Sixpenny Girl

by Meg Hutchinson

‘I knows it don’t be all for yourself you wants to step higher in the world and not for all that world would I stand in your way.’ A folded tablecloth in her hands, Charity Newell looked lovingly at her son.

  ‘I wanted it for so long, worked so hard for it.’

  ‘To work hard be in your nature, it be the legacy of your father’s blood, but now I tells you to think, son, think hard as ever you’ve worked, for only once will the opportunity be given, only once will the chance be held out to you, so be sure of your choosing.’

  ‘I had it all worked out,’ Gideon stared into the fire, ‘I had it set so firm in my mind; I would accept the job of overseer in John Adams’s new tube works, take you to the house that goes with it, give you a new life . . .’

  The cloth put away in a drawer, Charity rested her hand on the old well-worn dresser. This house had seen her happiness and her sorrows, the birth of her son, the loss of her husband; it had known her dreams and her hopes, then watched them die, fade as life must have faded from the man she loved trapped in that coal mine, slowly, heartbreakingly.

  ‘Your happiness is everything to me.’ She spoke quietly, her hand stroking the surface of the dresser. ‘But this house be the place your father brought me on our wedding day, it saw the love that gave you life and the pain which gave you birth, it was here I lived with him, lived a life such as I wanted from no other man, and it was here I raised you, and you, Gideon, give me cause for nothing but thanks to the Almighty; so I tell you, make your choice on John Adams’s offer, for no workman he has deserves the job more, decide on what it be you wants and my blessing be given along with it. But though I knows it be my comfort drives your ambition, don’t ask me to leave the place where my heart lives: this house be what holds your father for me, not some dark coal pit, here is where I feel his love, here is where he will be when my own call comes, waiting to take my hand as he took it that day before the altar. I love you, Gideon, you are my heart and I would gladly lay down my life for you, my son; but your father was my soul and I ask you again, do not part me from it.’

  She had guided him wisely every day of his life. His mother held in his arms, Gideon stared over her head. And though she had not spoken the words, she had guided him now; he had stood at a crossroads and it had taken his mother to point the way.

  John Adams had accepted his decision. Needing time to sort his feelings Gideon bypassed the cottage and the timbered Oakeswell Hall, walking on towards the High Bullen. It seemed a foolish thing to refuse such a post, his employer had said after listening, but if that was his decision then there was no more to be said.

  It could have all been over, done! He crossed the wide square where once bulls had been baited for sport. He could have gone to Moxley, started a new life there.

  ‘don’t ask me to leave the place where my heart lives’

  His mother’s words, the words which had guided his decision. He could leave Wednesbury, take up a new life elsewhere, but he would leave his heart behind, the heart which Saran Chandler held. But what would happen to that heart when she became another man’s wife? It would shatter as his mother’s heart had shattered on receiving news of that pit fall; but, unlike his mother, he had shared no love with Saran Chandler, he would have nothing on which to build memories, nothing but empty dreams.

  She had come to her senses where he had left her unconscious from the blow to her head. Zadok’s wife touched the swollen lips of the scullery maid with a wet cloth. He had treated this woman worse than any other brought to serve in his house and this time he had almost killed her. It was her fault! Bridget Minch felt her heart twist. This woman, and all the others brought here by her husband, she should have done something, anything to prevent his treatment of them . . . but what? She looked at the white face blotched with purple bruises. What could she do against a man capable of such cruelty?

  Twenty-five pounds! She dipped the cloth in a bowl of cool water, sponging it gently over bruised flesh. Zadok had all but killed the woman for the sake of twenty-five pounds . . . the money spent on the buying of a boy, and only half of what he hoped for the selling. The use of the whip on such young flesh would have reduced the profit but that alone did not account for the insane rage that had gripped Zadok, that had been caused by the child’s escape. It must have put a fear in him such as he had never felt before: who might the boy tell of the goings-on in the house of Zadok Minch? And, even more perturbing, who might believe him?

  Hearing a knock on the kitchen door, Bridget rose. Closing off the small storeroom adjacent to the pantry she waited a moment, listening for any sound uttered by the woman. The kitchen was one place Zadok never came and that tiny room where she had managed to half drag the scullery maid was a place he probably did not know existed. Silence saying the sick woman was sleeping or once more unconscious, she smoothed her apron, checking no tell-tale sign of blood having stained its virgin whiteness.

