There was talk of change in the neighbourhood, of buildings being threatened with demolition. ‘Slum clearance’, they called it. A proud town like Kendal didn’t much care to have any part of it described in such a way, although finding the money to make the necessary improvements always took second place to the needs of the wealthy, to men like Josiah Angel, who ran this town. It could be years before they ever got round to the task.
Little, in fact, had altered in the district over the last two centuries beyond some necessary attention given to the sewers and water supply, which had originally come from the Tea Well at the top of Fountain Brow, and had been closed almost half a century ago because of the risk of typhoid. Overall there still hung the sweet-sour stink of mouldy decay, shared privies, household refuse, and the waste and sweat of too many bodies crowded into too few dwellings.
Old women still sat on stools at their doors while barefooted children played hoop-la or marbles in the filth of the gutters, if they were fortunate enough to own such treasures and not otherwise employed helping to work the hand-loom, or run errands for their mothers. Yet despite this evidence of a close-knit community where loyalties were strong and everyone knew the business of their neighbours, it was not a place to linger, nor one in which to risk taking short cuts unless you were sure of your bearings.
Mercy ventured out only to buy a few essentials. She kept herself very much to herself, wrapped in a private world of grief. She missed her mother desperately, and, despite her good intentions, would often waste hours each day just lying on her bed weeping. She might never have found the courage to carry on at all had it not been for Jessie. It was the older woman who had gently bullied her into working again by fetching her the yarn. She’d remind her to eat, insist she wash her face, even comb her tangled curls. And when the day’s shift was done, she’d fetch her up a bit of warm dinner on a plate.
Jessie Flint was a large woman with breasts like cushions that shook when she laughed, which she did surprisingly often. She had smooth white hair fastened in a knot at her nape, and dark watchful eyes, few teeth, but plenty of grit in her soul. She was the mother of nine children, all of whom seemed to have miraculously survived, no doubt due to the canny ingenuity their mother instilled in each and every one of them. They were all of them streetwise, never missing a chance to earn an easy penny, whether by holding a gentleman’s horse or sneaking off with his purse. Jessie’s view of right and wrong was tempered by the necessity to earn a crust, if not always an honest one – the needs of her precious brood coming well above any fancy law devised by the rich and the blessed.
The Flint family made their living out of weaving, and from knitting stockings, the younger ones knitting in the thumbs. Jessie had readily passed on all she knew to Florrie when she’d first come to Fellside. Like her mother before her, from whom Jessie had learnt these skills, she would stand at her door in her old coal-scuttle bonnet, swaying or ‘swaving’ as the knitters called it, moving gently with the rhythm of her knitting sticks. There were few knitters left in Kendal now, the trade almost gone, but Jessie clung on to the old ways because she loved the work, and needed every penny she could earn.
Mercy didn’t know how she would have coped without her friend, or Jessie’s eldest son, Jack, who was yet again urging her to carry out her mother’s last wishes.
‘Damn it, Mercy, just swallow your pride, go to the store and ask for work. It’s what your ma wanted for you. That bastard Josiah Angel owes you that much at least.’
‘I want nowt from him,’ Mercy said, her small voice tight with pain. ‘The man has ignored my existence for sixteen years, why should I go to him now with me begging bowl?’
‘Because he’s your da, and as much responsible for your well-being as your ma was.’
‘No he ain’t. I loved me ma, but I hate him.’
‘’Course you do, but who else do you have now that she’s gone?’
‘I have you and Jessie. Leastways, I thought I did.’
Jack patted her head in a rare show of affection. ‘’Course you do, lass. Always, you know that. But we’re stretched as it is, and this man could give you so much more. You deserve better than this.’
Mercy was accustomed to listening to her old friend, whom she admired and revered, turning to him whenever she was in trouble. Jack was older and wiser than herself, a man now at twenty-three, and with a growing reputation for toughness. He led a band of followers who lapped up his every word, ready to do his bidding with no questions asked. But Jack was no one’s fool, and not a man to cross. If power helped you to survive on Fellside, then Jack Flint ranked high in the pecking order; top of the tree in these buildings, although there were rival gangs down other yards and entries.
