Orphan of Angel Street

by Annie Murray

  ‘I know what happened to ’im, I was there, wasn’ I? It was me brought ’im up out of the mud, and now I wish I’d fucking well left ’im there!’

  Mercy went out with Johnny the next evening. He came round and asked and she didn’t feel she could refuse.

  ‘Just give me a tick to get changed,’ she told him.

  ‘Least he seems more cheerful than yesterday,’ she said to Mabel and Susan. ‘’E was ever so funny with me last night. Must’ve been the shock.’

  ‘They’ve all had more than their fair share, that’s for sure.’ Mabel was clattering plates in the scullery. ‘He’s come home to a basinful.’

  It was a mild evening, and not yet dark. Johnny waited out in the yard. As Mercy came out he eyed her up, suddenly afraid. She was dressed in matching brown: a calf-length skirt, a white blouse with a little tie at the neck over which her coat was hanging open, button up boots and a little felt hat with a feather in it.

  ‘Posh nowadays, aren’t yer?’ he said, unable to keep the aggression from his voice.

  ‘Only because of Dorothy. She gives me hand-me-downs.’

  She knew his eyes were on her and felt as if her skin was tingling. It was somehow a threatening feeling.

  ‘Where d’you want to go then? Pictures or summat?’

  They sat in the picture house together. Mercy had always loved it before, the excitement of going out, a gripping picture to take your mind off things. But now it only reminded her agonizingly of Tom. She kept glancing sideways at Johnny, his profile in the flickering light from the screen. She could not have mistaken the two of them. Johnny’s face was thinner, longer, the nose more snub.

  Seeing her looking at him, Johnny suddenly reached over and caught hold of her hand. She sat stiffly, keeping her hand in his, their palms going sticky. Once he let go and smoothed his hand along her thigh and she froze. He took her hand again. At the end of the picture he let go. She wiped her palm on her skirt, and knew he had seen her doing it.

  It was dark outside. Both of them were subdued, each feeling less and less at ease. Mercy wanted to talk to him, ask him things, but what was there to say?

  Johnny was used to women who spoke little English. There were lots of hand signals, giggles from them as he clowned it, he could touch them, each of them knowing how it would end up. But here he felt expected just to walk and talk in the darkness. And Mercy was so grown up now, so pure and beautiful, so well dressed. He felt at sea, and then angry and frustrated.

  ‘So what d’yer wanna do now then?’ he asked in a harsh voice.

  Mercy was just as much at a loss. With Tom she could walk anywhere, close and comfortable, holding hands, not needing anything outside themselves for entertainment. But Johnny seemed a complete stranger to her now, and one who was smouldering and unpredictable.

  ‘Shall we just go home?’

  Each of them looked at the other, desolate for a moment, then in an offhand voice, yet burning with fury inside, Johnny said, ‘Oh awright then, if that’s all yer want.’

  He was used to being courted, women eager for him, his cheeky good looks, the meagre pay he gave them which, close to the front line, they needed to fill their bellies. But now this superior little bitch wanted to get away from him as fast as she could. He felt deeply, terrifyingly lonely.

  They were walking quite briskly now, towards the bottom of Bradford Street. There was silence until Mercy could bear it no longer.

  ‘Johnny—’

  ‘What?’ His tone was savage again.

  ‘Was it really you – saved Tom’s life?’

  ‘Yes.’

  There was a long silence.

  ‘Will yer tell me ’ow it ’appened?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because yer don’t want to know.’ He was walking so fast she could barely keep up. ‘None of you want to know.’

  ‘I do.’

  Even if he had wanted to he couldn’t have described Ypres for her. And why should she know, just by hearing of it? Why should she have it so cheap?

  ‘I want to know what happened to ’im, Johnny.’

  ‘’E got shot in the head. There’s nowt else to say about it.’

  She was pleading, desperate to break through his cruel harshness. ‘I need some way to feel close to ’im.’

  I’ll show you, he thought. I’ll show you how to feel close to Tom.

  ‘Come ’ere.’ He took her hand, pulling her round the corner into Rea Street, walking between steelworks and dark warehouses.

  ‘Where’re we going?’

