Sixpenny Girl

by Meg Hutchinson

  ‘This way? Luke, I don’t understand.’

  Luke the boy faded and for a moment all signs of the man he would become were there in its place.

  ‘Don’t you?’ he asked. ‘You don’t understand? I thought we were real friends from the start . . . but real friends don’t shut the other one out.’

  That was what she had done with the business of the brooch. She had gone alone to the pawnbroker; hers alone had been the decision not to accept his offer. She had not consulted Luke before haring off to Darlaston and she had not asked would he wish to take advantage of William Salisbury’s reward. She had explained it away, telling herself and Luke that she had acted on the spur of the moment and he had said he understood, that it did not matter; yet all the time he was hurting inside . . . all the time she had shut him out.

  ‘This way don’t be no good,’ Luke repeated, his glance steady on her face. ‘I be only a lad, that be true, an’ if it be you thinks me not old enough to share your business then you needs only to say; but whatever you decides, I be your true friend, Saran, and I won’t let nothing nor nobody ’urt you so long as I breathes.’

  Emotion riding high in her throat, Saran nodded. ‘You are young, Luke, but you have a strength of heart not born of years, and a character which does not owe itself to days. You are my truest and most trusted friend and no matter what lies in the future I want it to be as these past few weeks have been, faced with you at my side; there will never be any business of mine that is not equally business of yours.’

  She had meant what she said and now, facing the sharp-eyed man sat in a small windowless room of the Turk’s Head tavern, her hand in Luke’s, Saran was thankful for the boy’s presence, taking strength from his confidence.

  ‘You are Saran Chandler and the er . . . young man with you is Master Luke Hipton?’

  ‘That be just plain Luke Hipton, mister, I ain’t master of nobody.’

  He had hesitated to use the term boy; now seeing the quick spark in those bright blue eyes, the man who had introduced himself as Alfred Thomas was glad he had not. The lad had a defiance best not provoked.

  ‘Quite.’ He smiled thinly, pointing to chairs placed at the opposite side of the table still set with the remains of his supper.

  ‘Mr Thomas . . .’

  A brief shake of his grey head halting Saran he rang a small, well-polished brass bell set beside his right hand, remaining silent while Ben’s wife collected the dishes. The door closed once more, he lifted a leather bag on the table, releasing its metal clasp.

  Behind small square spectacles clinging precariously to his large nose, he looked at Saran. ‘You were about to say?’

  Watching the hand slide into the bag, seeing the sheaf of papers being withdrawn, the fear that had ridden her outside in the street raced again, bringing every nerve to a painful quiver. She had been mistaken in thinking the figure in the shadows to have been a representative of the Parish Board sent to reclaim Livvy’s child, but this man . . . she was not mistaken a second time!

  ‘Mr Thomas,’ the words tumbled out, ‘the Elwells’ daughter . . . Luke should not . . . she will be well cared for, you have my word, please . . . please tell the Governors . . .’

  ‘I am sure what you are saying is true.’ A thin-fingered hand spread the sheaf of papers. ‘However—’

  It was not given him to say the child could remain with them. Under cover of the cloth-covered table Saran’s hand tightened over Luke’s. The man had been sent to take her back to the workhouse!

  ‘Mister!’ Where her voice had trembled Luke’s was firm. ‘What were done were done by me, Saran played no part in it; her knowed nothin’ of my asking Gideon Newell to tek that little wench from the hell folks calls the poor house, nor can that man be blamed, for it were kindness alone had him agree. I told him arrangements were already med for the little ’un, that lodgings and keep had been paid and would be so long as were needed. That it were to be from Saran and me the money would come was the only thing kept from the Board’s knowing and that deception be mine only . . .’

  ‘Luke Hipton.’ There was no sarcasm behind the use of the name, the sharp eyes screwed behind the spectacles held more than a hint of admiration. ‘As with Miss Chandler, I have no doubt of what you say, however I have no knowledge of the matter you speak of and I most certainly am not here by request of the parish.’