He could be as boisterous and rowdy as the rest; drink most of them under the table when he had coins in his pocket, but was also pig-headed, stiff-necked, and naturally perverse and argumentative. He was perhaps a mite too impulsive, and certainly never slow to take on a fight if challenged. But he was also a man of strong opinions with a mind of his own, the sort of person you could turn to when in trouble, always ready to take on the world if he sensed an injustice, albeit judged by a set of principles forged by the tough life he’d led. Jack Flint was impervious to danger and readily flouting all normal rules and conventions.
In Mercy’s eyes he could do no wrong. He was deeply caring, supportive and protective; not only her best friend but her hero, and she had adored him for as long as she could remember. Even the look of him delighted her. His hair, the colour of burnished mahogany, sprang back from a wide brow, reaching almost to his shoulders, as wild and untamed as Jack himself. His velvet brown eyes were dark and brooding beneath winged brows, the chin strong and square, the lower lip full and sensual beneath a straight, almost aquiline nose. A face that might have marked him out as an eighteenth-century gentleman, had not the set of those broad shoulders proved he was very much able to take care of himself in the tough world of Fellside.
Of late, Mercy had begun to see him in a rather different light from that of big brother, a role he’d readily adopted on her behalf, although not through any encouragement on his part. Much to her disappointment, Jack still saw her as a scrawny child in need of care and protection. But it had long been Mercy’s secret desire to alter this view he held of her, given time and opportunity. She dreamt he might one day see her as a young attractive woman. For this reason alone, if for no other, she paid heed to what he had to say.
‘You don’t have to give a toss about the greedy bastard. I’m not asking you to turn into Josiah Angel’s devoted daughter, or to love and respect him. Why should you, for pity’s sake? But you could use him, as he used your ma. Play him for all you’re worth and relieve him of some of his ill-gotten brass.’
Mercy gave a vigorous shake to the head. ‘Oh, I could never do that. I couldn’t just walk in and ask for money any more than I could ask him for a job. I just couldn’t.’
Jack let out a heavy sigh, and looking into the young girl’s pale face with bruises like thumb prints beneath those big turquoise-blue eyes, judged that she might be right. Mercy Simpson was not nearly as tough as she might pretend, which was something she’d need to change in the months ahead.
‘How about if I make the appeal on your behalf?’
‘Oh, I couldn’t ask you to do that for me, Jack. It wouldn’t be right.’
‘Why wouldn’t it? It’s no skin off my nose. He can only say no, can’t he? Though he’d have to give me a damn good reason why, if he refused to do owt for you. Here, give me that letter, and I’ll see what I can do, eh?’
‘I’m not sure.’ Mercy glanced at the letter, which lay between them as they sat cross-legged on the dusty wooden floor. She stared at the familiar handwriting penned in her mother’s carefully rounded script, and thought of walking into Josiah Angel’s fancy store, looking like the scarecrow she was. Mercy quailed at the thought. She’d be tongue-tied. Even if his minions allowed her in to see him, she very mu
ch doubted he’d listen to a word she said, let alone read any letter she held in her filthy paws. And yet…
‘No, Jack, it’s my responsibility. I’ll do it. I’ll make an extra effort and clean mesel up a bit. Happen ask your mam if she can find me summat decent to wear. Then I’ll go and see him. Beard the lion in his den, as it were. Anyroad, I’m curious to know what he looks like. He’s me da, after all.’
Jack felt a nudge of pride for her spirit, but he also felt very slightly cheated. There was nothing he’d have liked more than to find some excuse for challenging that man, anything to use against the bully who so pitilessly exploited folk in order to satisfy his own greed.
