‘We can’t afford no television,’ said Alice, in the kind of tone she might use if he’d asked if she intended to fly to the moon.
‘Mam isn’t fit to work just yet and I’m still at school,’ Dena hastily butted in before Alice caused any further offence with that biting tongue of hers. ‘The neighbours do what they can to help but it’s nowhere near enough. I’ve been thinking that happen I’d best leave school early and get a job. We desperately need more money coming in.’
The doctor frowned. ‘How old are you, Dena?’
‘Thirteen.’
‘Good Lord, you’re far too young to leave school. Education is important. You need to make something of yourself, bright girl like you.’
‘I’ll be fourteen in a month or two.’
‘Even so, you’re far too young.’
What she didn’t tell him was that for much of the time she was also far too hungry, because whenever they were short she was the one to go without. If it wasn’t for handouts from the neighbours and the vegetables she got from Barry, they’d surely starve.
Again the doctor assured Dena that her mother could well be entitled to sick benefit in this New Jerusalem currently being built by the Beveridge committee, and she agreed to ask if this was true.
Dena would much rather have remained invisible and avoided any awkward questions from the authorities. Nevertheless, she dutifully presented herself at the council offices the very next morning where a snooty official looked down his nose at her before instantly ordering her off the premises.
She bravely stood her ground, tried to politely inform him that her mother was ill and couldn’t work, so could they please have some money to tide them over till she was well again. When the man physically ejected her from the building, threatening to call the police, Dena realised that the New Jerusalem hadn’t arrived yet, not in Manchester anyway.
Chapter Five
Champion Street Market was crowded, as always on a Saturday. Stalls lined the pavement from Tonman Street to Deansgate, some little more than trestle tables piled high with goods to be picked over by bargain hunters and browsers alike. There was the pot man juggling his plates, letting one fall every now and then, just to get people’s attention, before beating down his own prices and selling dozens in a mock auction.
‘Look at the beautiful pattern on this tea-set, every bit as pretty as your Auntie Nellie’s garters. I’m not asking ten shillings – I’m not asking five shillings, or four or three shillings. Who will give me half a crown?’
He’d gathered quite a crowd this morning, many just for the entertainment.
On the corner sat old Mr Lee who’d been wounded in the first World War, and was still selling his matches as he had done every Saturday this last thirty-odd years. He was well loved and the place wouldn’t have been the same without him.
Old men in flat caps and mufflers stood in a huddle by the ancient horse trough smoking their pipes, discussing the odds on the three-thirty or whether City would get in the cup this year. Harassed mothers kept a tight hold of their children’s hands in case they should wander off and get lost in the crowds. A normal market day just like any other.
Except for Dena Dobson. Dena didn’t think that life could ever be normal again, not for her at any rate. She should have been in the café by nine as usual, ready to serve breakfast to hungry stall holders. Instead she was sitting in a waiting room that smelled of cat pee and unwashed bodies, determined to get some help for her mam.
The last thing Dena needed was to put her job at risk, but, unable to visit the council offices during the week now that she was back at school, Saturday morning had been the only appointment she could get.
She’d nearly given up when that po-faced official had thrown her out, much preferring not to draw attention to herself or to risk giving any clue as to what had really happened to her brother. But then she’d remembered something: Pete had come home from school one day with bruises on his face and knuckles. It had happened again a week or two later, and sometimes he winced when she scrubbed his knees or his neck. He’d insisted nothing was wrong but Dena was almost certain he was being bullied by someone, although he wouldn’t say who, or why.
Yet he’d shown such courage, even when they were beating him to death down by the canal. Dena felt duty-bound to be equally brave, so that if Pete was watching her from heaven, he’d be proud of her.
Like it or not, she had to try again.
She needed help with the rent and rates, sick pay for Mam, or else unemployment benefit. Dena had no real idea which if any of these would apply to them, but they definitely needed some sort of allowance to tide them over and enable her to stay on at school, and she was determined to get whatever was their due.
But underneath her bravado she was scared, and desperately anxious not to lose her Saturday job while she fought for these so-called rights of theirs.
Belle might give the impression of being full of good cheer and not one for taking life too seriously but beneath that easy-going, life-is-all-about-having-a-good-time attitude, beat a heart of pure steel. Her affection and tolerance stretched only so far as her own needs and material comforts, and those of her two sons, were concerned. These came first and last and Belle Garside would bend any rules in order to maintain this creed and her comfortable life-style.
So if her young waitress turned up late for work yet again, even if it was because of waiting in a queue at the council offices, family tragedy or no, Belle would view it as a waste of her valuable time. Time for which she was paying good money. And she could easily take it into her head to sack her, which would be a disaster. They’d starve for sure then.
Dena sat in the waiting room for what seemed like hours worrying about all of this before finally being called into a tiny, windowless room, the walls painted a bilious green.
A sour-faced woman with whiskers on her chin and the shadow of a moustache above her upper lip sat opposite, and for several minutes she scrutinised Dena from head to toe through narrowed eyes while establishing her name and address. Only then did she indicate that Dena might sit on a hard wooden chair.
