CONTENTS
Sixpenny Girl
Copyright
Dedication
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
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
About the Author
Also by Meg Hutchinson
SIXPENNY GIRL
Meg Hutchinson
www.hodder.co.uk
Copyright © 2003 Meg Hutchinson
First published in Great Britain in 2003 by Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette Livre UK Company
The right of Meg Hutchinson to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with The Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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 896 9
Book ISBN 978 0 340 82483 2
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
An Hachette Livre UK Company
338 Euston Road
London NWl 3BH
www.hodder.co.uk
‘Nail making is one of the worst trades in the kingdom. There are scores of men in this parish who are not earning nine shillings a week for seventy, eighty, or ninety hours work and out of these earnings are made to pay from one shilling to eighteen pence a week for firing, and about sixpence a week for keeping their tools in order.’ Robert Sherard, 1896
To the memory of those men, and so many like them, who worked their lives away in coal mines and iron foundries, I dedicate this book.
Meg Hutchinson
With thanks to the Walsall Local History Centre whose help and research supported an ‘old tale’ often told by my grandmother.
In November 1837, the Wolverhampton Chronicle reported what is thought to be the last documented case of wife-selling in England. A man travelling from Burntwood led his wife, a halter tied about her waist, into the market place at Walsall. There she was sold to a man, also of Burntwood, for the sum of half a crown.
Walsall Local History Centre
1
‘Shut yer mouth, you mewlin’ bitch!’
Enoch Jacobs snatched the broad leather belt from around his waist, cracking it several times and savouring the sound.
‘You don’t ask no question o’ Enoch Jacobs.’ The belt whistled on the air before slicing across the shoulders of the slight figure crouched on the ground. ‘You don’t ask no question . . .’ the belt rose and fell, ‘no question . . . no . . .’
Breathless with the effort, Enoch Jacobs’s heavy-set figure slumped back against a tree, sliding downward as his legs folded.
Curling her body tightly against the savage fury of the man, her arms thrown protectively about her head, Saran Chandler waited for the next slash of the belt, the next of the stinging blows that followed through her every day.
Where had the money come from? How had he paid for the ale that had him roaring drunk? She had not dared ask those questions . . . not this time!
Folded in on herself she held back the tears, her teeth clenched against the smarting pain burning across her back and shoulders, breath held against the next onslaught. But the whine of leather slicing the air had stopped . . . the next blow had not come. As the realisation seeped into her brain she waited a moment then slowly raised her head. Sagged against the tree, his heavy-jowled face flushed, the belt fallen from thick fingers, Enoch Jacobs snored loudly.
If only she could run away now, leave and never have to look upon his face again; but while Enoch Jacobs took care always to find a tavern to satisfy his thirst, he was just as careful to make sure that what he saw as his property remained that way.
Easing her cramped legs, Saran felt the rope bite against her neck. Yoked like an animal, the slightest movement had the knot slip a little tighter against her throat.
Where had the money come from? Leaning her head against the trunk of the tree Saran thought of that day a week ago when she had dared ask that question. He had been an hour in the alehouse, an hour drinking away the last farthing they had, a farthing that could have paid for a loaf of week-old bread, bread that would have fed her mother and her sister. Then he had come outside. The ale already telling on him he had hit against the doorpost before staggering across to where he had tethered them like beasts, his heavy face flushed, his eyes bloodshot.
She had thrown an arm about her mother and sister, holding them as close as the rope about their necks would allow, her own body tense as it waited for the blows that followed them through the days like a constant companion. A beating was what they had come to expect almost from the day her mother had remarried. ‘Let me take care of you all,’ Enoch Jacobs had said, smiling, the day of his marriage; but the only care he had taken was of himself, selling every stick and stone, every item they possessed to satisfy his own needs, quieting any objection with blows. That had become the pattern of their lives. When sober, Enoch Jacobs delivered those blows with an air of regret, as if the pain of driving evil from them was a more bitter pain for himself, but she had known the true force behind them was self-gratification, every punch, every slash of his belt an outlet for a wickedness that consumed him; and when drunk that gratification glowed with an intense pleasure.
‘On yer feet you mewlin’ bitch!’
Her stomach churning at the remembered words Saran stared at a sky strewn with a million stars. Such a beautiful world, yet so full of misery . . . knuckles pressed against her lips she tried to stem the pictures in her mind but, relentless, they flooded on.
He had cut away the length of rope holding her mother and sister, kicking away the hands that tried to hold on to them, then yanked the thin figures to their feet dragging them behind him into the beerhouse. He had ignored the sound of her mother’s choking – the cord digging so savagely into raw flesh she could not breathe – and the cries of an eight-year-old.
It seemed a lifetime later her mother and sister had emerged, their yoke held by another hand, a hand that tugged hard on the rope as her mother had turned to look at her. She had tried to call . . . to speak . . . but only her eyes had said the words.