  ‘You ain’t?’ Luke’s frown knitted his brows together. ‘You ain’t come from that work’ouse?’

  ‘Not in any wise.’

  ‘Then who do you be sent by?’

  A further spreading of elegantly written papers preceding his answer, the man glanced once at the door, satisfying himself it was firmly shut. ‘I am acting on behalf of Mr William Salisbury.’

  The chill of losing Livvy’s daughter giving way to a new, equally frightening, fear, Saran leaned forward. ‘I returned that brooch . . . it was the real one . . .’

  ‘Miss Chandler, at the danger of repeating myself, I have to say again there is no doubting you. Please . . .’ he raised a hand as Luke made to speak, ‘let me explain. I am Mr Salisbury’s solicitor. He has given me instructions to act on his behalf, to place a proposal before you both, one he hopes you, Miss Chandler, might be disposed to accept.’

  William Salisbury did not doubt the brooch she had returned was the same one his wife had taken from her gown the night of the accident. The ice in Saran’s veins melted but her nerves still quivered.

  ‘But I told him . . . I told the two of them I wanted nothing, the well-being of themselves and their baby was enough.’

  ‘For you, perhaps, but Luke Hipton was not present.’

  ‘What Saran said went for me an’ all!’ Luke broke in quickly. ‘I would ’ave been there to say it for meself except I were at work; but I tells you now so you can pass it to William Salisbury, I looked for no reward for what I done that night, it were little enough and needs no recognisin’ except for a thank you.’

  A finger pushed the spectacles from where they had slipped to the end of his nose as the solicitor smiled his thin smile.

  ‘Well said, and of course your instruction will be followed to the letter, I shall tell it to William Salisbury myself. However, as I hope you appreciate, my brief is to pass his word . . . all of his word . . . to yourselves. May I have your permission to proceed?

  ‘Following your visit last week,’ he peered at Saran over rimless spectacles, ‘Mr Salisbury had me draw up the papers you see on the table, but before I read their contents he and Mrs Salisbury requested I speak of their own feelings. They are, of course, understanding of yours but at the same time would ask you consider theirs. The proposal I am about to set before you is one they realise you are at liberty to refuse; but I am to tell you it would indeed give them great happiness would you accept. This,’ he pointed to one of the papers, ‘is the deed to a small property once owned by Mrs Salisbury’s nurse. It has been made over to yourself, Miss Chandler, to share with Luke. Should you refuse it then it is offered solely to Luke; should he also refuse it will be bound in trust until he reaches the age of twenty-one when once more he will be asked to accept. Twenty pounds as payment for renovation goes with the deed.’

  Catching the immediate shake of her head the solicitor again held up a hand. ‘I know your answer, and though I was not instructed to tell you of the result it would bring, nevertheless I will. Refute it, give the answer I see in your eyes, and the property remains empty until the second time of its offering many years from now. Think of it, Miss Chandler, pride . . . admirable but, nevertheless, pride . . . will keep you from a home which I see from your being in this place would be a haven for you and for Luke Hipton; add to that it would also provide a home for a certain child newly released from the workhouse . . . do I make my point?’

  ‘You makes it to me, mister.’ Luke grinned then looked at Saran. ‘It meks sense, a place that were your own, the Board couldn’t say no, they’d be bound to let that little ’un live in it with you.’


  A home for the child of Livvy and Edward, a place where she would be loved, cared for until the return of her parents . . . and Gideon Newell – she would no longer be obliged to do his bidding! It was a miracle she would never had dared pray for but to accept would keep her here in this town, bring responsibilities that would prevent her searching further afield for Miriam and their mother.

  ‘I . . . I appreciate the kindness of Mr Salisbury and his wife but—’

  ‘Wait!’ Hidden by the drape of heavy chenille Luke’s fingers gripped tight. ‘Not wanting anything from the Salisburys be one thing, but indulging your own pleasure at the cost of other folk be summat else again. Accepting what they asks be a trouble to your conscience but think what refusing can do. That couple has to feel satisfied as you does, they needs to have an easy conscience same as you, and this be the only way they can see of getting that; send back their offer and it will be as a slap to the face. What will that do for your peace of mind!’