  ‘Is this the house of Zadok Minch?’

  ‘He does no business at night.’

  Anger at her near-rape in that coach, at the insults and insinuations flung at her whenever she asked directions to this house, sat firmly in Saran’s chest. ‘He will conduct business with me,’ she said firmly.

  ‘He won’t see—’

  Bridget Minch got no further. Pushing her way into the kitchen Saran stared at the drab, thin woman. ‘Then I will see his wife, please tell her.’

  The tired eyes flickered but as quickly they resumed the empty expression while bruised lips smiled a thin hopeless smile. ‘I am his wife,’ she said tonelessly, ‘and I tell you he will not see you.’

  This poor-looking woman was the wife of Zadok Minch . . . the most prosperous nail master in the Black Country! Saran could not hide her surprise.

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ she said awkwardly, ‘I had no wish to be rude.’

  ‘Eyes will always speak true no matter what the brain might want,’ Bridget answered quietly. ‘I take it not as rudeness.’

  ‘Then will you tell your husband I am here, that I wish to discuss the business of a young boy of the name Joseph Elwell.’

  Pale as her face was it paled even further as Bridget heard the name. Who was this young woman demanding to see Zadok, was it that lad’s sister, had he managed to find his way home?

  ‘It’ll do no good—’

  Snatching a quick breath Saran’s interruption was firm as it was sharp. ‘Mrs Minch, please tell your husband he will speak with me or with the magistrate, I leave the choice to him.’

  Was this what she prayed for every night . . . was this the end for Zadok Minch and his evil practices? Hugging the hope to her, Bridget led the way to the upstairs sitting room.

  This woman was wife to Zadok Minch, the mistress of this house, yet she had the mien and attitude which might be expected of some ill-used servant. Saran had noted the slow tread up the staircase and now a light, almost trembling tap to the door and the clenched hands as she waited for permission to enter.

  ‘Bugger off !’

  Seeing the definite flinch of the other woman’s shoulders, Saran knew she was not mistaken: Zadok Minch was a bully.

  ‘I told you . . . I said he would not see anyone.’

  Frightened eyes turned quickly to Saran and for one fleeting moment she saw her own mother’s terrified eyes, her body cringing before the vicious fist of Enoch Jacobs. Jacobs had joined with the moon dancers, but her mother . . . maybe the man inside that room could tell where she and Miriam were.

  ‘You will have to leave.’

  Bridget Minch’s whisper had barely left her thin lips when Saran flung open the door.

  ‘Zadok Minch?’ Her heart pounding, Saran stared defiantly. She had come to find her mother and no man on earth would stop her.

  ‘What the bloody hell . . . !’ Minch glared at his wife.

  ‘I . . . I apologise, Zadok . . .’ she pressed backward, away from the anger already turning the heavily jowled face red, ‘she . . . she would not leave.’

  ‘Wo
uld not!’ He seemed to relax, his corpulent frame leaning into the wide armchair, one hand stroking the thigh of an attractive woman seated on his lap. ‘The Night Watch will change that!’

  Drawing her courage about her like a shield Saran lifted her head, a gesture which said she was in no fear of his threat. ‘I would welcome them, and I think the magistrate would be more than interested in hearing the testimony of Joseph Elwell, the young boy you whipped almost to death.’

  Seated on his lap the wide-eyed figure tensed, then reached a long-fingered hand to touch gleaming brown hair piled high on a well-shaped head, soft wisps of curls framing an expertly made-up face.

  Aware of the movement and of the tension it covered, Zadok barked again at his wife. ‘Get the Night Watch!’

  ‘Wait, my dear, let us hear what . . .’

  ‘Saran Chandler.’

  ‘. . . what Saran Chandler is accusing you of . . . I would like to know what it is she thinks you guilty of.’

  Inquisitive eyes had fastened on Saran, yet somehow she got the impression it was not what she might have to say interested this attractive woman but rather what the man fondling her body might have to say.