Pressing her fingers so hard against her lips her teeth cut into them, Saran could not stop the sobs trembling in her chest.
The afternoon sun had sparkled on the tears filling those gentle eyes, eyes that had said goodbye. That same day she had asked the questions, where is my mother and my sister . . . what have you done with them.
He had been even heavier in drink, his words mumbling from a saliva-drooling mouth, his small eyes bleary as he had looked at her. Then had come the blows. Like savage rain they had fallen on her head and body as Enoch Jacobs had sought to relieve his own guilt by beating her senseless.
It had been during that same night she had learned the truth. Closing her eyes against the agony of it, Saran remembered the drunken mumblings.
‘’Alf acrown . . .’ Enoch Jacobs had twitched and moaned as he lay sprawled on the ground, ‘’alf a crown for the woman . . . bloody daylight robbery, should ’ave bin twice that, got years of work in ’er . . .’
With every bone screaming its own pain she had scrambled as close as her tethering rope allowed, straining to catch each muttered word.
‘. . . but it weren’t work ’e ’ad in mind fer the little ’un, ’e wanted ’er for ’is own pleasures; I seen that when I set ’er on the table . . . Zadok Minch’s eyes glowed when they lit on ’er, likes ’em young, do Zadok Minch . . .’
He wanted her for his own pleasures? Her blood had run cold as she had listened. What had this brute of a man done with her family?
‘. . . come close to that table, then, ’e did . . .’ the mutterings had gone on, ‘. . . couldn’t resist runnin’ ’is ’ands over that body, feelin’ the buds just beginnin’ to pop, strokin’ up them legs to the very top, knowin’ by the way the kid squirmed and cried out that he was first man to play his fingers in that tight little ’ole . . .’
She had wanted to kill him then, wanted with every fibre of her being to grab a stone and dash it hard against that heavy-jowled face, to keep on smashing it down until no trace of life was left in the man she hated; but the rope had held her too tightly and all she could do was listen.
‘. . . ’elp in the ’ouse was what ’e were buyin’ ’em for . . .’ Enoch Jacobs’s laugh had snuffled in his throat, ‘. . . that might ’ave fooled the others who were bidding for the goods on offer but it d’ain’t fool me, I knowed what the wench were wanted for an’ I med Zadok Minch pay; I let ’im feel ’er all over, then when ’is mouth were waterin’ I med ’im pay . . . ’alf a sovereign was what I asked, ’alf a sovereign for a babby to play with in ’is bed . . .’
As if guessing that she already knew what had transpired the afternoon before, Enoch Jacobs had smirked when dragging her to her feet next morning, had taken a cold sadistic pleasure in retailing the account in full. He had led her mother and sister into the beerhouse, shoving first her mother on to a table shouting loudly she was for sale to any with money to buy. They had bid in pennies and halfpennies, gloating as her skirts were lifted to show her legs were capable of ‘carrying a load during the day an’ spreadin’ wide enough at night to take the load of any man ’ere’.
He had enjoyed seeing the blush of colour that had brought to her cheeks, but Saran had known his real enjoyment had lain in seeing the pain she could not keep from showing on her face.
‘Then come the wench’s turn . . .’ The words sounded again in her ears as though they were still being spoken. ‘Lifted ’er on to the table, I did, pulled ’er frock up to ’er face . . . let the fox see the rabbit. Them little tits just startin’ to sprout set the bids comin’ thick an’ fast but Zadok Minch were the only man could spend ’alf asovereign. That be what Idone wi’ yer mother an’ sister, I sold ’em, sold ’em as any husband and father ’as the right to do.’
Sold them! Hard as stone the words settled on her heart, stilling the sobs in her chest, banning the tears from her eyes. Only hate remained, cold impervious hate coupled with a burning desire for vengeance.
The thick cord biting into the soft flesh of her neck, Saran stumbled as it jerked almost pulling her off her feet. Enoch Jacobs had slept fitfully, crying out at intervals as some unseen dread plagued him, a dread the constant spending from the money got from the sale of her family did nothing to abate.
‘Pick yer bloody feet up, you clumsy bitch!’
Jacobs snatched again on the rope he never removed from her throat, mumbling to himself as he walked. He had not been properly sober from the day he had sold her mother and sister, auctioning them like cattle to the highest bidder; nor, since that day, had he once settled to sleep until he had tied her hands together then secured her to a tree. And she knew the reason for this; the reason, despite the ale he consumed, was fear, fear of her. Enoch Jacobs had seen what gleamed every day in her eyes, heard what laced each word that left her mouth, knew what rested in her heart, the prayer that rose nightly from her soul, the yearning to see him dead!
Six steps in front of her, he paused. Saran turned her head away as, making no attempt at privacy, he relieved himself. The man was an animal! Keeping her eyes tight shut she swallowed hard. What lies had he told her mother when persuading her to wed him?
‘I needs a bite o’ summat to eat.’