  So much deep thinking while still a boy, what would Luke Hipton be like as a man? One she wanted always as a friend.

  ‘Mr Thomas,’ Saran smiled, ‘Luke and I will be very happy to accept the Salisburys’ gift.’

  He had not been there. The agreement made, the solicitor had left the Turk’s Head and she had almost skipped across the stable yard. She would tell Gideon Newell his threat no longer carried weight, that Livvy’s child was safe from the workhouse and Saran Chandler was safe from him. But he had not been there, the gateway and the street had been empty of people.

  As she stood now outside the tavern, the rumble of wagons and calls of people setting out their stalls in the market square made no impression on Saran’s mind.

  Gideon Newell had left. Had that meant he no longer wished to barter for her, had changed his mind and would renege on the bargain he had struck with Luke? But that would bring him no satisfaction now there was a means of keeping that child herself . . . so where was the satisfaction she should be feeling? She had expected to experience pleasure in telling him his assistance was no longer necessary, that she and Luke had no need of him. But the taste she thought was joy in her mouth had turned sour even before she had reached the street, had stayed with her through the sleepless hours of the night . . . was with her still! What she had thought would be pleasure had turned to emptiness, what she had expected to be contentment almost a regret. But how could it be regret? Irritated by a state of mind she did not understand she pushed the money the solicitor had given her into the pocket of her skirt. Her mother had had a word for the emotion which plagued her now, for the swift falling away of excitement that left a dejection which could not be explained; ‘Anti-climax,’ was what her mother would say, ‘you be feeling naught but anti-climax, give it a few hours and it will be gone.’ But she had felt this way for more than a few hours . . . and it was still as strong as ever.

  ‘Be you sure you can find the way by yourself?’ Leaving his work for a moment the ostler came to stand beside her.

  ‘You explained very clearly, Ben.’ Saran smiled.

  Lifting his cap the man ran leathery fingers through his hair. ‘Listenin’ be one thing, wench, doin’ be another altogether. Don’t you think it might be better to wait of that lad finishing his day along of the tube works, go together to Lea Brook? The place be empty except for Brook Cottage.’

  ‘I will be perfectly all right, Ben. Luke agreed I go out there this morning to air the house and I promised to stay put until he comes to me this evening.’

  Settling his cap into place the ostler shook his head. ‘Oh well, you’ll go your own ways in the end, young ’uns always does these days; but if it be you feels things don’t be right, if you be uneasy out there on your own you comes straight back to Ada and me.’

  ‘Thank you, Ben.’ Saran kissed the bewhiskered cheek. ‘I don’t know what Luke or myself would have done without your help.’

  ‘It were no more than heaven would want, wench, it don’t hurt no man to hold a helping hand to them in need. My Ada and me just hopes you be happy in that house for it be no more’n you deserves.’

  Hugging the man’s words, feeling the warmth of them in her heart, Saran walked quickly towards the Shambles.

  Harriet Dowen, the Elwells, Ben and Ada Mason and the Salisburys, they had all been so kind . . . so different from Enoch Jacobs. Was that man truly gone from her life . . . could it be true what Harriet had said of moon dancers, that beautiful ballet of flickering beams which beckoned the unwary to their death? Or would Enoch Jacobs one day return to blight her existence as he had done before? Her mind screamed against the possibility while her heart cried for it to happen, for only that man could tell her where to find her family.

  ‘You been talkin’ to the fairies?’ Flipping the coin Saran gave to pay for sausages and a fillet of pork bought from the first of a line of stalls which graced the Shambles the butcher caught it expertly.

  ‘Fairies?’ Only half listening Saran frowned as the man fumbled in a leather bag fastened about his waist.

  ‘Ar, wench, fairies . . . seems they must ’ave pointed you to the gold they be supposed to ’ave at the end of the rainbow for you to be paying with a sovereign, t’ain’t many of them I sees in a day.’

  ‘I did them a good turn.’ Saran smiled as he counted coins into her hand, adding their value aloud.