  Johnny turned on her, filled again with angry desire. He shoved her up against the warehouse wall.

  ‘Johnny for God’s sake—’ Her voice was high and frightened. But his need was driving him too strongly to hear her, his body taut. He didn’t speak. His hands were in her clothes, pulling, lifting, forcing. Mercy felt the air cold on her legs as he drew her skirt up and she clutched uselessly at it trying to keep it down.

  ‘What’re you doing? Don’t – oh Johnny, don’t!’

  She could just see his eyes in the darkness and they were looking, but not seeing her. She was present but somehow cancelled out and this silenced her. Her head was grinding against the wall. Johnny was pushing his body against hers, his breaths sharp and urgent, hands tearing at her bloomers and she fought him, shouting, ‘No, Johnny – no!’

  Frustrated he pulled at her, unable to reach, to get in. This was no good. Why didn’t the silly cow get in the right position?

  ‘Move!’ he ordered her.

  ‘What d’you mean? Oh my God, Johnny, what’re you doing to me?’ She didn’t know what he meant, what he wanted.

  When she felt him naked, thrusting against her, panic overcame her. What was this . . .? Oh my God, no . . .

  He was more than ready, felt himself begin to come, yet thwarted and he clutched her tight, groaning in surrender.

  ‘Johnny – stop it – you’re horrible!’ She shoved him away from her with every fibre of herself, running, sobbing, towards Bradford Street.

  ‘Bitch!’ His cry came after her, distraught. ‘Horrible, am I? You don’t know nothing, yer stuck up little bitch! . . .’ The sound of her running footsteps faded along the street. ‘Don’t go . . . Mercy . . . don’t leave me!’

  Chapter Nineteen

  When they heard that Johnny had been invalided home, Elsie took the news very quietly, as if she had no spark of hope left in her. The dead or the living dead – what other fates lay in store for her young ones?

  Mercy’s feelings were very mixed. Johnny had gone back to the Front in March without saying goodbye and with no apology for what had happened that night. She had kept out of his way for the rest of that week, only seeing him with the others, and then they’d barely spoken to each other or exchanged a glance. None of them had heard from him since he’d gone back. Mercy didn’t exactly blame him. He’d been like a complete stranger to her, one whose presence would have been disquieting had he really been a stranger, but as an old childhood friend, almost a brother, she had found him frightening and sad.

  She felt weighed down by exhaustion and grief. Tom sat there day after day. There seemed to be no future to look to, only the ashes left of her hopes. Her old childhood feelings of uncertainty, of not seeming to fit or belong anywhere, had come back very strongly now Tom had been taken from her. She’d grown into a woman, but the roots of her being, who she really was, were hidden from her. Sometimes she looked at Mabel and Susan and thought, I don’t know who these people are, not really. I don’t belong to them, or have blood ties with them. I just ended up here somehow.

  The spring of 1918 had passed into summer with its own slow, tragic rhythm. Any shred of glory there had been at the beginning of the War was gone and it was now a long, heartbreaking struggle.

  ‘What’s the point of all this?’ Mercy complained to one of the other girls in the factory. ‘Here we are turning out all these grenades day after day just so’s it’ll all g
o on and on. The whole thing’s just a waste of everybody’s life.’

  The other girl stared back at her, worried. ‘Ooh, you’d better not go talking like that, Mercy. No good, that ain’t. You’ll get us all into trouble.’

  But Mercy found herself thinking: everything’s lost. I’m lost.

  Johnny was in hospital in London for a time, then they sent him to Birmingham.

  ‘Mercy—’ Elsie’s eyes were watery, like those of an old woman. ‘Will yer go – with Alf. Just this time, and tell me . . .?’

  Mercy nodded, heavy-hearted. She knew Elsie couldn’t stand any more, was afraid Johnny might be in the same state as Tom.

  She and Alf travelled to Dudley Road together, to the Poor Law Infirmary which had also been turned over to nursing war casualties. Alf had no jokes now, to speed them along. He seemed lost too, cut loose from the moorings of his own life.

  As the two of them walked the long, scruffy corridors to Johnny’s ward, Mercy found she was praying, her lips actually moving. ‘Please, please don’t let it be bad, not like Tom—’ When they reached the door her legs were shaking so much she could barely stand.

