Angel Meadow

by Audrey Howard

  ANGEL MEADOW

  She saw a man, hard, tall, lean, arrogant as men of consequence often are, dressed in the manner of a young gentleman of business . . .

  He was perhaps half a head taller than she was and in the tick of a second on the gold watch he wore across his waistcoat, less than a second, as their eyes met there was a flare of recognition, not from a previous meeting but of something in them both.

  So here you are, his eyes spoke to hers. I knew you would come one day, and here you are. Yes, I’m here, the answer followed, then the strange moment was over, forgotten as though it had never been and they were just one furious combatant facing another.

  ANGEL MEADOW

  Audrey Howard

  www.hodder.co.uk

  Copyright ©1999 by Audrey Howard

  The right of Audrey Howard to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright,Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in Great Britain in 1999 by Hodder and Stoughton

  An Hachette Livre UK Company

  All rights reserved.No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  Epub ISBN 978 1 84894 888 4Book ISBN 978 0 34071 810 0

  Hodder & Stoughton LtdAn Hachette Livre UK Company

  338 Euston Road

  London NWl 3BH

  www.hodder.co.uk

  CONTENTS

  Angel Meadow

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  About the Author

  Also by Audrey Howard

  There is no town in the world where the distance between the rich and the poor is so great or the barrier between them so difficult to be crossed.

  Rev Richard Parkinson, 1841,

  speaking of Manchester

  1

  The three little girls crouched in the shadows at the top of the narrow stairs, watching impassively as the brawny man their mother had brought home pulled down his trousers and climbed on top of her. His white buttocks turned to rippling amber in the light from the good fire that he had heaped up carelessly with coal, since he was unconcerned with anyone’s circumstances but his own, before setting about the woman beneath him. Their mother had made no objection to his lavish use of what had taken her so long to earn, obligingly lying down on the rotting wooden floor before the hearth, pulling up her skirt and opening her legs.

  For a moment or two he jerked convulsively then, with an exclamation of annoyance, he rose to his knees, looking about him at the bare and comfortless room.

  “Ain’t yer got somewhere more comfortable than this, missis?” he asked her. “This floor’s playin’ bloody ’ell wi’ me knees. What’s upstairs? Ain’t yer got no bed?”

  He stared up into the darkness of the staircase and the three children shrank back, for some of the men their mother brought home, on seeing them, had lost interest in Mam, stating a preference for a bit of young flesh and, on one occasion, at their mother’s shriek, they had been forced to flee, eluding the man’s grasp by the skin of their teeth as they raced along Church Court and round the corner into Style Street. With their hearts banging in their chests, for they knew exactly what the man had in mind for them, which was what was done to their mother, they had reached the safety of St Michael’s Church where they had hidden for an hour before creeping back to Church Court. Both the man and their mother had gone by then, probably back to the beer house on the corner, the man, it seemed, having made do with Mam since he had no other choice. Mam sported a black eye, a split lip and a swollen cheek when she returned, but she had the few bob she had earned and the girls ate well for the rest of the week.

  Mam heaved and wriggled under the man in an effort to please and his attention was caught once more. “It’s warmer ’ere, chuck,” she told him, making a show of great affection, throwing her arms about his neck and drawing him closer to her, at the same time obscenely heaving up her hips and grinding them against his. “An’ we don’t need a bed. See, look what I got fer yer. A lovely little ’ole fer that big cock o’ yours. That’s right, in yer go . . . Eeh, lovely. In’t that lovely?”

  The man appeared to agree that indeed that was lovely, for he heaved and grunted for the best part of five minutes before collapsing in a groaning heap on top of their mam. Mam groaned and heaved along with him, though her daughters could see her eyes gleaming in the firelight as they sent their message of comfort and reassurance to them over the man’s shoulder. Whatever she might be their mam always did her best to protect them. She never brought her customers upstairs where, before she had learned better, she had been forced to defend them physically, earning, instead of the few pence she charged for her services, a face that for many days looked like a rainbow pattern of blues and purples and blacks, gradually fading away to green and yellow. Not that it interrupted her trade, for the men she picked up in the streets, the gin-shops and beer houses of Angel Meadow were not concerned with that part of her anatomy! There were men, and there were bad men, she had warned them: men who were content with the bit of comfort and pleasure she could give them; and then there were the others who had funny ways which included a fancy for children. Those sort must be avoided at all costs, though her daughters often wondered how you could tell one from the other until it was too late.

  The little girls, huddling together for warmth, waiting for their turn by the fire, were exceedingly thin and indescribably dirty. Their hair was a thick, matted mass of tight curls which, it seemed, had never known the services of a brush; rich brown streaked with a paler brown, and alive with lice which hopped merrily from one strand of hair to another, even from one head to another. Their hands and faces, their necks, their ankles and feet, which were all that could be seen beneath their thin cotton shifts, were a uniform grey, with a thick film of black on the soles of their feet and between each toe. In their ears and the soft, childish creases of their necks was a layer of dirt that had seemingly not been disturbed since the day they were born. In addition to what appeared to be a permanent layer of general filth their fine skin was blotched here and there with what looked like mud.

