Sixpenny Girl

by Meg Hutchinson

  A movement in the shadows beside her setting her nerves flaring, Saran caught her breath, releasing it with a relieved gasp when Luke’s voice whispered to her. Ignoring the bite of bruised ribs she pushed to a sitting position, reaching for the boy’s hand.

  ‘I just feel a little shaky,’ she answered his question, hoping the lie did not show through. ‘I’m not hurt in any way and it’s over now so let’s forget it.’

  Forget it! Luke’s fingers tightened. He would never forget it and should fate ever offer him the chance to repay what had been done then he would grab the opportunity and wring every last drop from it.

  ‘There be a couple o’ dray carts pullin’ into the yard.’ The wife of the ostler peered over the top of the short ladder. ‘I knows you been workin’ at that toob place the ’ole day, lad, but my Ben thinks you might like the chance o’ earning a copper or two by helping with the unloadin’. Them draymen will willingly give a tanner apiece if it means they ’ave an hour in the tap room wi’ a tankard or two for company.’

  Sixpence apiece . . . a shilling would see Saran more comfortable, it would bridge the gap ’till pay day. Luke was on his feet, scrambling down the ladder and thanking the woman already in the yard.

  He could take her to the house Gideon had mentioned. No! Rejection arising as swiftly as the idea, Luke clenched both fists. He wanted no more of Gideon Newell.

  ‘You be sure that be as you wants it?’ With the casks of beer unloaded into the cellar and the two silver coins in his hand, Luke sat beside Saran.

  ‘I think it would be best.’

  ‘But why?’ he asked. ‘T’ain’t as if that landlord knows we be ’ere, why pay for summat ’e don’t know nuthin’ about so can’t ’ave the missin’ of?’

  ‘We know, Luke,’ Saran answered softly. ‘We also know that Ben and his wife are putting their livelihood on the line by hiding us here, by bringing us food we haven’t paid for. Should they be discovered they would be put on the streets.’

  Same as the Elwells ’ad been chucked out. A picture of that darkened house flitting across his inner vision, Luke knew that what Saran suggested was right, they must pay the landlord for lodging in his barn and for the food they took; but sixpence? It was half of what they had!

  ‘You done right, lad.’ The woman’s smile showed in the light of the candle lantern carried by her husband. ‘Pay your way whensoever you can, for an honest hand meks a light spirit.’

  It also meks a light pocket! Keeping the thought to himself, Luke took the broth she handed him. That landlord wouldn’t never have knowed . . .

  ‘It took no noticing earlier that the clothes you be left with don’t have enough o’ themselves to hold together.’ The woman’s glance rested on Saran. ‘That bein’ so I brought these . . . they don’t be no Sunday walking outfit but I reckon they’ll fit an’ you be welcome to ’em if it be you ain’t above tekin’ ’em.’

  Touching a hand to the clothing the man laid on the straw at her feet, emotion filling her throat, Saran murmured her gratitude. One day, she prayed silently, please Lord, let me one day be able to repay the kindness of these people.

  ‘I come across this afternoon after the midday rush for meals slackened off.’ The woman spoke again. ‘I don’t expect you remembers much about it, wench, you bein’ as sleepy as you was, but I was feared you could ’ave bones broken. Now my Ben be no doctor, not even one o’ they animal kind, his business be lookin’ after ’osses and ’e knows a broken bone when he feels one. Well, bones be bones and I reckoned animal or ’uman they’d be not much different so I had Ben run his hands over you. I stayed close at your side so you need ’ave no fear for your modesty once I told you of it; you ’ave my word my Ben put no finger where it were not needed. I ’ope the liberty I took don’t raise too much offence.’

  ‘I take no offence, especially not for an action aimed at my own well-being, I only wish I could return the kindness you both have shown Luke and myself.’

  ‘Heaven repays a bad turn.’ The woman got to her feet. ‘It also repays a good ’un. I be glad to leave what we do in the hands o’ the Lord for He has the knowin’ of how best to give reward.’

  How best to give reward? Spooning the broth, Luke was silent. Would the swine who had attacked Saran, leaving her half dead in that cornfield, get his reward . . . would he be given what was warranted?