  Tears of relief poured down her face when they spotted Johnny sitting up, his hair a fraction longer than the last time they saw him, his eyes immediately registering who they were. As she and Alf walked along to him, there came a low whistle from a couple of beds away.

  ‘Hey, mate,’ a voice called. ‘Yer a lucky fella!’

  Blushing, Mercy realized the lad was talking about her. She gave him a half smile.

  ‘’Allo, son.’

  ‘Awright, Dad?’ Johnny said. He smiled as Mercy said hello as well.

  They moved to the side of his bed, conscious of being watched. The long Nightingale ward was packed with rows of beds down both sides, each one occupied by a young man, many of them with dressings and bandages, but the atmosphere was completely different from Highbury. These men had ‘caught a Blighty’ while fighting and were now fortunately ‘out of it’ for the forseeable future, more a cause for celebration than anything.

  ‘What happened to you?’ Alf asked. Mercy saw his hands were shaking.

  The lower part of Johnny’s body was hidden by a tent of bedclothes, the covers raised away from contact with his legs by a wire frame.

  ‘Bloke bayoneted me by mistake.’ Johnny suddenly let out a gleeful chuckle. ‘Before we’d even got started. Stuck it right deep in the back of my leg, ’e did. Reckon ’e saved my life.’

  ‘Thank goodness you’re awright.’ Mercy was shaking. ‘Your mom’ll be in – only she just couldn’t . . .’

  Johnny understood, she could see. She watched him, her embarrassment and anger over what had happened between them almost forgotten now. None of that seemed important, not compared with life and death.

  *

  Just when life seemed set on a downward spiral into despair, the course of the War changed. Through August and September the headlines were full of uplifting Allied progress, of victories at Amiens, and, at the end of September, against the previously impregnable Hindenburg Line south of Cambrai.

  During those weeks Mercy visited Johnny as often as she could, at first out of a sense of obligation and later because, hard as she found him to be with, she could see the acute loneliness in his eyes. She kept her visits brief. She took anything she could get hold of in the way of flowers or fruit. He was always civil enough to her, if distant, and seemed pleased to see her. He was less harsh now he knew he would be home for some time. His mates on the ward interpreted her presence as part of a devoted courtship, and he hadn’t apparently contradicted them.

  So much of what war had left behind in all these young men was hidden to Mercy, until one day in October when she was visiting Johnny. It was chilly with a cold wind blowing, and Mercy’s head was pounding as she walked into the hospital. When she had almost reached the ward she found lights dancing in front of her eyes and knew that if she didn’t stop she was going to faint. She leant against the wall and bent over, holding her hat on, until the blood roared in her ears and her vision returned to normal.

  ‘You all right, miss?’ a voice said.

  Mercy righted herself groggily to see one of the nurses eyeing her anxiously.

  ‘’Er, yes. Thanks. Just come over a bit faint for a moment.’

  ‘Oh – I know you, don’t I?’ the young woman said. She was blue-eyed and kind. ‘You’ve come to see Mr er . . .’

  ‘Pepper.’

  ‘That’s it. He’s doing well. One of the lucky ones, I’d say. ’Course, it’s not healing quite as fast as it might because of him forever trying to get out of bed, but there we are – same for a lot of them.’

  Mercy was puzzled. Perhaps the nurse had mistaken him for someone else. Johnny always sat quite still in bed whenever she saw him. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Oh – the nights . . .’ The nurse rolled her eyes tactlessly to the ceiling. ‘Completely different place. You wouldn’t recognize it here at night. Dreams, you see – nearly all of them. It’s like a madhouse with them jumping about. Wouldn’t think so to see them all joking and card sharping now, would you?’

  After this conversation Mercy went to Johnny’s side feeling a new tenderness for him. She sat by his bed, still feeling groggy and shaky but trying not to let it show. They talked about the family, how Rosalie was, and then Mercy said, ‘Johnny – d’you have bad dreams of a night?’

  ‘No.’ He frowned. ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh.’ She was confused. ‘Just summat the nurse said. It doesn’t matter.’

