The House By Princes Park

by Maureen Lee

  Jacob had fallen apart. His hair was dirty, he smelt. His beard was a tangle of stiff, matted hairs. But it was Jacob’s weakness that gave Ruby the strength to carry on. She told herself that one day he would get better, find a job, and they would live somewhere nice. Anywhere would be an improvement on Foster Court.

  ‘Would you do us a favour, Ruby, luv?’ Martha Quinlan said. ‘I’m expecting a delivery from the brewery today, and I’m a bit short o’cash. Would you mind taking something to uncle’s for me?’

  ‘Uncle who?’

  ‘Uncle no one, luv. I’ll just have to pawn me engagement ring, not for the first time, I might add,’ she said darkly.

  ‘You want me to take your engagement ring to the pawnshop?’

  ‘Otherwise known as uncle’s, that’s right, luv. I’ll give you something, two and a half per cent’s the going rate.’

  ‘Two and a half per cent of what?’ asked Ruby, mystified.

  ‘Of whatever you get, girl. Are you thick or something this morning? Old Nellie, the pawnshop runner, popped her clogs last month. I’ve been stuck ever since.’

  ‘Stuck for what?’

  ‘Someone to take me valuables to the pawnshop, that’s what,’ Martha said impatiently. ‘I’ve got me reputation to consider. I couldn’t be seen going anywhere near the place meself.’

  ‘All right.’ Ruby forgot her vow never to enter a pawnshop again. ‘Where shall I go?’

  ‘Reilly’s on Park Road pays the best rates. I’ll give you a note. Mrs Reilly knows me by name, if not by sight.’

  Mrs Reilly had a hard, businesslike manner, but was a great improvement on the man who’d stolen her watch. Like Overton’s, the window at the front displayed jewellery and various items of silver. Ruby found an entrance round the back leading to a small room with the now familiar grille. She had to wait while a child, much to her amazement, pawned a man’s suit.

  ‘Have you taken over from Old Nelly?’ the woman asked when Ruby eventually gave her the envelope containing Martha’s ring and a note to say who it was from.

  ‘No. I’m just doing a favour for Mrs Quinlan.’

  ‘That’s a pity. There’s quite a few people who’ve missed Old Nelly since she passed on. Hang on a minute while I show me husband the ring.’

  Ruby waited, the woman returned, ‘Twenty-five shillings,’ she said.

  ‘What’s two and a half per cent of that?’ They hadn’t taught percentages in the convent.

  ‘Sevenpence a’ penny.’

  A few days later, Ruby was sent to redeem the ring with the promise of the same sum. It seemed an extraordinarily easy way of earning one and threepence.

  ‘These people you mentioned,’ she said to the woman behind the grille, ‘What would I have to do?’

  ‘Can you be trusted?’

  ‘Mrs Quinlan trusted me with her ring.’

  ‘So she did. This needs a bit of sorting. Come back tomorrow and I’ll let you know.’

  A few days later, Ruby crossed Dingle Lane into Aigburth Road, where the properties suddenly became larger, the streets wider. Brocade curtains hung in neat folds on the bay windows, every step had been ruthlessly scrubbed, door brasses glittered in the late October sunshine. She found the road she was looking for, went down the back entry, as she’d been instructed, and entered the house, number 14, through the yard where she was met by a dazzling display of net curtains. She knocked on the door and it was opened by an anxious woman of about forty who looked frantically around, as if expecting heads to appear over the adjacent walls to see who the visitor was.

  Ruby was dragged inside a kitchen very like the one in Brambles, only smaller. The woman whispered hoarsely, ‘Are you from Reilly’s?’

  ‘I am so,’ Ruby announced grandly.

  ‘I’ve got the stuff ready, some jewellery.’ The woman’s name was Mrs Somerfield. Her hands trembled as she reached inside a drawer and drew out a paper bag. ‘How long will it take? I need the cash urgent like.’

  ‘About an hour. I’ve someone else to see.’

  Mrs Somerfield’s eyes narrowed. ‘Who?’

  ‘That’s confidential,’ Ruby said officiously. ‘You wouldn’t want me telling the other person where I’ve been, would you?’

  ‘God, no!’

  ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

  The next house was detached, backing on to Princes Park. It was a large, friendly, russet brick house, with an untidy tangle of roses around the door, and gardens front and back full of trees and overgrown shrubs. The bay windows were badly in need of a good clean and the grass urgently required mowing. Even so, it would be a perfect place to live, Ruby thought longingly, so close to the shops, yet affording a certain amount of privacy. She’d become quite keen on privacy after so long in Foster Court. A fluffy, striped kitten was sitting unhygienically on the table in the cosy, old-fashioned kitchen, giving itself a thorough wash.

  Mrs Hart, the owner of this enviable house, was a friendly woman, tall and carelessly dressed, and remarkably open about her need for money. She gave Ruby a small parcel wrapped in tissue paper. ‘It’s Dresden, so be careful with it, won’t you, dear. That son of mine will have me in the poorhouse before long. He’s at university, living the life of Riley, and draining my pitiful finances – my husband only left me a small pension. I’m forever having moneylenders banging on the door or sending threatening letters. Would you like a cup of tea, dear? You look cold.’

  ‘I’d love one, thanks.’ Mrs Somerfield would just have to wait for the cash she urgently needed. Ruby sat down and stroked the kitten who obligingly washed her fingers.

  ‘Have you taken over from Old Nelly?’ asked Mrs Hart.

  ‘I think I might have.’

  Chapter 5

  By the time Christmas came, Ruby was earning almost as much from her role as a pawnshop runner as she did from cleaning. But she could never manage to get enough together to escape from Foster Court. Now that winter had descended, there was fuel to buy as well as food. She wore a shawl instead of a more expensive coat and could have done with a pair of stouter shoes.

  Christmas was also the time when Ruby finally had to admit to herself the alarming fact that she was expecting a baby. She’d been deliberately ignoring the non-appearance of periods, the slight sickness in the mornings. She knew little about babies, but recognised the rudimentary signs. It must have happened the first Sunday in Foster Court when Jacob hadn’t pulled out as he usually did. They hadn’t made love since, which meant she was four months gone and the baby would arrive in May.

  It was Martha Quinlan who pointed out what was becoming increasingly obvious. ‘Are you in the club, luv?’ she asked on Christmas Eve.

  Ruby sat down with a thump on the chair she was polishing. ‘Yes.’ It was scary, saying the word, ‘yes’, agreeing that in five months’ time she would have a baby and it was no use ignoring it any longer, hoping it would go away.

  ‘Congratulations, luv. I expect you’re dead pleased,’ Martha said warmly. ‘Though I can’t say I’ll be glad about losing you. I’ll never get another cleaner as good.’

  ‘Oh, I won’t be leaving.’ Ruby tried not to sound as worried as she felt. She couldn’t afford to lose one of her jobs. ‘I feel fine, and I can bring the baby with me once it’s born. Can’t I?’

  Martha looked doubtful. ‘I dunno, luv. We’ll have to see.’

  The news that he was about to become a father jolted Jacob out of his all-consuming lethargy. It was Christmas Day and Ruby, usually a source of never-ending chatter, was unnaturally quiet. Her peaked face bore a sober expression he’d never seen before and her dark eyes were inscrutable. She’d done her best to make the room look festive with a few pathetic strands of tinsel around the window and draped over the tiny fireplace, in which an equally pathetic fire smouldered, giving off more smoke than flames. There was a lamb chop for dinner followed by a piece of home-made cake, a present from the woman in the pub.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Jacob asked when t
hey had finished eating, unable to stand the silence any longer. He had always found the chatter irritating, but found the silence worse.

  ‘I’m having a baby,’ she said matter-of-factly.

  Jacob turned to look out of the window, at the brilliant afternoon sun sinking in the cloudless sky, at the ice-skimmed walls and roofs. There was a sprinkling of snow in the yard. The crazy man from downstairs was peeing against a lavatory wall, his feet bare, wearing only his blanket. Somewhere, a carol was being sung, ‘Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat...’

  He sighed. ‘I think you should go back to Emily.’

  Ruby unexpectedly exploded, furiously waving her arms. ‘I phoned Emily last night to wish her Merry Christmas, to see how she was, and she doesn’t live in Brambles any more. She’s gone abroad. So I can’t go back even if I wanted.’ She glared at him. ‘Not that I do.’

  Jacob wilted under the glare. ‘What are we going to do, Ruby?’ he asked in his hopeless, tired way.