  Downstairs there was a stirring of movement as Mam and her customer groped for their clothing and began to pull themselves together after the enjoyment of their exertions. Mam sat up and fiddled with her tangled hair, giving an arch smile to the man, who did not return it.

  “Owt ter drink in this ’ere place?” he asked, throwing himself down into the one chair the room sported, an ancient armchair from which the s
tuffing leaked and the springs poked. It creaked with his weight, then moaned most piteously as their mam tried to sit on his knee, since she believed in giving value for money and some men liked a bit of a cuddle afterwards.

  “Gerrof, yer daft bitch,” he roared, finding her attentions offensive now that his appetites had been satisfied. “D’yer want ter rupture me? Big fat cow like you. Any road, did yer ’ear what I said? Got any gin ’andy? I’ll pay yer for it,” he added and as Mam turned obligingly to the cupboard the child on the stairs saw the crafty look on the man’s face and wanted to cry out to her mother to take care.

  The bottle of gin her mother kept for “emergencies”, which could mean anything from the fire going out, the loss of a farthing, or just a cold wet day, all of which depressed her, was produced from its place in the sagging cupboard and within five minutes it was empty, the man taking the last swig. Mam sat on the low stool, her shapeless body slumped over her knees in tiredness, staring vacantly into the fire, and when the man stood up abruptly she jumped, almost falling off the stool.

  “Well, I’m off,” he said heartily, reaching for his cap which he had thrown carelessly on to the dilapidated table when he entered the house.

  “Right, chuck,” Mam said, her eagerness to be rid of him and huddled up with her daughters on the palliasse upstairs so apparent her daughter wanted to shout to her to be careful. This chap looked as though he might be an awkward bugger and if he was and decided to give her mam a good hiding, which some of her customers did, there was nothing anyone could do about it. Her mam’s trade was frowned upon, even by the hopelessly poor women who lived in Angel Meadow and she’d get no sympathy nor assistance from them next door nor indeed anyone, even if she screamed the place down. There was always someone screaming or giving what for to somebody else in Angel Meadow and no one took much notice. Not even the police constables from the station on St George’s Road.

  The man was at the door before Mam knew what he was up to.

  “’Ere, don’t forget me money, lad,” she smirked, straightening up from the stool and putting out her hand to steady herself against the chimney breast. She had had a few at the beer house round the corner in Angel Street beside the bottle of gin she had just shared with her customer – whom she had never seen before and whose name she did not know – and was a bit inclined to wobble about, but she recognised a bilker when she saw one. He was trying to edge out of the door without paying her and her with three children to support. There wasn’t a farthing in the house, her last “wages” having gone in the purchase of the bottle of gin, and unless she could get a few bob from somewhere, from this bloke, in fact, who owed her, the kids would have nothing to eat tomorrow.

  “What money?”

  Mam’s jaw dropped, for though she had been cheated before she had not expected it of this one. Big, rough, his face mottled with drink, he had seemed good-natured enough when she had picked him up in the beer house. He’d treated her to a gin before accepting her offer of a “good time” and had even held her arm as though she were a lady on the short walk home from the beer house.

  “Yer know what money, lad. The money what yer owe me. A bob, I said, an’ yer agreed so I want what’s comin’ ter me or I’ll run ter’t police station on St George’s Road an’ fetch a copper.”

  “Yer’ll get what’s comin’ ter yer, yer soft bitch, an’ it won’t be no bob. An’ don’t you threaten me wi’t coppers, neither. I’m a respectable bloke, I am, an’ don’t need ter pay fer the likes o’ you. Now get out o’ me way or I’ll land yer one.”

  “A respectable bloke!” Mam shrieked. “Then what the bloody ’ell are yer doin’ round ’ere? Now, give me me money or I’ll scream soddin’ place down.”

  “Scream then, yer daft cow. ’Oo the ’ell’s going ter take any notice of a whore like you? Now, are yer goin’ ter get out o’ me way or am I gonner make yer?”