  ‘What you be saying be pigshit!’ Zadok glared at Saran. ‘Remember, wench, thistles grow well in pigshit and them as sows ’em gets pricked!’

  ‘But pull them out and you are left with clean earth, that is what I want, Mr Minch, clean earth.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘The truth. I want the truth. The truth regarding not only Joseph Elwell but also my mother and sister, who were sold to a Zadok Minch by Enoch Jacobs in an inn in Walsall town.’

  It was a wild gamble, a guess she could not authenticate, but as she flung the words Saran caught the quick glance directed at Bridget Minch and her heart leapt. It had not been an empty guess.

  ‘Get out!’ A snarl laced with venom had his wife stepping quickly from the room, closing the door as she went.

  ‘First a boy and now a woman and her daughter.’ The attractive figure laughted lightly. ‘Really, Zadok my love, how do you answer such an accusation?’

  Meeting the lips that bent over his, Zadok ran his hand from hip to stomach, pressing his fingers where skirts covered its base.

  ‘The best way,’ he answered as the generous mouth released his, ‘the way I always settles a grumble.’

  Pushing the figure from his lap he rose. Reaching behind the chair he lifted a thick, plaited leather whip.

  ‘This be something folk don’t argue with for long.’

  ‘Is that the same whip you used on a young boy because he refused to play your filthy games!’

  ‘Games?’ The question was meant to sound amused but, caught by the light of several lamps, the wide eyes of his paramour glittered a virulent displeasure not lost on Zadok.

  ‘Look at her!’ Reaching out with the whip he flicked Saran’s faded skirts. ‘Look at the clothes, they tell you why her be here; dream up some cock-and-bull story then come into a man’s home and accuse him of it and he’ll pay just to get her out. Well, this be one man won’t be blackmailed by no bloody tramp!’

  Anger overriding fear as the whip cracked close to her side, Saran stood her ground. Were Zadok Minch innocent he would not threaten, he would simply have had her taken by the Watch.

  Silken skirts rustled as the slender figure moved to stand before a white marble fireplace, the perfume of violets wafting with each step. There Zadok’s companion turned, a smile curving a painted mouth.

  ‘Of course you will not allow yourself to be blackmailed, my darling, but let the girl speak, I find her amusing. This boy,’ she said as Zadok made to refuse, ‘what game was it you claim Zadok would have him play?’

  ‘It was no game,’ Saran answered coldly. ‘It was something no decent human being would force another to do . . .’

  ‘Enough!’ His face swollen with rage Zadok cracked the whip, the force of it lifting strands of Saran’s hair.

  ‘I agree, my dear.’ Taking a silk wrap thrown across a chair the elegantly dressed figure draped it about bare shoulders. ‘I no longer find the evening entertaining, therefore I shall take my leave.’

  The door closing behind the perfumed figure, Zadok let the full force of his fury show.

  ‘You’ll be sorry for ever coming to my house, sorry you ever heard the name Zadok Minch.’

  Saran watched the whip rise. The man was dangerous, incensed, but still she must know.

  ‘The same as my mother and sister were sorry for hearing it?’ she asked, more quietly than she thought possible. ‘The same as Joseph Elwell must have been sorry. Did you do with my family what you wanted to do with that boy . . . did you force them to fall in with your filthy ways and did you whip them half to death when they refused?’

  For interminable seconds the whip stayed in the air, then, a smile curving Zadok’s mouth, he lowered it, resting the handle across the palm of his free hand. ‘The boy was of no consequence except for the loss of the money I could have got forrim, they pay well in the East for young boys.’ He paused, small eyes glittering cruelty from puffy sockets. ‘As for the others, the woman I purchased in that tavern objected to my . . . games . . . she objected to my taking what my money had bought, namely her daughter. I have no liking for old worn-out flesh so the woman was bought only as a servant in my kitchen, but the young one . . . her flesh tasted sweet.’

  ‘You swine . . . you filthy . . . !’

  A lightning strike of the whip lancing across her shoulders checked Saran as she launched herself at him.

  ‘Maybe.’ He laughed, a short grating laugh. ‘But even a swine enjoys rutting with a younger one, and I did. I took what was mine right there on that heath while her mother watched.’

