She chuckled, and another of the women chimed in, ‘I got a nice lot of herrings a couple of nights back, Flo. Nowt like a bit of roe on toast in the mornin’ to keep you goin’ all day, an’ we had the herrings soused in vinegar an’ some pickling spice our Rory come by. Handsome they were.’
‘Your Rory oughta be careful, lass. He’ll be sent along the line if he’s caught, or to the House of Correction leastways.’
‘He won’t get caught, not our Rory. Cunnin’ as a cartload of monkeys, he is, an’ twice as nimble.’
‘Aye, so was Sarah’s lad – Larry, wasn’t it? – but he got nabbed.’
‘But he was a pickpocket, Flo. You can’t compare my Rory with him.’ The woman sounded affronted. ‘My Rory don’t go in for the thievin’ proper.’
The conversation continued in the same vein as the queue shortened, and after a few minutes Lucy had a clear view of the fishmonger. He was a big man, not so much in height as in breadth. His head seemed to flow into his broad shoulders and his chest was massive, straining against the shirt and heavily stained apron covering it. The rolled-up sleeves of his shirt showed hairy, muscled arms and his hands were hairy too, and large. Very large. His hair was short and his face ruddy, and as he served his customers he kept up a flow of banter, which didn’t detract from the speed with which each woman was sent on her way clutching her purchases and, in the main, smiling.
The closer she got to the counter, the more Lucy wanted to turn on her heels and run. Something about the fishmonger repulsed her and caused a trembling inside, although she didn’t know what it was.
And then she was in front of him and a pair of mild blue eyes held hers. ‘Aye, lass?’ he said a tinge impatiently, when she didn’t speak. ‘What can I get you?’
Lucy opened her mouth, but no words came out. His shirt collar was undone and a tuft of thick curly hair showed; she had never seen such a hairy man before or such a threateningly male one. He terrified her. She took a step backwards and trod on the toe of the woman behind her, who swore loudly and pushed her in the back, propelling her forward again. Somehow, through her embarrassment and panic, she heard herself say, ‘Maggie sent me, Mr Alridge. She – she said you were looking for someone to help out.’
The woman behind her made a ribald comment, which caused the others to titter. Not so Percival Alridge. He watched the young lass in front of him colour to the roots of her hair, a fact that, if Lucy had but known, amazed him. In this part of the East End the fairer sex didn’t blush; most of the young lassies and women round about had tongues on them that would put a sailor to shame.
Wondering how on earth Maggie had come across such an innocent – and a bonny one at that, he added to himself – he cast a warning glance at the woman behind Lucy before saying quietly, ‘A lad, lass. It’s a lad I’m after. This is a fishmonger’s and it’s hard work at the best of times.’
His manner had assuaged the blind fear to some extent, and paramount now was the knowledge that if she didn’t get this job they were done for. ‘I’m used to hard work. I can do anything a lad can do,’ she said quickly.
‘Aye, an’ more besides,’ the woman behind her quipped, causing another ripple of laughter in the shop.
Keeping his amusement from showing, Perce began, ‘I’m sorry, lass, but—’
‘Please.’ Throwing pride and caution to the wind, Lucy stepped right up to the counter. ‘Please, Mr Alridge, I need this job. I’ll work harder than any lad, I promise, and I’m stronger than I look. I’ve tried everywhere—’ Her voice caught in her throat and, willing herself not to cry, she said weakly, ‘Please let me prove it to you.’
‘Oh, give the lass a chance,’ the woman behind her said now. ‘She can’t be worse than Norman. You said yourself he was a lazy little blighter, Perce.’
‘Aye, an’ light-fingered into the bargain,’ another woman piped up. ‘He was lucky to get away with the good hiding you gave him, Perce. Many a man would have called the law, an’ rightly so. But this lass has got an honest face. You are honest, aren’t you, hinny?’ she called to Lucy. ‘Course you are.’
Lucy nodded, her eyes on the fishmonger, who was scowling at the customers.
‘Let me mind me own business and you mind yours,’ he growled to the shop in general. ‘All right? An’ you, lass’ – his gaze fastened on Lucy for a moment – ‘you wait at the back till I’m finished and we’ll see, but I’m not promising anything, mind.’