Her next question came like a bark of gunfire. ‘Where did you get those bruises?’
Dena gave her the same story she’d told the doctor, all about trying to save her brother. The woman looked equally sceptical, a pair of dark bushy eyebrows, liberally speckled with grey, coming together in a disbelieving scowl. ‘So, why can’t your mother work?’
‘Because she’s ill.’
‘What’s wrong with her?’
Dena again explained. The woman’s response was not one of sympathy or understanding but simply another sharp query as to why, in that case, Dena herself couldn’t get a job.
‘I’m only thirteen and still at school.’
The woman frowned even more. ‘I expect your headmaster would agree to your leaving early, once you turn fourteen. I could give you a letter to say you need to be released as you are your family’s sole means of support.’
For some reason she seemed to imagine this would solve everything.
‘I’d really prefer to stay on and finish my education. Our doctor thinks that’s important.’
The whiskers seemed to bristle as the mouth twisted into a thin-lipped smile. ‘Education is wasted on girls. You’ll get married and be having babies in no time, then your husband can keep you.’
Dena felt sick at this bleak prediction for her future. ‘Even if I did leave school this summer, we still have to eat in the meantime, and pay the rent and, like I say, Mam’s pension isn’t enough to keep us.’
‘Has your mother ever paid an insurance stamp?’
Dena didn’t know but very much doubted it. ‘She’s only ever worked part time, so happen not.’
‘In that case she is not entitled to sick pay. She will just have to pull herself together, find a job, and pay into the scheme before she can benefit from it. It’s all very new, you know, and there’s only so much money in the pot to go around
. I suggest you find a cheaper place to live, if you can’t afford the one you’re in.’
‘I don’t think they come much cheaper,’ Dena said, ‘not unless we move in with the rats in the sewers.’ This last sharp retort gained her nothing at all, and she quickly found herself once more out in the street, this time with a fistful of indecipherable forms in her hand, feeling utterly helpless and as if she’d been defiled in some way. Even as the woman had thrust the papers at her, she’d bluntly stated that Dena could certainly fill them in, if she was able, but not to hold out any great hope of getting any money out of anyone.
‘You aren’t the only family to have lost loved ones in recent years. Grit your teeth and bear it, girl, like the rest of us.’
It had been a complete waste of time; yet another fruitless effort.
Now she was late for work, and losing her Saturday job would be just about the last straw. As Dena hurried between the stalls, pushing her way through the crush of people, she could hear the market hall clock chiming ten and her heart sank.
First thing Monday morning before even she’d eaten her breakfast the woman was at the door. The heavy, authoritative knock warned of her presence and a peep through Mam’s clean lace curtains confirmed her worst fear. Dena groaned. She should have realised that calling in the Social was a bad mistake.
‘It’s that woman from the council offices. She must be here to check up on us.’
‘Don’t let her in,’ Alice warned. ‘I don’t want no officials snooping round my house.’
‘I can’t leave her standing on the doorstep making that racket, Mam. All the neighbours will hear. If we don’t let her in, Mrs Emmett will for sure.’
Dena took a deep breath and went to open the door, her heart in her boots.
Good manners made it necessary to offer the woman a cup of tea, and Miss Rogers, as she introduced herself, complained about the lack of milk. Dena said nothing. Alice sharply retorted, ‘If we could afford milk every day we wouldn’t be in this pickle.’
‘It’s about your – situation – that I have called.’ She looked closely at Dena. ‘How are your bruises? Mending, are they?’
Dena managed a small nod, not even glancing at her mother.
The thin lips beneath the faint shadow of a moustache pursed disapprovingly. ‘How do you think she came by that black eye, Mrs Dobson?’
‘How would I know? The girl’s always up to mischief but on this occasion I reckon it might have had something to do with trying to save her drowning brother.’ And Alice went on quietly sipping her tea and chewing on her toast.
Dena, who had been holding her breath without knowing it, let it out in a rush. At least Mam had come up with the same tale, albeit by chance.
Miss Rogers returned her scrutiny to Dena. ‘So that we don’t disturb your mother while she is enjoying her breakfast, perhaps you could show me around.’
Dena looked startled. ‘Oh, all right. If that’s what you want.’
‘I do.’
It didn’t take long. There wasn’t much to see. Just the one room downstairs where they lived and ate, and one upstairs where they slept. The double bed was made, a clippy rug beside it, the curtains drawn back to let in what little sunshine could be found on a grey winter’s day in Barber’s Court, and the place neat as a pin, exactly as Alice liked it. Strangely, this seemed to surprise Miss Rogers.
‘My word, how very tidy. I can see nothing lying about and the room is really quite commendably clean.’ She ran her finger along the shiny surface of the chest of drawers then lifted a corner of the counterpane to examine the cotton sheets and crochet-trimmed pillow slips. ‘Extraordinary!’
Dena bridled. ‘Mam doesn’t see any excuse for muck and mess just because a person is poor. Soap is cheap, she says.’