  Laying aside her bowl Saran glanced at the thin face wreathed by candlelight. From their first meeting this boy had earned what money they had, he had worked to provide her with food and shelter while she had contributed nothing. It was not for the want of trying she had not gained work but that did not detract from the fact it was Luke’s shoulders bearing the burden, a burden that was as heavy as it was unfair.

  ‘Luke,’ she spoke quietly, ‘you have employment at the tube works, I don’t know how much it will pay but it should be enough to provide food and lodging somewhere clean. I want you to do that, I’m grateful for all you have done for me, but now—’

  ‘If you be going to say what I thinks you be going to say, then don’t say nothin’!’ Luke’s spoon dropped noisily into his bowl. ‘We’ve talked on this before an’ things be the same now as they was then; if ’n you feel you ’ave to move on then we goes together an’ that tube works can keep its job.’

  ‘But, Luke—’

  ‘I don’t want to hear no more!’ Luke broke in fiercely. ‘I’ve said me piece and that be the top and bottom of it. We can move on or we can stop ’ere in Wednesbury . . . but either way we does it together!’

  What good turn had she done that heaven should reward her with such a friend as Luke? Listening to the sounds of him scrambling down the ladder, Saran’s flush of happiness was chilled by a sudden thought following hard on the heels of the first. What bad turn had Miriam and their mother done . . . what harm had they committed that they be sold like cattle, that their life be exchanged for the price of beer! Was that the judgement of heaven?

  ‘Saran.’ The bowls returned to the kitchen Luke stretched out, wriggling his body into the warm comfort of the straw. ‘Can I ask what brought you on the Bilston Road?’

  He must think she had gone back on her word, that for all her promise she was leaving without saying anything of it to him. Guilt, repentance or a touch of both brought a tinge of colour to her cheeks. She could only tell him the truth, whether he believed her or not he himself must decide.

  ‘I was told a carter had talked of a sale he had heard of taking place in Walsall, the sale of a woman and her daughter.’ Speaking quietly she related all of what she remembered to a silent Luke.

  ‘This fella who jumped on you,’ he asked as she finished, ‘did you recognise ’im, can you say who it were?’

  ‘I told you, most of his face was hidden by a scarf or a handkerchief.’

  ‘The voice, then!’ Luke persisted. ‘Can you place the voice?’

  Somewhere in the dark unreachable field of memory something flickered, a word . . . a tone? Saran tried to grasp it, to draw its flimsy shadow to the forefront of her mind but, like a dream on waking, it was gone.

  Despite the anger that still chilled him, Luke could not totally banish the slight niggle of relief that brushed its edges when she shook her head. Surely she would have recognised that voice . . . but her not doing so didn’t mean it wasn’t the one he thought it was. Logic battling with judgement, he closed his eyes. It didn’t mean her attacker wasn’t Gideon Newell.

  ‘I . . . I can’t say . . .’ Saran felt blindly for that promise of something remembered, something known yet unknown. ‘It happened so quickly and the scarf covering the mouth . . . but it’s over and whoever it was is long gone by now so we must put it behind us.’

  Long gone! Luke stared at shadows challenging the light of the lantern. Was he? Or was he sitting in a house along of Oakeswell End? Was Gideon Newell planning how to try again to take that brooch?

  Dressed in the clothes Ben’s wife had given her, Saran hurried the short distance fr
om the tavern to Union Street. She had wanted to stand the line, to go along to the High Bullen in the hope of a day’s employment but Luke had been adamant. The last of his shilling had been spent on a breakfast they had shared and he had gone to the tube works with no sandwich for his dinner. Seeing him smile, knowing that beneath it he was hungry, she had made up her mind. Asking Ben to set her ruined clothes on a bonfire he had burning on the open ground that bordered the rear of the tavern, blushing as she saw him glance at the torn bloomers, she had walked quickly from the yard, the old woollen shawl drawn low over her face.

  ‘You stay close alongside Ben and his wife, her says you can sit in the kitchen, her’ll tell the landlord you be ’elping out for a day or so.’

