Sixpenny Girl

by Meg Hutchinson

  Yes, it was enough. Her fingers curling about his own she felt the awkwardness leave her. Luke would understand. Quietly, uninterrupted by a lad who watched moon shadows dance across her face, Saran told of Edward Elwell’s job being taken over by machines, of Livvy’s heartbreak when telling of taking her children to the parish, and finally her own idea of giving any money she could get for the brooch to the couple, to tide them over if only for a little while.

  Over on the hill rising black over the night-shrouded town the church clock rang again, elaborating the silence that followed as she finished, then, as the last chime died, Luke laughed.

  ‘Why d’ ain’t you say all o’ this in the first place, you ’ad me thinkin’ all sorts when there be no need to worry.’

  No need for worry! In the shadows Saran’s brows drew together. The Elwells had been so kind to them, how could Luke not worry for them now?

  ‘Look,’ he chuckled again, releasing her hand, ‘you says you can climb into a loft easy as me so why don’t we do just that and give this to the Elwells?’

  With tears pricking her eyelids Saran looked at the coins once more offered to her on an open palm.

  11

  Luke had given every penny of his day’s wage to the Elwells. The couple had not wanted to take it but the lad had said he had hoped they could all take a meal together, and himself and Saran sleep beside the fire that fed the forge, except there had been no fire. Livvy had guessed the real reason behind their asking to stay the night in the workshop and her mouth had trembled as she took the money and hurried off to buy sausages and bread; and the next morning Luke had left the remainder of his wage on the table, asking for lodging for the coming night. He had smiled as they had walked to the High Bullen together, saying it was the best possible way he could spend his money seeing she herself refused to be settled in the house Gideon Newell had spoken of.

  Gideon Newell! Saran watched the tall fair-haired figure who had called to Luke then strode into the tube works without a look or word for her. He thought her deceitful, a fair-weather friend ready to rob a boy of his dues. But it didn’t matter what he thought of her.

  ‘Nuthin’ again today, pity I weren’t young an’ pretty, then my old man might ’ave sold me.’

  Her mind on her own thoughts, Saran was only vaguely aware of the mumblings of a woman stood in the line beside her. ‘Sorry,’ she answered apologetically.

  ‘Me an’ all!’ the woman replied dourly. ‘Sorry I ain’t about ten year old an’ as sweet-faced . . . could be I’d ’ave fetched a price in some tavern, it’d be a better life than this’n.’

  ‘Fetched a price?’ Saran frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘That be cos like as not you ain’t ’eard,’ the woman sniffed. ‘Seemed a woman an’ daughter were sold over Walsall way a week or two gone, sold in a tavern, so my old man were told . . . huh! I reckons they was lucky.’

  A woman and daughter . . . sold . . . a tavern over Walsall way . . . Saran’s heart leapt. Her mother . . . Miriam . . . it had to be them!

  ‘Wait, please,’ she called to the woman already making her way towards the market square. ‘The woman and her daughter . . . who were they, did they live in Wednesbury or in Walsall?’

  ‘T’weren’t Wednesbury.’ The woman shook her head as Saran caught up to her. ‘That much I be sure on, as for them bein’ Walsall folk, that I couldn’t rightly say.’

  ‘But you know—’

  ‘I only knows what my old man told me an’ no more, he ’eard it from a carter, they gets to ’ear most things but whether they be all truth . . . well, you meks your own mind up about that.’

  It had to be the truth. Please, God, let it be the truth. The prayer silent on her lips, Saran caught the woman’s arm. ‘Please, what carter would that be?’

  ‘Could ’ave bin one of a number, but why should you be in a lather?’

  ‘I . . .’ She released the woman’s arm. ‘I have to find that carter.’

  ‘Then I reckons you best begin at the Turk’s ’Ead, all them carters puts up there, but chance be they’ll be well on their ways be now.’

  Her words of thanks streaming behind her, Saran flew the rest of the way along High Street, not stopping until she reached the tavern.

  ‘Be you lookin’ for the lad?’ Crossing the rear yard the woman who cooked and served food caught sight of Saran looking into each of the stables. ‘’E ain’t here; I ain’t had sight of him since the night you was brought into the kitchen.’