‘Indeed!’ Miss Rogers gave Dena a considering look. ‘And there seem to be one or two remarkably fine pieces of furniture in here. That mahogany wardrobe, for instance, and this chest of drawers with the claw feet. They would bring a good price if you were to sell them.’
Dena became alarmed. ‘Mam wouldn’t hear of it. She’s had this furniture since she first got married. They’re all the possessions she has in the world. Anyway it would be daft to sell them. What good would that do? We’d have nowhere to put our clothes and the money wouldn’t last long, and what then?’
‘You seem to be very opinionated, for such a young girl.’
Since Dena hadn’t the first idea what she meant by this comment she remained silent, but she was breathing hard, still annoyed and instinctively defensive of the woman’s superior attitude.
‘I shall call again and hope to see that bruise of yours quite gone next time. Perhaps you’ll also have found a solution to your current difficulties, your mother back at work, and on the up and up again.’
‘She’s not fit to work. She hasn’t even set foot outside the house yet, not since our Pete - are you going to let us have some money?’ Dena dared to ask.
The woman blinked. ‘Dear me, I thought I’d explained all of that quite clearly. I shall have to keep a close eye on you. One child drowned and the other bruised does not strike me as the mark of a stable home. I shall need to monitor the situation most carefully, make no mistake.’
It sounded very like a threat.
Alice glanced up as they entered the kitchen, a sarcastic sneer on her flushed face. ‘Had a good nose round, have you?’
‘Thank you, I’ve seen all I need to.’
Dena showed Miss Rogers to the door then ate her breakfast in silence, ignoring Alice’s complaints and questions for once. After that she quickly cleared away and washed up before dashing off to school. But she was troubled by the visit, and by the woman’s comments. Her attitude was worrying. Something wasn’t right.
Chapter Six
‘Have you taken table five’s order?’ Belle barked, making Dena jump. ‘Since you’ve at least deigned to show up on time this Saturday, you could stop day dreaming and put a bit more effort into your work, girl.’
Dena quickly apologised, bit her lip and dashed off to do her employer’s bidding, leaving Belle with a guilty sense of unease.
She did feel sorry for the lass, losing her brother in that terrible accident. Something fishy about that though, in Belle’s opinion. The papers had said the boy was a mess when they’d dragged him out, with broken bones and badly decomposed, but the police put the state of the body down to the length of time it had taken them to find it and were not treating the death as suspicious. Belle wasn’t convinced so she really shouldn’t be too hard on the lass.
‘I dare say you’re still grieving for your Pete,’ she said, the minute Dena returned to the kitchen. ‘You must miss him.’
The girl’s eyes instantly filled with tears. ‘Oh, I do. It’s terrible!’
‘And your mam not coping too well then?’
Dena shook her head, unable to speak.
Dena herself had likewise been a mass of bruises. Belle had been aware from that first week that she was covering something up because she’d winced whenever a heavy tray pressed on her arm, and she would nurse her ribs whenever she thought no one was looking. Had something occurred on that towpath to cause the boy to fall?
Belle considered asking Carl, or Kenny, to see if they knew anything about this supposed accident but then had taken the view she always took with her sons: the less she knew about their personal affairs, the better.
Belle was no saint herself and always had a few fingers in various pies which might make her a bob or two. She had her own set of standards which very much put her own needs to the fore. Nevertheless, she judged it wise not to enquire too closely into those rules which her boys set for themselves.
They were a close family and she knew how much they loved and protected her. At least, Carl did. Kenny was far too fond of himself to properly understand what caring meant. For this reason, and others of a more personal nature, Belle had never warmed to her younger son as she did to Carl. But that didn’t
greatly trouble her. Such was life.
The café got busier as the morning wore on, customers and stall holders alike popping in for a hot drink or a bite of dinner. Dena waited on them all with a smile, doing her utmost not to be distracted by her troubles.
She felt fortunate to have found Belle in such a benevolent frame of mind when she’d finally got to work last week after speaking to the woman at the Social, probably due to the fact that the market superintendent was having his morning coffee at the time.
Belle always liked to present a good impression of herself when Joe Southworth was around and had accepted Dena’s apologies with surprisingly good grace, together with a stern warning not to let it happen again, naturally.
But it didn’t pay to take advantage, or to look as if she was neglecting her duties.
Dena set a plate of steaming Lancashire hot pot before a harassed young woman. She didn’t seem old enough to be the mother of the young boy beside her, around four or five years of age and happily tossing spoonfuls of mashed potato and bits of chewed sausage on to the floor.
The woman gave his hand a little smack and told him off for being a naughty boy. Dena thought he might wail or cry over the scolding but he looked up at his mum, all big-eyed and smiley and put his hand to his mouth. ‘Oops! That means no ice cream now, I suppose.’
The young mother laughed and even Dena stifled a giggle as she hurried back into the kitchen. The boy reminded her so much of Pete at the same age, always into mischief, always testing Mam’s patience to the limit. A great lump came into her throat and she instantly wanted to cry. But she refused to allow herself to be sad. The naughty little boy had recalled happy times, of which there’d been plenty once, and that was surely the best way to remember her brother.
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