  Stood outside the pawnshop Saran tried not to hear the words playing in her mind or think of the promise she had given and had already broken. Luke could not go on as he had, working thirteen hours at that factory then a couple or so more loading and unloading carts; she had to do something to help and this was the one sure way she knew.

  ‘Wait there an’ don’t you let go of his ’and or I’ll tan your arse when I comes out.’

  Her hand on the latch of the shop door Saran glanced at a harassed-looking figure detaching fingers clutching at her patched skirts, thrusting their owner towards a child not much older than itself. Handing the older boy the string by which she had pulled a box fastened to odd-sized wheels she gathered several bundles from it before issuing a second warning. ‘Mark what I says now, keep an ’old o’ the little ’un and don’t let ’im go near no carts or it’ll be a lamping for you.’

  ‘Ta, miss . . .’ A face Saran guessed was young behind worry lines nodded as she opened the door, standing aside for the woman to pass. ‘. . . but I mustn’t podge . . . er . . . push in front, you was ’ere first so you ’ave to be first served.’

  Having assured the woman she was in no hurry to enter the shop Saran had turned her attention to a window filled with bric-a-brac.

  ‘You be lookin’ for summat special? You should ask old Kilvert . . . he don’t put everythin’ that be brought to ’im in that there winder.’

  ‘I’m not looking for anything special.’

  ‘Strewth!’ Brown eyes, wide beneath a mop of rust-coloured curls, looked at Saran as she turned towards the older boy. ‘I bet you d’ain’t look for that black eye neither but you copped it just the same. Reckon it be your old man done it, me father gets the same way sometime but he’s always sorry after, an’ mother . . .’ he flicked a sideways nod at the pawnshop door, ‘’er often be threatenin’ me with a hiding same as you’ve just ’eard but it don’t never come to nothing; it be the clock got her riled this mornin’.’

  Another pair of brown eyes stared up at Saran from the younger boy, several inches shorter than his brother and half hidden behind him.

  Changing his grip from hand to collar as the younger child turned its attention to a passing cart, the older boy talked on, undeterred by the fact his listener had asked no question. ‘The clock be Mother’s pride an’ joy. It were given as a wedding present by the nobs along of Oakeswell Hall, give her the clock together with the sack they did, said they couldn’t ’ave no maid who were liable to go getting herself tied up with children. So it were a case of here’s a clock now tek your hook! Now her won’t even ’ave that, for once things such as that be popped into old Kilvert’s place they don’t be like to be fetched out again. Mother don’t never ’ave money to spare for that but her does always buy the little ’un a ha’p’orth of jelly babies out of the pennies the neighbours pays for her fetching their stuff to the pawnshop, saves them leaving the nailing to come ’ere so they pays a penny a bundle . . . but I sees you ain’t got no bundle . . . be you goin’ to buy summat?’

  ‘I’ve told you afore about botherin’ folk! One day you’ll ’ave somebody answer with a smack to the ’ead and serve you right if they does!’ Dumping the younger child unceremoniously into the rickety box and snatching the string into her own hand, the woman turned, her eyes darkening sympathetically as she saw the bruises on Saran’s face. ‘I apologises for my lad, he don’t mean no harm, miss, it just be he don’t think . . . though Lord knows I’ve warned him about lettin’ his tongue run away with ’im, but his head be harder than nail-rod. I swears nothing goes into it.’

  Threats of informing the boy’s father of his ‘bothering a wench’ drifting behind her, the woman hurried away. Another family it seemed the trade of nail-maker was insufficient to support; another family which probably worked all day and half the night only to see their earning snatched from them by the greed of a nail master, as did the Elwells.

  Luke had not had the time to visit them. Pushing open the door of the shop, Saran remembered how he had passed over her enquiry of the family; it had been quick, almost guilty, but he should not feel that way, the Elwells would hold no resentment once they learned of his hurrying from the tube works in the hope of a chance to earn a few pence unloading carters’ wagons or filling them with fresh goods ready for an early start the next morning. And she? She would finish her business with the pawnbroker and then she would call on Livvy.