Lucy nodded again. She couldn’t have spoken through the surge of hope which had risen up in a big lump in her throat.
It took half an hour for the customers to dwindle, but at eight o’clock Perce called out that he was closing to any more who tried to enter, and served the last few. After washing his hands in a bowl of water behind the counter he came round the other side and shut and bolted the door. It was then that he glanced at Lucy, who was standing where he’d told her to. ‘You’d better come up for a minute so’s we can talk proper,’ he said gruffly.
‘Thank you.’ Conscious of four distinctly alarmed faces outside the window, Lucy summoned up her courage. She’d nipped out earlier and told them what was happening, but the bolting of the door had clearly unnerved them. ‘Could my brother and sisters wait inside, Mr Alridge? They won’t touch anything.’
Perce followed her gaze to where the four children were: the twins sitting on the trunk and Ruby and John standing behind them. All four looked wet and cold, and Flora and Bess were crying.
‘They’re yours?’ His voice was high with astonishment. ‘I thought they were waitin’ for someone.’
‘They are. Me.’
‘Why did you bring them with you if you’re looking for work?’
It was the question she’d dreaded while she had been standing at the back of the shop. ‘I had to. There’s nowhere else for them,’ she said flatly.
‘Couldn’t you have left ’em at home with your mam an’ da?’
She stared at him and after a moment he said, ‘So that’s why you’re cartin’ that damn great trunk about?’ He swore softly. ‘I’ll let ’em in, and you can all come up an’ have a warm while you tell me what’s what. And the truth, mind. I might not be the sharpest card in the pack, but I know when I’m being lied to.’
‘I don’t lie, Mr Alridge.’
‘Is that so?’ He looked down into the great deep-blue eyes. ‘Then you’re the first of your sex I’ve come across who don’t, and that includes me dear old mam, God rest her soul.’
They followed the fishmonger across the shop into the rear of the premises where the smell of fish was even stronger, and then up a flight of narrow stairs to a small landing. He unlocked what looked like a front door and, as he opened it, a small child flung himself at the fishmonger’s legs, crying, ‘Da, Da, Charley’s wet himself again an’ he wouldn’t let me change him, an’ he’s gone to sleep on the mat.’
‘All right, all right.’ He scooped the child into his arms, turning to Lucy and saying, ‘This is me eldest, Matthew. Say hello to the visitors, Matthew,’ as he ushered them all past him into a large sitting room-cum-kitchen.
Lucy blinked as the smell – a combination of stale urine and fish and other things besides – met her nostrils, but as she glanced around she could imagine that in former days, when the fishmonger’s wife was alive, it had been a bonny home.
A suite of patterned plush stood angled round the small fireplace, which had no fire burning in the grate, and a beautiful leaf-carved mahogany bracket clock ticked the minutes by on the mantelpiece, with a large number of brass ornaments keeping it company. It looked as though every item of furniture had been chosen with care, from the mirror-back sideboard with a central bow-fronted cupboard to a pair of bun-feet display tables on either side of the window, which had dead-looking aspidistras on them. One wall had a number of plaques of different designs and shapes covering it – a large central plaque decorated with the Virgin Mary and Child between winged putti within a garland of lemons and vines taking pride of pl
ace. Against another wall a large display cabinet held pretty porcelain figurines. This, along with everything else, was covered in a thick layer of dust, and the floor was strewn with toys and clothes and bits of food and other debris.
The kitchen area was even more grubby. A large leather-topped table was covered with the remains of many meals, as were two smaller tables, and an enormous dresser was almost devoid of its crockery and kitchenware, which was scattered in piles on any available surface. A black-leaded range took up most of the far wall and in front of this, on a thick clippy mat, a small child lay curled up sleeping.
The fishmonger must have noticed Lucy’s expression because his voice was defensive when he said, ‘It’s a bit of a mess. I’ve got me work cut out in the shop. It was the wife who used to take care of things up here an’ see to the bairns. I pay a neighbour to bring in one hot meal a day for us an’ see to the weekly wash, but the rest of it . . .’ He waved a beefy hand at the chaos.
‘Who looks after your little lads?’ Lucy asked quietly.