The rope jerked again and Saran caught the sneering look as she opened her eyes, the look that said she belonged to Enoch Jacobs to do with as he pleased; and what did he intend to do with her? Trailing her around the country would bring him neither peace nor profit so what was to be her fate . . . auctioned off in some beerhouse as her loved ones had been?
‘There be a tavern up ahead, I’ll get meself a meal and a bit o’ decent company, an’ a bit o’ decent company will mek a fine change from looking at your surly face the day long. I’ll find somebody as knows ’ow to smile at a man.’
How could he call himself a man! Three people tethered like beasts for market, two of them sold into God only knew what sort of existence, herself dragged from tavern to tavern then staked to the ground or tied to a tree while he drank himself into a stupor. But at least the hours spent waiting were hours when she did not have to look up on that hated face, when her ears were free of a voice that scarred her soul.
‘Sit you ’ere.’
Tugging viciously on the rope, Enoch Jacobs hauled her to where a group of tall bushes stood a little way off from a low-slung building, small-paned windows glinting in the late spring sunshine. Checking her hands and assuring himself they were still firmly tied he smirked.
‘Mebbe I’ll bring you a bite o’ summat out . . . mebbe!’
Laughing loudly he swaggered away, the first of his remaining coins already in his hand. Watching him bend to enter the low doorway Saran felt her stomach rumble. He had not brought her more than a crust in days and there was little doubt but he would not bring her anything today, his own needs were all that occupied the mind of her stepfather. But hunger she could cope with and she thanked heaven for these precious moments when she was alone.
Drawing up her knees she rested her forehead on her tied hands. What had happened to her life? One minute they had all been so safe and secure, so happy in their small house in Willenhall, her father’s locksmith workshop attached to its rear. Then had come that accident. Her father had gone to the steelworks as usual to order a fresh supply of metal for his business, and it was whilst he stood talking to the overseer in the yard that a loaded cart overbalanced, tipping its load of metal bars. There had been no warning, her mother had been told by men carrying her father’s broken body home on a door used for a stretcher, no time for her father to escape the rush of heavy steel, he had been killed almost instantly. Two weeks on from the burying of the father she loved, Enoch Jacobs had come upon the scene. What money they had could not last many weeks . . . eyes tight shut, Saran remembered her mother’s words.
‘Mr Jacobs is a locksmith, he has served his years of apprenticeship and he will work for us.’
But Enoch Jacobs had worked for himself, duped her mother with his quiet concern for the welfare of her family and the business that supported them, inveigled himself so deeply in her trust that she turned more and more to him, asking his advice, following it to the letter even though in her heart she must have known it was not always sound. But her mother had in turn been taught by her mother always to believe that a man was superior to a woman, in mind as well as in body, so sh
e had refused to listen when Saran had tried to point out that Enoch Jacobs was not conducting the business as her father had done, nor would he any longer have herself keep the account books; in fact, he had gradually drawn more and more into his own hands until finally, with marriage to her mother, he had it all.
Life for her family had gone downhill from that point. Less and less of the money from the business had been given to the housekeeping and more and more to the tavern-keepers and brothels, with any complaint bringing a blow to the mouth.
It had been one such blow had brought on her mother’s miscarriage. Now clenching her fingers tightly where they rested on her knees, Saran tried unsuccessfully to wipe the pictures from her mind. There had been no fire in the grate the night Enoch Jacobs had staggered home from the tavern, the small house was cold with the frosts of January. He had ranted and raved, demanding a fire be lit and a hot supper produced. Her mother, seven months gone with his child had trembled as she answered that there was neither food nor coal in the house. He had stopped shouting then. Beer-dulled eyes had rested on her mother then he had swung a doubled-up fist, hitting her full in the face and sending her crashing backward into the fireplace. Minutes later her mother was gasping with the pain of childbirth.
She had not known what to do. Saran flinched, seeming to feel again her mother’s hands clawing at her arm as she writhed. Jacobs had left the house as her mother had fallen; only Miriam was there. But Miriam was no more than eight years old. Her mental vision switching, Saran saw a small white-faced girl, her dark eyes wide with terror as they looked at the woman groaning with pain.
‘Fanny Simkin . . .’ her mother had gasped between spasms that left her breathless, ‘send for Fanny Simkin!’
Should she go? Leave her mother like this with only a terrified child to care for her? What could Miriam do should anything happen? Saran remembered the thoughts that had been a whirlpool swivelling her brain . . . That was when she had made her decision. Miriam must go fetch the woman who acted as midwife for half of the town. Tying her own shawl over her sister’s head she had told her to run, to find Fanny Simkin and bring her to the house. She had looked at the prettily enamelled clock stood on the mantelpiece as the child had fled from the house. It had showed a little after ten. Somehow she had got her mother to bed; holding the worn figure, taking the weight against her own, they had paused on almost every step for waves of pain to subside. And the time had rolled slowly by, each minute seeing her mother’s agony grow. But Fanny Simkin did not come.
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