The cottages and lofts that Josiah Angel owned and which Jack’s entire family inhabited, along with several others, were naught but damp, rat-infested fleapits, with insufficient privies to serve all the poor souls who occupied them. People had taken to using the streets rather than face the stink of lavatories that often overflowed. Yet rents were going up time and again despite the fact that the amount of weaving work available, much of it provided by his friend and colleague Henry Hodson, was rapidly decreasing. The weaving trade was dying before their eyes, nothing was being done to save it, and yet the workers were still being screwed for every last penny.
Oh, aye, Jack had his own reasons for doing battle with the man, besides supporting Mercy.
He’d privately relished the prospect of giving him a punch on the nose for what he’d done to poor Florrie, and by default little Mercy here. Course, he could always make a few enquiries on his own account; sniff out the opposition, like, test the waters, check out the lie of the land. Jack trotted out all his favourite catchphrases in his head, savouring the thought of these investigations.
He resolved to keep a close eye on what went on, and if the man didn’t treat her right, he’d soon find that Mercy was not alone in her current difficulties. Josiah Angel might be able to fob off Florrie and her child, but the fellow would find that he, Jack Flint, was a very different kettle of fish. He’d soon discover that the lass now had friends capable of protecting her, ready to stand up to bullies like him. And by challenging the evil bastard, Jack would be doing all the occupants of these buildings a favour.
Chapter Four
Mercy hesitated as she reached Angel’s Department Store, desperately trying to summon up the courage to enter. She’d done the best she could with her appearance, scrubbing her face with Pear’s soap and water till it shone, and Jessie had washed her hair with lye soap, and combed the tangles out of it. Mercy had rarely done such a thing more than once a month in her life, and since Mam had been ill, hadn’t bothered at all, soap being something of a luxury. She’d been astonished to rediscover her own fairness, and how soft and slippy and clean her hair felt. Really quite wonderful. It had grown so long, Jessie had pinned it up for her into a sensible chignon at the back of her head. The new style made Mercy feel very grown-up.
Jessie had also insisted upon laundering her only blouse and good skirt, although it meant Mercy going about clad in nothing but her shawl until they were dry and ironed. Then her flannel petticoat and vest, worn next to her skin, which to her certain knowledge had never been washed, were dunked in the wash tub too. Mam had always considered it highly dangerous to remove underthings, particularly at night. Now the clean flannel felt all scratchy and stiff, and full of shaming holes as the shock of the hot water seemed to have made the fabric fall apart. Fortunately no one but herself would ever see these, and Jessie had assured her the flannel would go soft again, with wear.
Jack had managed to find some boot polish from somewhere, which he’d used to good effect on her one decent pair of boots. They pinched her toes a bit but Jessie said that were she to secure a job as a shop assistant, a uniform would be provided. Perhaps accommodation too, as many of the young women employed by Angel’s were housed either in large dormitories above the store or in various quarters around the town.
Standing before her friends Mercy had felt unexpectedly optimistic and excited, but now she was sick with anxiety. She felt insignificant and out of place, the stuffed mannequins with their knobs for heads in the shop windows looking far better dressed than she was. But then Mercy couldn’t recall the last time she’d worn anything new, if ever.
Giving a little gulp in a futile attempt to moisten her dry mouth, Mercy pushed open the shop door and walked in. She was as quickly marched out again with a stern reprimand from a man in a smart morning suit. Spruced up and clean she may be by Fellside standards, but not respectable enough to be seen shopping in Angel’s emporium.
Back out on the pavement, Mercy chewed on her lip, wondering what to do next. How was she ever to get a job if she wasn’t allowed to set foot in the store? It suddenly occurred to her that, like any grand house with a servant’s entrance, the store itself would no doubt have a back door for employees, who likewise mustn’t be seen cheek-by-jowl with the esteemed customers. She set off down a side alley in search of one and soon found what she was looking for. No one answered her timid knock so she turned the handle and crept inside.
The door Mercy had found opened onto a long corridor which, in turn, led to a labyrinth of similar passages. Mercy tiptoed along them, feeling very much like a mouse who might be pounced upon at any moment by the resident cat.