  14

  The man had thought her a thief ! Pulling the shawl low over her brow, Saran almost ran from the shop, stopping only when she reached the market place. He had thought the brooch was stolen . . . that she must have stolen it!

  The pawnbroker had looked keenly at her, his eyes piercingly bright despite the gloom of the shop’s musty, damp-smelling interior, his tone holding a note of accusation as he had asked how she came by the brooch.

  He had held the trinket in his hand, twisting and turning his palm the better to catch what little light dared filter its way through the dusty window.

  ‘A gift you says.’ That had been when he had stared at her. Saran clutched the shawl, drawing it closer about her, wanting to shut out that sharp accusing look. ‘And what sort of man gives a trinket like this to—’

  He had broken off, making a display of taking a magnifying glass to the brooch, but she had known the words he had bitten back: what sort of man gives a trinket like this to a whore? But she was no whore. She had wanted to shout that at him, to snatch back her belongings and leave; but the pawnshop was her one real hope of getting money, the only way she could be sure of helping Luke and herself, so she had swallowed the hurt, standing silent as the man had inspected the brooch.

  He had taken a long time in the inspection, carrying the brooch to the open door, holding it to the sky, peering intently through the green glass that was its centre.

  ‘Did you want to pledge it or to pawn it?’

  He had returned to stand behind the high counter and as he placed the brooch on its surface she had thought his hand trembled slightly.

  ‘I do not really want to part with it for good,’ she had answered truthfully, taking the brooch in her hand and looking at it ruefully.

  ‘You realises there be a three-month time limit on goods pledged, that if you don’t redeem them afore that limit be passed then they becomes my property . . . mine be the legal right whatever it be folk pledges.’

  Three months! Could she honestly tell herself she would be able to retrieve the brooch in that time . . . honestly say she would have the money? As she had weighed the possibility in her mind the pawnbroker’s voice had become little more than a whisper, then the door was shoved open and a woman carrying a large bundle on her hip had pushed her way between shelves lined with similar parcels, dropping her own heavily on the counter.

  ‘I be serving!’ John Kilvert had snapped. ‘You’ll have to wait outside.’

  ‘Oh ar!’ the woman had snapped every bit as sharply as she grabbed the bundle back to her hip. ‘And you can wait for me coming back to this fleapit, Kilvert, only don’t wait outside for I fears them chestnuts you calls balls will freeze to the ground afore you sees me!’

  ‘You’ll strike a better bargain by selling that there trinket, I can pay more for a sale than I can let you hav
e as a pledge.’

  He had ignored the woman’s irate outburst, his eyes on the brooch Saran had picked up as that cloth-wrapped bundle had slapped down on the counter.

  ‘You won’t get no better deal than that which John Kilvert offers.’

  It had been said quickly and for some inexplicable reason her fingers had closed firmly over the brooch as the man’s tongue had flicked across his lips.

  ‘I’ll give you ten pounds . . .’ he had reached for the brooch, ‘ten pounds. That be a sum you won’t be offered in no other pawnshop.’

  Ten pounds! Even now the amount had her gasping. It was an undreamed-of offer, that much money would keep herself and Luke for a year! So why had she not taken it? Her refusal of the offer had surprised her as much as it had the pawnbroker. He had called after her as she had turned for the door, had shouted that maybe he could raise his offer a few shillings to show goodwill. But she had not looked back. Leaning against the wall of a herbalist shop she sucked in a deep breath, trying to still the flutter in her stomach. The woman she had helped that night on the heath had said the brooch was of no value, it was a trinket worth just a few pence . . . but ten pounds was not just a few pence. Drawing in another long breath Saran touched against the small hard lump nestling in a pocket of her skirt. The pawnbroker had thought her at best to be a thief, and that was what she would think of herself in keeping this brooch, what she would think every time she looked at it.

  ‘Saran?’

  At the sound of a woman’s voice calling her name sending waves of happiness cascading over her, Saran pushed away from the wall.

  ‘I thought it were you . . . but what in the world has ’appened, wench, you be black and blue.’

  She had thought . . . for one wild joyful moment had believed— Hiding her disappointment Saran smiled at Livvy Elwell’s next-door neighbour.