  There was always a tantalizing feeling that he was holding back a huge reservoir of thought and feeling, and Mercy, still nervous of him, was not sure whether to press him to talk.

  Mostly they avoided mention of Tom. His state was a subject too painful for both of them. But that day Mercy told Johnny that Elsie had taken down her little shrine to Frank.

  ‘She said she’s got to think about the living,’ Mercy said. ‘Mabel says she thinks she’s done ’er grieving that way and . . . Johnny, you listening?’ She was finding it hard enough to concentrate herself today. The ward seemed stiflingly hot and her head was thumping.

  Johnny was staring ahead of him. His hair had grown a lot in the past two months and now almost covered his ears. It made his face look softer, less gaunt than before.

  ‘D’you hear what I said?’ Mercy repeated.

  ‘I can’t go back there.’

  ‘They say the War’s nearly over,’ she assured him. ‘You won’t be in any state to go back for months yet—’

  ‘No!’ he said fiercely. ‘To Mom. Home. Or what’s left of it. I can’t go back there and live with ’em. Tom sat there all day. It’s no good for you either, Mercy. You ought to get out. Get away.’

  She tried to joke with him, though she was having to concentrate harder and harder to talk at all. She was burning hot and the walls seemed to be rippling strangely. ‘Oh yes – where d’you think I’m going to go, Johnny, little orphan girl? All alone in the world, me.’

  ‘You’d find your way.’ He looked at her with sudden intensity. ‘Clever girl like you. It’s not that difficult. But—’ – he shook his head – ‘as for going ’ome – I feel as if I’ve lived years longer than them already. And walking back in there . . . It’s like living in a grave. I’m getting out. Soon as I can walk.’

  It took her two buses to get home and as she went, Johnny’s words hammered in her mind. Her cheeks and forehead were feverishly hot, her legs unsteady, and as she waited at the first stop on Dudley Road, she longed just to lie down, curl up and not have to move for a very long time. When the bus came it felt horrifyingly hot and stuffy and she had to go upstairs to find a seat. Her throat was very sore, she was dizzy, and sickened by the stench of cigarettes and stale old clothes.

  ‘Get out while you can,’ Johnny’s voice boomed in her head, riding on the hard throb of her blood.

  By the time she had crossed town, caught the second bus to t
he Moseley Road and was walking home, she was shivering violently and her hands and feet felt like thick chunks of ice, while her head was still overheated and felt heavy enough to snap her neck.

  ‘I feel ever so bad,’ she said as she got to number two and almost fell through the door. George let out a shriek at the sight of her from his perch and she thought it might split her head.

  ‘Oh ah, well feel bad when yer’ve given me a hand,’ Mabel said, disgruntled.

  ‘I can’t.’ Mercy sat leaning her head against the back of the settle. Now she’d sat down she felt she’d never be able to get up. ‘I just can’t.’ She was swaying, floating.

  Susan wheeled herself over and peered at her. ‘She looks bad, Mom. Like you said about Mrs Ripley. I reckon it’s that influenza.’

  ‘Oh well, that’s marvellous bringing it in ’ere,’ Mabel grumbled unreasonably. ‘Best get yerself to bed then – you ain’t going to be any use down ’ere, are yer?’

  ‘I can’t.’ Mercy slumped to one side, her body on fire. ‘Can’t.’

  They had to look after her downstairs. Mabel wasn’t prepared to get her upstairs, Susan couldn’t help and Elsie insisted that they had the thin old mattress off Cathleen’s bed. Mercy was sweating and shivering, burning up with fever, her head pounding and limbs hurting. She had terrifying, shapeless dreams and often cried out in her sleep, too ill even when awake to know how worried they were about her.

  She was aware of different impressions of the room: light or dark, the sharp smell of slack as Mabel stoked the fire with their meagre supplies, cooking smells, voices. In the daytime the fever let up a little and her head was clearer but she was so weak she could barely move. The mattress felt punishingly hard under her. Come the evening, the fever raged through her again. Susan laid wet rags on her head and body.

  ‘Can I have water?’ Mercy kept begging her. ‘More water?’ Often she didn’t know where she was. Her head felt as if it might burst.