The fishmonger ruffled the hair of the child nestled in his arms. ‘Matthew’s a big boy, aren’t you?’ he said to his son, who didn’t look a day over five. ‘He looks after the little ’un an’ I pop upstairs when I can. I need to keep me business going or we’re all in queer street,’ he added when Lucy continued to stare at him.
She nodded quickly, hoping she hadn’t offended him. ‘Of course. How old are the bairns?’
‘I’m nearly five an’ he’s three,’ said Matthew from his perch, pointing at his brother. ‘Charley was dry in the day afore Mam went to heaven, but he wets himself all the time now. He makes himself sick an’ screams a lot an’ all, an’ yesterday he bit me. Look.’ He held out a skinny arm and Lucy saw where a set of small teeth had punctured and bruised the skin.
Lucy looked from the child to his father, who stared at her helplessly. She was very aware of Ruby and John and the twins huddled together just inside the doorway, but she didn’t glance their way. This was what her mam had meant; this was why she’d heard her voice this morning. She had to grab this opportunity with both hands or . . . She couldn’t follow through on the ‘or’. This had to work. Quietly, keeping the excitement from showing, she said, ‘It strikes me you need someone up here more than in the shop, but if you took us on, we could all help out. I could see to things up here an’ look after the bairns when you weren’t too busy below, an’ once my sister and brother are back from school they could work in the shop till it closes. Those women said you’re busier in the evenings than at any other time, is that right? The twins could play with Charley and keep him happy – they like little ones – and be friends for Matthew too.’
‘Take you on?’ There was utter bewilderment in his tone. ‘The five of you? Here? Livin’ here, you mean? Are you barmy, lass?’
‘We’d work for our bed and board, you wouldn’t have to pay us anything, and you’d save paying out to the neighbour and the wage for someone in the shop. I could get things nice in here and your bairns would be well looked after, I promise. It – it’d be a home again for you an’ them.’ In spite of herself she couldn’t stop the pleading note from sounding in her voice. ‘And for us,’ she finished weakly.
Ruby and the others had the sense to keep absolutely quiet. It was the little boy, Matthew, who spoke, twisting round in his father’s arms to put his small hands either side of the florid face as he whispered, ‘I don’t want to look after Charley all the time an’ be locked in, Da. Can they come? Please?’
Percival Alridge was not a man who was easily nonplussed, but, as he put it to himself, right at this moment he didn’t know which end of him was up. People would think he’d gone stark staring mad if he took five more bairns on – and right at this moment Lucy appeared little more than a bairn to him – but there was a grain of sense, more than a grain, in what the lass had said. But five of them . . . Brusquely he said, ‘How old are you, lass? An’ the truth, mind.’
‘Fifteen. And Ruby there is eleven, John’s eight, coming up for nine, and the twins have just turned five. Ruby is big for her age and John’s as strong as a horse. We’re good workers, Mr Alridge, and—’
‘Enough.’ He raised a hand, palm upwards to her. ‘Let me think.’ A gust of rain hammered at the window, waking the little boy on the mat, who rolled over, crying even before he opened his eyes as he whimpered, ‘Mammy, Mammy.’
Whether it was this that decided in her favour Lucy would never know, but as he gazed at his son, Perce muttered, ‘I must want me head testing for even considerin’ such a daft notion.’ Then he turned to her. ‘Look, lass, the lot of you can stay the night and I’ll listen to your story. I’m not saying more than that. Now there’s a pot roast in the oven, but Mrs Mallard’s only made enough for me an’ the lads, so I’ll go down an’ sort out some cod and haddock for you to do for your lot, all right? I dare say you’re peckish.’
‘Thank you, oh, thank you.’ Telling herself she mustn’t cry, Lucy tried desperately to keep her eyes from filling up.
‘Aye, well. . .’ The fishmonger cleared his throat twice. ‘Like I said, I’ll hear your story once the bairns are settled.’ Even as he spoke, Perce knew he’d lost the battle. It wasn’t so much the pickle he was in since Ada had died, or even the fact that he couldn’t deny Charley was going from bad to worse and Matthew’s little shoulders couldn’t continue to carry the load. It was the look in the young lass’s eyes when she’d thanked him.