Finally, and to her great relief, she opened another door and found herself in a large room. Her first impression was that it was filled with boxes, stacked high on the floor, on tables, on every possible surface, but then she saw that people were engaged in unpacking them: young boys, and girls in black dresses with their sleeves rolled up.
There were shelves all around the perimeter of the room filled with bolts of fabric, lace curtains, blankets, mantles, shawls and even furs; a strange looking collection of brass stands that held an assortment of hats, muffs and umbrellas. One was completely decked out in feather boas. A group of the same mannequins she’d seen in the shop window leant drunkenly together in one corner, their knobbed heads close together as if gossiping over some naughty secret. And through a half-open door Mercy glimpsed a second room, which appeared to be filled with girls operating machines of some sort, perhaps sewing the fine garments that she’d seen on display.
Mercy was so overawed by the scene that she might have been content to stand transfixed for hours, drinking it all in, had she not been approached by a tall woman with a stern face and a spine that looked as if a steel rod had been inserted into it.
‘And what might you be doing in our stock room, young miss? If you’re seeking employment you should have rung the bell and waited.’ She cast a jaundiced eye over her shabby blouse and skirt, and the too-large coat she’d borrowed from Jessie.
‘I never saw no bell,’ Mercy murmured.
‘And I presume you have no experience either? Where was your last employment? Do you have any references? Can you even read? Standards are high for Angel assistants, and we don’t make a habit of taking in wastrels who drop in uninvited off the street.’ She folded her arms across her bony chest. ‘Well… I’m waiting.’
Mercy struggled to recall all the questions, and to remember the little speech she’d practised with Jessie and Jack before setting out. Sadly, her mind had gone completely blank and all she could do was to stare at the woman with her jaw hanging open.
‘Speak up, girl,’ the woman chided her. ‘I suppose you do have a tongue in your head? Come along, I don’t have all day.’
Only when she felt her collar being grasped in an iron-grip, which surely meant she was to be evicted yet again, did she spring to life and speak. ‘I want to speak to Mr Angel… If you please, ma’am’ she added, remembering her manners.
‘What did you say?’ The woman sucked in her thin mouth, looking very much as if Mercy had asked to be admitted to an audience with the King himself. ‘I – beg – your – pardon!’ punctuating her words loud and long, so that heads turned and noses twitched, sniffing trouble brewing.
But having got t
his far, Mercy wasn’t going to be easily put off. She shook herself free, smoothed down her skirt and said rather primly. ‘Please tell Mr Angel that his daughter is without, and would like a word if he could spare five minutes of his time.’ This little practised speech, finally remembered, was triumphantly offered and it gave Mercy great satisfaction to see how the shock of her words sent a dozen expressions flitting across the woman’s ashen face in quick succession, from disbelief, through outrage, to nervous uncertainty.
In the end discretion won and Mercy was indeed shown into the inner sanctum of Josiah Angel’s office. At last, she thought, excitement and trepidation warring within, I shall meet my father face to face.
Not for a moment had Mercy expected Josiah Angel to gather her to his bosom or weep with joy over being reunited with his long-lost daughter, but neither was she prepared for what did happen.
He was standing behind his desk when she entered the office, a large man dressed in a frock coat and trousers of unredeemed black, seeming to fill the small room by his dominating presence. He rocked back and forth on his polished heels as he studied her for a long moment, his silence making Mercy feel all hot and bothered about the collar. And she could see by the cold fury of his gaze and the tight curl of his upper lip, that he was not impressed by her ploy to gain entry. His opening salvo confirmed her worst suspicions.
‘It’s not often that I get to meet such a consummate liar. I’ve seen some nifty tricks played in my time in the fond hope of gaining employment, but this takes the biscuit. I assume it is work you’re after?’ He didn’t wait for Mercy to answer but hooked his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets and began to pace about the room, his gaze raking over her with critical disapproval as he calmly continued with his lecture.
House of Angels Page 3