right.
CHAPTER SIX
School was as bad as Verity had feared. It was in Leahurst Road, just a short walk from Aunt Hazel’s, past Hither Green Station. Leahurst was a long, bleak road with no trees to soften the terraced houses.
Lee Manor School was right at the end of the road, consisting of three buildings originally designed for junior boys in one, girls in another and the third building for girls aged eleven to fourteen. But the boys’ building was now mixed juniors, and the girls’ building housed the infants.
Miss Ranger was Verity’s teacher. She made Verity stand in front of the class and tell the rest of the girls about herself.
Verity said very little, just her name, age and that she used to live in Hampstead but now she and her mother had come to live with her aunt in Weardale Road.
There were around sixteen girls in the class and Verity sensed by their closed expressions that they had taken against her on sight. At the first morning break, when they went out into the playground, a tall dark-haired girl who she was later to learn was Madeline Grant came up to her with a sneer on her face. ‘Speaking posh won’t cut no ice with us,’ she said. ‘And where’s yer dad? Is he dead or has he run out on you?’
Verity didn’t know how to answer. It was tempting to say he was dead, but she was afraid this girl might already know the truth about him, and even if she didn’t she was likely to find out before long.
‘He ran out on us,’ she said, which was essentially true. ‘But I’m hoping both Mother and I will make new friends here.’
‘Oh, do you, now?’ Madeline sneered. ‘I suppose you think smart clothes and a posh voice opens doors everywhere?’
‘Not at all,’ Verity replied. ‘I just hope that people will be willing to get to know me and like me, whatever I look and sound like.’
They had an audience now, and a quick glance around made Verity feel as if she was being circled by a pack of wolves. There were mean girls at her last school who treated new girls this way, but she hadn’t really expected it to happen here. But worse still, she had no idea how to deal with it.
‘You cocky cow,’ Madeline exclaimed. ‘You think you’re “it”, don’t you?’
‘I’m sorry if I have offended you in some way, it certainly wasn’t intentional.’
A teacher rang a bell to go in then, but Verity knew it wasn’t going to blow over. She was dreading dinner time, as no doubt it would start again.
It did start again at dinner time, with prods in the ribs, nasty remarks flung at her, and one girl even tried to trip her up as they were filing back into school. But it didn’t stop with that day.
Every day there was something more, and she rarely ever knew who was responsible. She found her coat sleeves tied in a knot, her coat pockets filled with rice, a mouldy sandwich in her desk, ink poured over her essay book. And when she went to put on her apron for Domestic Science, she found it was sopping wet. Then there were all the taunts and
name calling – not just from Madeline, but other girls too.
Verity just took it, day after day, assuming that if she didn’t react they would get bored and stop it. But she dreaded going to school, and feared break times even more. She had nightmares in which the girls were encircling her with knives in their hands, their eyes blazing with a terrifying light.
It didn’t help that when she got home, her mother would launch into her grievance for that day: that the cat from next door was doing his business in their garden, that the bread was stale, that she couldn’t possibly go to the public baths for a bath. And how did Hazel expect her to wash her clothes when all the water had to be heated? She never attempted to get the evening meal ready, even though Hazel wrote down each morning what they were having. So Verity had to do it, while her mother carried on with her catalogue of woes. Cleaning, washing up, it was all left for Verity or Hazel, her mother didn’t even make her own bed.
Two, then three weeks passed, the weather was getting warmer all the time and the days longer, but this brought new grouses for her mother: that the milk had turned sour on the doorstep, that there were flies in the kitchen, that the windows didn’t open and the River Quaggy, which ran nearby, smelled horrible.
But if Verity’s home life was miserable, school was even worse.
Day after day the other girls found new ways to torment her, tripping her up in netball, hiding her gym shoes, pulling a few pages out of her English or Maths book. And once, while in the lavatory out in the playground, someone got into the next cubicle, reached over the dividing wall and pulled the chain, and the vigorous flush soaked her underclothes and her gymslip.
On the Friday afternoon, at the end of her third week at Lee Manor, Verity leapt to her feet the moment the home-time bell went, glad she’d have respite over the weekend from a stuffy classroom, bullying and insults.
Stopping only to grab her blazer from her peg, she was just leaving the cloakroom when she felt something wet on her back. Assuming it was merely water, she ignored it. But as she went to put her blazer on, she flicked her plaits forward over her shoulder and found they’d been dipped in ink.
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