The flat had three bedrooms, but the third was still kitted out as Ada’s sewing and ironing room. After they had eaten their fill and John had been bedded down with the brothers in their double bed, and Ruby and the twins on a big eiderdown on the floor of the sewing room with a heap of blankets over them, Lucy and Perce had their chat. Lucy said nothing about Jacob, or Tom Crawford forcing himself upon her. She found she couldn’t even bring herself to mention his name when she spoke of the man who had been instrumental in causing the deaths of her father and brother, and Donald to leave Sunderland.
Contrary to his nature, Perce listened without asking any questions or interrupting the flow. He was aware this child-woman was nervous – even frightened – of him. She had recoiled when their hands had touched accidently as she’d handed him a cup of tea and she was as tense as a coiled spring as she spoke. It made him wonder if there was more to her story than she was telling him. Was she in trouble with the law? Was that the real reason for the moonlight flit?
He immediately dismissed the idea. Lucy was honest. He’d bet his life on it. And after all she’d gone through she was bound to be worked up. One thing was for sure: if she and her brood were prepared to work for their bed and board, he couldn’t lose on the deal. He was paying through the nose for what Mrs Mallard did and she wasn’t even much of a cook, and if he didn’t have to fork out for another lad to help in the shop, he’d be quids in. More than that, he was sick of living in a pigsty and it’d be a weight off his mind to have Charley and Matthew looked after. Ada would turn in her grave if she could see her home the way it was. She’d been houseproud to a fault, had Ada.
Lucy had finished her story and was sitting quietly with her hands in her lap, her great eyes fixed on his face as he came out of his reverie.
He looked at her for a moment without speaking. He’d never seen peepers like hers, he thought. She was a bonny lass altogether. Give it a year or two and she’d grow into a beautiful woman, one who’d turn heads wherever she went. There was a sweetness to her face that got you somehow.
Running a hand through his bristly hair, he leaned forward slightly and again noticed the almost imperceptible movement of her body away from him. Always one for calling a spade a spade, he said quietly, ‘Do I frighten you, lass?’
Lucy blinked, the colour suffusing her face almost scarlet. She wanted to deny it; he’d hardly take them on if she admitted the truth, but the words wouldn’t come.
He nodded slowly as if she had affirmed it. ‘Look, lass, I might be a bit rough
an’ ready, but you’ve nothing to fear from me, all right? It’s me way to be a bit bumptious and mouthy. Well, you saw me in the shop, didn’t you, and the customers like it, that’s the thing. But I wouldn’t harm a hair on your head. Nor the little ’uns.’
Lucy nodded, her throat full. He was a nice man, she could see that, and it wasn’t his fault he was so big and hairy and sweaty. Swallowing hard, she said shakily, ‘I know. Really, I know.’
He nodded again. ‘So, the way I see it, you’re in a pickle and I’m in a bit of a one meself. My Ada was a good wife an’ mother, an’ the bairns miss her, especially Charley. I was thinkin’ I might have to get someone in to mind ’em and to see to the house full-time, a housekeeper you might say, but to tell you the truth I couldn’t afford what they’d ask, not with paying a lad down in the shop an’ all. If you an’ the others are prepared to work for your keep – not the two little ’uns of course, I don’t mean them – I think we might have got ourselves a satisfactory arrangement all round. Your brother an’ sister can help me downstairs once they’re back from school of an evenin’, an’ in the mornin’ for a couple of hours afore they go, an’ if I need you during the day I can shout up and you can come down for a bit. That shouldn’t happen too often, but you can never tell what a day’ll bring.’
He stopped, clearing his throat – something Lucy was to learn was a habit when he was embarrassed or out of his depth – before he said, ‘There, there, lass, don’t take on, there’s nowt to cry about.’
‘You – you’re so kind.’ The tears streaming down her face, Lucy tried to pull herself together.
‘Aye, well, I don’t know about that, you’ll have your hands full an’ no mistake.’ He smiled at her, revealing surprisingly white, even teeth. ‘We’ll see about a couple of beds for you an’ your sisters, an’ you can organize that room how you want it. You’ll find a stack of material in there. Ada was always buying bits that caught her eye and makin’ something or other. I dare say you can use a sewing machine?’ – Lucy couldn’t, but she nodded anyway, telling herself she would soon learn – ‘so you can run a few things up for yourself and the bairns when you’ve time.’
Dancing in the Moonlight Page 13