  ‘No!’ Saran shook her head. ‘My mother would never stand by while you raped Miriam!’

  ‘No more her did!’ He laughed again. ‘Her couldn’t stand, not after this here whip had done its work, but her could watch. Oh yes, her could watch and I med sure her seen it all.’

  He wasn’t a man, no man would do what he claimed to have done. Yet as Saran stared into those cruel eyes she knew it was no lie. Zadok Minch had whipped her mother until she couldn’t stand, then had raped Miriam before her eyes.

  ‘Where are they?’ she whispered. ‘Where are my mother and sister? Give them back to me; here –’ she fumbled in her pocket, withdrawing the money she had grabbed before leaving Brook Cottage ‘– this is more than you paid, take it and let me take my family.’

  ‘Five pounds!’ Podgy fingers closed over the white banknote. ‘Now where would a tramp get five pounds from, unless it be from lying on your back with your legs spread.’

  ‘I am not a prostitute.’ Saran threw the words at the whiskered face. ‘I earned that money selling bread.’

  ‘Bread, was it?’ Zadok sniggered. ‘Well, it won’t be no loaf you’ll be giving Zadok Minch. If you wants your family you have to give him what lies atwixt your legs.’

  Loathing rising like gall, Saran felt her stomach heave. He was asking . . . he wanted . . .

  ‘The choice be your’n.’ Zadok’s cruel eyes echoed the laugh grating in his throat. ‘This be a game I won’t force you into, but if you want your folk, you’ll play it.’

  If she wanted her folk! The words rang like a bell in her brain. She wanted them more than anything in the world . . . but to lie with this man!

  ‘I have paid you far more than you gave Enoch Jacobs,’ she said desperately, ‘five pounds should—’

  ‘Five pounds don’t be enough!’ he rasped, anger returning the dull-red sheen to his face. ‘I’ve told you the cost, now pay it or go.’

  The cost! How could she pay it . . . how could she give herself to this man, feel his flesh against hers’ his body entering hers? The very thought revolted her . . . but not to pay it, to leave Miriam and their mother at the mercy of a man who hadn’t the faintest notion of the meaning of the word! How could she do that?

  Struggling again
st the nausea of what she had to endure, her tears blurring the heavy-jowled face, she let the worn shawl slip to the floor, her fingers slowly releasing the buttons of her blouse.

  ‘You be older than the other one but Zadok Minch don’t be a man to deny a wench pleasure on account of a few years; now your mother were a different kettle of fish altogether, her’d been rode that many times—’

  ‘Stop!’ Her cry only a whisper, Saran stared at the leering face.

  ‘Stop?’ Zadok Minch laughed. ‘Why stop doing what you enjoy . . . and I be enjoying this.’

  ‘Please . . . please, tell me where they are.’

  Thick-fingered hands dropping the whip, the leer dying on wet lips, eyes dilating with lust the plea seemed to add to the fires sweeping through the nail master. Grabbing for her he snatched at her blouse and chemise, ripping them apart.

  ‘Never pay for goods ’til them goods have been sampled.’ Close against her throat his tongue licked every slurred word across trembling flesh.

  Let it be over soon, please, God, let it be over soon! Unable to prevent sobs leaving her lips as she was pressed to the floor, Saran tried to hold fast to the one thing preventing her from screaming: once this man had taken what he wanted he would tell her where her family was . . . she would have them back.

  ‘The other one sobbed.’ Her underwear was snatched away, and, his trousers removed, the heavy figure straddling her laughed again. ‘Yes, ’er sobbed, but only ’til this were pushed into ’er, this . . .’ he knelt upright, holding engorged flesh between his fingers, ‘this this soon quietened ’er, took to it like a babby teks to a stick o’ barley sugar, and you’ll tek to it the same way.’

  ‘More games, Zadok!’ A crack of the whip flicked Zadok’s bare bottom, causing him to roar as he rolled from its reach.

  One hand pushing down her skirts the other drawing the torn blouse across her breasts, Saran felt the blood of shame flood her face.

  ‘Come to me, my love, it’s over, Zadok Minch won’t ever touch you again.’

  Relief adding to the trembling of every limb, Saran reached for the outstretched hand of Jairus Ensell.