  Glancing into the last of the stables Saran turned a desperate look to the woman. ‘I’m looking for a carter.’

  ‘A carter?’ Tired eyes in a worn face regarded Saran. ‘Well, wench, you be a bit late o’ catchin’ one o’ them, the last one left some twenty minutes since. Was you wantin’ to buy summat?’

  Saran felt a scream of desperation rise inside her. This was the first breath of news she had heard of her mother and sister since Enoch Jacobs had sold them and now the man who might tell her more was gone!

  ‘There’ll be more traders along during the day . . .’

  ‘No!’ The cry rang across the cobbled yard. ‘It has to be that one!’

  ‘Steady, wench!’ The woman’s voice was kindly. ‘If ’n one o’ them ’as done you down, teken more from you than he should, then you tell his looks to me an’ when he comes again . . .’

  Tears she was finding ever more difficult to hold back sparkling in her eyes Saran shook her head. ‘This carter, the one I am looking for, he spoke of a sale . . .’

  ‘They always be doing that.’

  ‘But this was a special sale, he said he’d heard of a woman and young girl having been sold in a beerhouse in Walsall.’

  ‘A woman and a young wench!’ The woman’s brows drew together. ‘Them carters deals in all sorts o’ goods but ain’t never one o’ ’em traded for folk . . . not to my knowing, they ain’t, and I gets to hear most of what they does sooner or later; but s’posin’ what you thinks be so, then the pair you speaks of, be they kin to you?’

  Struggling with the emotion that was rapidly overwhelming her, Saran whispered, ‘They are my mother and sister. My stepfather sold them for—’

  ‘Say no more, wench.’ The woman’s voice was brittle with disgust. ‘It be high time summat were done about that practice, men can treat their womenfolk like they wouldn’t treat ’orses and naught the constables care, even though I hear tell it be against the—’

  Her mother had taught that it was ill-mannered to interrupt an adult but Saran was too wound up to worry over her manners. ‘Please!’ she blurted. ‘Can you help me find which carter it was?’

  ‘You wait you there.’ Her mouth set determinedly, the woman walked quickly into the tavern, emerging several minutes later. Keeping her voice low, she glanced from side to side as if anxious not to be seen talking. ‘The one you seeks be gone to Darlaston. Tek the Bilston Road from the Bullen, if you hurries you’ll catch up wi’ him, and God speed you, wench.’

  At last! Thanks gleaming through her tears, Saran ran back the way she had come. At last she would find her mother and her sister.

  The lad had been given permanent employment. ‘He keeps the job so long as he works hard and keeps his nose out of trouble, that I expect you to see to.’ John Adams had smiled as he said the words but Gideon knew him too well to believe there was one of them that wasn’t meant. Luke had been lucky to be taken on at all and it had been done only as a favour to Gideon Newell. Watching the boy move quickly and surely, taking finished tubes to the stacking place, Gideon’s qualm was not Luke but the girl he had thought to be sister to him. Employment might hold the lad in Wednesbury but she . . . would Saran Chandler remain in this town? And if she did not, would it matter? Setting a block of red-hot iron on the bed of rollers, Gideon stared at it for several moments, the question riding his mind. Would it matter if Saran Chandler left Wednesbury? Drawing the iron through the swages until the required thickness of flat iron was reached, he felt t
he answer in the tilt of his heart; it would matter to him. But why should it? It wasn’t as if he had known her long enough to experience that feeling, he had spoken with her no more than once and then they had parted company on sharp words. If this was a passing fancy with him then the quicker it was passed for good the better! The thought was meant to help, to ease the ache of uncertainty inside him, but as the hours wore on the questions persisted and with them a stronger feeling, almost a desolation he could not curb and one he knew would grow should Saran Chandler leave Wednesbury.

  ‘I knows you spoke for me an’ I thanks you for it.’ The day finished, Luke looked at the man walking beside him. ‘I knows Saran will want to thank you an’ all.’

  Would she? Gideon Newell kept the query to himself. Or would she think he was once more overstepping the mark? She had not taken it kindly when he had pointed out that the brooch she had been given belonged as much to Luke as to herself, she had seen his words as an interference; would she see his getting the lad a job in the same light?

  ‘I wouldn’t ’ave been given work at all were it not for you.’