  Mam stood before the door that led into the street, her arms outstretched dramatically across the frame. Her hair, so like her daughters’, and the only pretty thing left of which thirty-one-year-old Kitty Brody could be proud, sprang about her head in a tangle of curls, lively with vermin but snapping with life and colour. True, it was filthy but its former glory was still evident. She was shapeless now after bearing fourteen children in as many years, her breasts barely discernible in the midst of her sagging flesh, her waist non-existent. She was bloated, which was extraordinary really, for she was half starved. After her girls were fed she spent every spare penny on gin, the only bit of comfort she was blessed with in her miserable existence. She was a familiar figure in Angel Meadow but the constable looked the other way, for she was harmless and when all was said and done she had to feed her children somehow. Most mothers sent their children to the cotton mills, of which there were hundreds in Manchester, the moment they were big enough to be taken on, but not Kitty. She had a strain of decency in her that had not been eroded by the life she had led nor the poverty and deprivation she had suffered. The loss of eleven children, each of which had devastated her at the time, though she had not wanted any of them, had slowly sucked the life out of her. She had no idea where the fathers of any of them were, nor did she care. Paddy Brody had buggered off at the birth of the eighth and the reason these three had survived was due only to the fact that for the first formative years of their lives she had taken in a lodger, a nice chap in decent work and kind to her in bed and who had given some stability to their lives. When he died in an accident in the mill it had left an enormous gap in her life but at least she had her three girls who, because of him, were made of stronger stuff than the rest. But she could not get work. She was turned away from every factory and workshop she applied to in Angel Meadow because of her growing addiction to gin, which made her unreliable, dangerous even when you considered the menace of the machines she would be in charge of and so she had taken to the only profession a woman like her could, that of prostitution, and they had survived.

  The man lifted his arm and gave her a savage backhander across her face and she screamed in agony as the force of it flung her head sideways, crashing her cheek against the wood. Still her hands clung to the door frame and with an oath he prised them loose, flinging her across the room until she finished up at the bottom of the stairs. Her eyes squinted dazedly up at her children, one already beginning to close and, as though their childish frightened faces, their reliance on her to put a bit of food into their mouths had stiffened her spine, she sprang up, mouthing a few obscenities of her own.

  “Mam . . .” the eldest girl whispered imploringly, beginning to inch her way down the stairs on her thin buttocks, her sisters behind her, wanting to tell her mother to leave it but she had an Irish temper on her, did Kitty Brody, and no bugger was going to gyp her out of what was owed her.

  The “bugger” was out of the door by now, turning for a moment to grin in triumph at Kitty, then he was off down the street in the direction of Style Street, Ashley Road and the bridge that crossed the River Irk.

  “Come ’ere, yer bastard,” Kitty shrieked, her hair standing like a dandelion clock about her furiously red face. “Yer owe me a shillin’ an’ if I ’ave ter chase yer ter whatever ’ole yer crawled out of, I’m havin’ it. I don’t work fer nowt, yer know. I’ve bairns ter feed an’ me rent ter pay just like all’t rest in’t street.”

  “Oh, sod off, yer old tart,” he shouted at her over his shoulder as he disappeared round the corner.

  She began to run after him. Her legs pumped and her arms flailed, her hands forming fists as though, the minute she had hold of him, she would knock him senseless, but it was a long time since Kitty Brody had run anywhere and he was getting away from her. He was younger than she was and when she reached the corner he was just turning into Angel Street, the sound of his great enjoyment at having cheated her floating back between the narrow row of mean houses.

  Breathing raggedly, she continued to follow him.

  The three little girls stood on the doorstep in the
ir thin shifts, watching as their mother tore round the corner into Style Street, even then not moving as she vanished from their sight. For several more minutes they remained there, expecting to see her come grumbling back round the corner, swearing she’d get her money before next time, telling them not to worry, she’d think of something, wondering if Nancy, her eldest, were to slip up to Ma Siddons at the gin-shop Ma’d give her a jug of gin on tick. She’d need it to settle her nerves, they all three knew that, for it didn’t take much to unsettle them, and this encounter with the brawny man which had robbed her of a whole shilling she would look on as a disaster. What were they to eat tomorrow? she’d beg them to tell her and they would reassure her, as they had done a hundred times before, that something would turn up. She’d drink her gin – if she could get some – then fall into a drunken stupor, four of them in the bed which, now that the man had gone, they would drag downstairs in front of the fire. It was November and cold and the upstairs room, unlike downstairs, had no heating so during the winter they didn’t use it. Except to hide in when Mam brought a man home! As soon as they heard a man’s voice at the door mingling with their Mam’s, they were up the stairs like three little rabbits at the sight of the fox.

  “Well, I dunno where she’s got to,” Nancy said at last, not unduly worried, for her mother was known to be unpredictable. “’Appen she’s found another customer.” She was nine years old but already wise in the ways of the world: at least her world which was encompassed in the square mile of Angel Meadow.

  “She’ll bring ’im back ’ere, then,” Mary, the second eldest said practically. “We’d best not bring bed down just yet. Let’s sit by’t fire, then if she fetches someone we can run upstairs.”

  “Aye, ’appen yer right. She’ll not be long. See, Mary, put kettle on’t coals an’ when she comes in we’ll all ’ave a cup o’ tea.”

  The kettle was filled with an old tin cup kept for the purpose from the bucket which Nancy had filled at the communal tap at the corner of Church Court earlier in the day and with a sigh of pure enjoyment, for it was not often they had a fire of such decent proportions, the three children crouched over it. Nancy took Rose, still called the baby though she was seven years old, on her knee while Mary squatted on the stool recently vacated by her mother.