  ‘Well, next time they calls you just point them little folk in the direction of my stall . . . a few sovereigns wouldn’t come amiss.’

  Fairies were only real in stories. Clutching her purchases she felt the smile she had shared nestle in her heart. But, fairies or not, there was something, some benign influence touched her and Luke and she thanked God for it.

  ‘the way be not easy’

  Harriet Dowen’s words floated on the edge of her mind. They had not been empty words, she and Luke had known suffering, but now that was all over; from today the hardship was gone and she could really begin the search for Miriam and her mother. But first she must take this food to Livvy’s neighbour, ask the woman to care for the child a little longer, until the property William Salisbury had given was ready to live in.

  The clang of hammer on anvil ringing in her ears, Saran stared at the group of people who not for a moment ceased their work.

  ‘The little wench,’ Livvy’s neighbour brought her hammer swinging on the narrow strip of metal held between large tongs, ‘’er don’t be here.’

  ‘But, Luke . . . he said he brought her to you . . . that he had arranged to pay for her keep.’

  ‘Ar, he done that, brought the little wench like he said,’ hammer striking iron kept rhythm with every word, ‘and a Godsend it would ’ave been, not just for that babby but for mine an’ all, for the money would provide a bit extra for we all to eat.’

  Watching the woman return the iron strip to the fire holding it with one hand, the other working the bellows, Saran tried to sort the confusion in her mind. She said the money Luke had promised to pay would be more than useful, that she was willing to take the child in, to have her live with her own family, so why now was the woman saying she was not there?

  ‘I would ’ave cared for that babby as I cares for me own even if no money were paid.’ The hammer rose and fell, the woman’s tired eyes never shifting from the strike. ‘Livvy Elwell and meself ’ad a friendship from the day of our being born, a friendship that would ’ave seen her little ’uns living alongside of my own but Livvy knowed that way would only bring nearer the day my family be forced to tread the path her own trod, so her and her man took ’em to the poor house.’

  ‘But the younger one – the girl – Luke said he had brought her to you, so why is she not here? I don’t understand!’

  As a finished nail was clipped free of the strip, falling into a bucket almost filled with the same, the woman began to shape another, her hammer ringing relentlessly on the anvil.

  ‘What be to understand,’ she called above the noise, ‘the wench were teken from the poor house and l
ast night her were teken back. I begged for her to be left with me, said as it saved the parish the cost of keeping her but that man would ’ave none of it; said the little ’un were to go back and that were the end of the matter.’

  The clatter of the tiny workshop rang in Saran’s head, but the noise of it was nothing to the clamour of her brain.

  ‘the little ’un were to go back’

  Every syllable burned like a brand on her heart.

  ‘the little ’un were to go back’

  Only one man could do that. Only one man had reason. Only one would take such vengeance . . . Gideon Newell!

  20

  This was where Gideon Newell in his spite had returned a helpless child.

  A heavy oak door closing behind her, shutting off the meagre amount of daylight venturing into a small dank-smelling vestibule, Saran could not repress a shiver. Luke had once said he would rather die than go back to the workhouse and now she understood a little more the reason why. Bare stone walls lined with mildew stared blank and unpitying on two women, their heads shrouded in cotton bonnets, long dark aprons covering drab dun-coloured dresses, bare forearms red and blistered by hot water which was heavily laced with soda but which had little effect on the overriding smell of damp and decay.

  ‘Mind your business!’

  The sharp command sang like a whip, the whine of it echoing into the shadows; a groan following as the boot of the grey-uniformed wardress sank into the side of the inmate who had dared to look away from her task.

  ‘Governor’s office be this way.’ Hands held imperiously across her stomach, boots tapping on the wet floor, the wardress led the way along a corridor so dark, its feel so malevolent, Saran wanted to turn and run out into the daylight. But that she would not do, not until she had that child safe in her own keeping.

  Announcing her name with a deprecating smirk the wardress stood, hands crossed, her sharp features lengthening when the man seated behind a well-polished desk waved a dismissal.