  ‘Well, just see you listen to what you are told and do only that, don’t go trying to do things off your own bat, for molten iron is a dangerous thing.’

  ‘I learned that already.’ Luke lifted his hands, staring at them through the evening shadow. ‘Them sparks sting like the prod o’ the devil’s fork.’

  Catching Luke by the shoulders Gideon stared hard into the thin face which lifted to him. ‘And a tipped crucible can burn a man to a cinder quick as the fires of hell; remember that, and stay clear of them. The shout be given once only . . . there is no second chance. Men running with a crucible filled with molten metal don’t stop for anything nor anybody daft enough to stand in their way, just make sure it isn’t you!’ A small shake adding emphasis to his words he stared a moment longer, then smiled. ‘Now get you off to wherever it is you be going to meet your friend.’

  Calling goodnight, Luke ran along Springhead and had reached Russell Street before remembering. Gideon had called him from the line that morning and he had been so hopeful it meant another day’s work he had run to the tube works without arranging where to meet with Saran once the day was over. But she would know where to be, she would surely guess he would have said to meet where they had last night, outside the Elwell home. But they could not expect to stay there. Luke’s fingers touched against his empty pocket. ‘You be one of the regular workmen now,’ the owner of the works had told him, ‘and as such you’ll get your tin once a week, same as they do.’ That meant he had nothing to offer the Elwells in exchange for a night beside their forge . . . and fired or not it would have proved better for Saran than a night under a hedge; but why a hedge? He grinned to himself. Hadn’t her said her could climb into a hayloft easy as he could? But that wouldn’t feed ’em . . . they would needs to eat. Held by the complexity of the situation, Luke stared at the shadowed market place, the last few of its traders packing their boxes on hand carts prior to leaving making no impression on his troubled mind. He could manage without food, he’d done it before when he’d been locked away for days in the glory hole, that unlit cellar in the workhouse, the warders not bothering or not wanting to bring him a meal; but Saran, he could not see her go hungrier than they already were.

  ‘Hey up there, how were Bilston then?’

  The loud call jolting his mind clear, Luke glanced towards a market trader pausing in his work to shout a greeting, grinning at the carter who replied, ‘Same as Wednesbury . . . thick with smoke and soot.’

  ‘Be that right!’ The market trader lifted another box on a hand cart. ‘Reckon I’ll go there to trade then, for they says where there be muck there be money.’

  ‘Oh ar,’ the other man laughed, ‘well, it be the same there as it be ’ere, folk keep diggin’ in the muck but they never comes up wi’ the money, seems you bin listenin’ to fairy tales.’

  The laughter of both men rested on the evening as Luke set off behind the rumbling wagon. If he had a pound he would bet it against a penny the wagon would stop at the Turk’s Head and, if luck were on his side, maybe the man would pay him a couple of coppers to unharness the horse and take it to the stables; tuppence would get Saran a sandwich from the cookshop.

  An hour later, carrying slices of pork with bread dipped in the meat juices, bought not from the cookshop but from the serving woman who had answered his knock on the kitchen door of the tavern, Luke turned his steps towards Russell Street. He had insisted the serving woman take the tuppence in return for the bread and meat, and she in turn had given him enough to share with Edward and his family.

  ‘Tek it.’ The woman had shoved it at him through the half-closed door, her voice a hurried whisper. ‘What the gaffer don’t see his ’eart won’t grieve over . . . tek it an’ tell that wench o’ your’n I be as kin’ after ’er.’

  It was not a slice o’ bacon – Luke held the warm package close to his chest – but a bite o’ hot pork would taste as sweet to the Elwell kids.

  ‘You told me you’d get it!’ His ice-cold eyes contrasting violently with the angry red of his face, Zadok Minch brought a clenched fist heavily down on the brass inlaid desk.

  Standing the other side of it the tall figure of a man watched the steadily rising temper stain cheeks and forehead a deeper shade of scarlet. A little more and Minch would drop dead of a heart attack . . . now wouldn’t that be nice!

  ‘I thought I would.’ He spoke calmly, knowing the irritating effect it would have on the older, heavier man.

  ‘Thought!’ Zadok roared. ‘Thought! Seems that be all you do is think, what bloody good does you expect thinkin’ to do!’

  Perhaps a mite more than bawling. A smile not quite revealing what touched his mind, the tall figure shrugged. ‘I can always try again.’

  His breath exploding between thick lips, Zadok dropped heavily into a captain’s chair set next to the desk.

  ‘Try again,’ he fumed. ‘Try again! How many times do yer think yer can grab the wench afore you be seen, you don’t be playin’ ring a ring o’ bloody roses!’

  He was not playing any game, not with the girl and certainly not with Minch. The man had the idea he would get the goods for nothing . . . now that was a thought set to do no good.

  ‘How was I supposed to know she would be empty handed?’ Calm as before the question attracted the required effect.

  Zadok’s colour deepened, his lips shining with spittle. ‘You be supposed to know! You reckons you ’ave a brain so why not use it once in a while . . . for I tells you, lose me what it be you told me of and all business atwixt me and you be ended, you can find some other way of robbin’ folk, for you’ll be no fogger as deals wi’ Zadok Minch.’

  With eyes clear and sharp, a razor-tipped mind cool and collected, Zadok’s visitor regarded him evenly. ‘Supposing next time proves more fruitful. Supposing the brooch proves to be worthless, what then? I don’t take risks for no reward, not even for Zadok Minch.’

  ‘Worthless?’ Pulling his brows together, Zadok glared.

  ‘That was how the girl described it.’

  ‘An’ you think that be the truth?’ Zadok growled. ‘Can you see William Salisbury, the richest man in Darlaston, presentin’ a wife he be daft over wi’ a worthless trinket! Believe that an’ you’ll believe shit be chocolate; I tells you that there lover’s bauble be worth more’n a guinea or two.’

  ‘So what if it is already in Kilvert’s pawnshop?’

  His teeth ground together with a spasm of fresh rage as Zadok glared at the figure watching him calmly. Christ, what kind of slow-witted fool did Wednesbury spawn!

  ‘The wench had no money, you said so yourself.’ Every word spoken slowly, enunciated clearly, he waited for each to be absorbed before continuing. ‘Don’t that tell you . . . don’t it point clear to the fact her couldn’t have teken the brooch, couldn’t have pawned it or the money her got would have bin in her pocket. To me that says the brooch be still ab
out her somewheres so find her; strip her, do anythin’ you wants with her but bring me what the wife o’ William Salisbury give her the night her birthed that babby!’

  He would find Saran Chandler. Turning his back on the nail master the tall figure strode from the house stood in its own wide grounds. He would find the girl whose face never left his mind for long, the girl he thought of constantly, thought might fill his heart. But hearts could be filled by other women and pretty faces bought on almost any street if a man had money, and that brooch would bring money . . . only not to Zadok Minch!

  12

  The bread and meat, wrapped in a piece of cloth, was warm against his chest, and Luke’s mouth watered at the thought of the feast to come. Gideon had been away from the works for a part of the morning and on his return had shared the bread and cheese that was his dinner. Luke remembered the sweet taste of the cheese in his mouth. He had tried to refuse it saying he wasn’t hungry, but Gideon had insisted; he must have recognised the lie. Hugging his precious package Luke turned along Russell Street. Gideon Newell was a good man to have as a friend.

  The Elwell house was in darkness. Luke paused as he emerged from the narrow entry into the small yard shared by houses built in blocks of four. That was no surprise, for paraffin cost money and so did the candles Livvy did not light until putting her daughter to bed, the fire of the small forge providing illumination in the workshop where the others spent most of the night hammering out nails. But there was no glow of flame from the tiny window; as last night, the forge was cold. But that alone should not account for the sudden weight that hit his stomach. The day’s wage Livvy had so tearfully accepted last night wouldn’t stretch to buying coal, that much he realised, but surely one candle . . .

  The elation of buying supper draining from him, Luke stared, oblivious of the sounds of hammer on anvil coming from other people working half the night. The church clock had struck eight as he had run through the deserted Shambles, its butchers’ stalls bare and empty, the only movement that of dogs scavenging for forgotten scraps. Eight o’clock! The weight in his stomach grew. Saran should be here, she wouldn’t wait for him anywhere else. Apprehension a finger touching his spine, he moved towards the shrouded house.