  She jumped up, stamped her foot, and began to pace up and down the room, her shoes clattering on the floor-boards. ‘We?’ she screamed. ‘What are we going to do? I know this much, Jacob Veering, you’re not going to do anything other than lie rotting on the bed, never getting washed, so that you smell disgusting and look like a tramp. But I’ll tell you this for nothing, it won’t be on this bed, not any longer. You can rot somewhere else. I wish I’d never stuck by you. Better still, I wish we’d never met. I wish they’d hung you by the neck until you were dead.’

  Jacob’s shoulders hunched lower and lower under the onslaught. ‘I wish I were dead, Ruby,’ he whispered.

  ‘In that case, why haven’t you killed yourself? What’s to stop you.’ She flung her arm in the direction of the line slung across the room. ‘There’s a rope. I’m out long enough, working, so you’ve had plenty of opportunity.’

  He felt a slight rumble of anger. ‘That’s a coward’s way out.’

  She laughed sarcastically. ‘You’re a coward already, letting yourself be kept by a woman.’

  ‘Hold on a minute, Ruby—’

  ‘I’ll do no such thing. I’m not holding on another minute. You can get out, Jacob. I’ll be better off without you. You’re a dead weight. With you gone, there’ll be more money for my baby.’

  ‘But it’s our baby,’ he spluttered.

  ‘No, Jacob.’ She shook her head furiously. ‘It’s mine. If you’re not willing to support it, you’ve no right to lay claim it’s yours.’ She threw her shawl around her. The fringed ends flicked against Jacob’s cheek, stinging.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘For a walk.’

  ‘But it’s Christmas Day!’

  ‘I don’t care if it’s Judgement Day, I’m going for a walk.’

  Ruby’s anger was too hot to let her feel the cold as she walked swiftly along the empty streets of the Dingle. It was dusk now, and the lamplighter was doing his rounds

  ‘Merry Christmas, miss,’ he said as she walked through the pool of light that appeared like magic on the icy pavement.

  ‘And the same to you.’

  Curtains were being drawn against the dark and the coldness of the night, leaving only the occasional chink of light. Families had gathered together for the anniversary of the birth of Christ. For the first time in her life, Ruby felt very alone, but it didn’t make her sad. Instead, she felt more angry with Jacob for letting her down, not pulling his weight. He’d become a burden she wasn’t prepared to shoulder any more, not now that she was expecting a child. Resting her hands on her swelling stomach, she made a vow that her child would come first, always.

  As she walked, Ruby wondered curiously if her mother was celebrating Christmas behind curtains somewhere in the land. In the past, occasionally, she’d thought about her mother, but never for long. What point was there? She could think about it till the cows came home, but it was a waste of time. Mrs, or Miss, O’Hagan might be dead. And if she was alive then she hadn’t wanted her baby for some reason which, as far as Ruby was concerned, was more her mother’s loss than hers. Until the last few months, she’d always been very happy, mother or no mother. Even now, most of the time, she wasn’t unhappy, not even about the baby once she’d got used to the idea. There were occasions, admittedly, when she had bouts of despair, but she managed to cope, somehow. If Jacob had done his share, she would have coped even better.

  He’d better be gone when she got back, she thought grimly. If not, there’d be hell to pay.

  When Ruby returned to Foster Court, Jacob had washed, shaved, combed his hair, put on his suit, and looked a new man. If it hadn’t been for the hollow cheeks and flabby neck, he would have been the Jacob of old. He glanced at her shyly. ‘I’ll look for a job straight after Christmas, Ruby. I’m sorry about...’

  She didn’t let him finish, but danced across the room and threw herself into his arms. ‘Oh, Jacob, I love you. Everything’s going to be perfect from now on.’ She cupped his face in her hands. ‘It is, isn’t it, Jacob?’

  ‘Yes, Ruby. I promise.’

  Unemployment had been rising for years. When Jacob Veering set out in search of work, there were almost a million men in competition. Jacob, unskilled in everything except farm work, found there was a limit to the jobs he could do. The docks, the mainstay of male employment in the area, were out – even experienced dockers were being laid off. The wages he’d been hoping to earn, two pounds a week at least, possibly three, according to Ruby, seemed more like pie in the sky as he was turned down for job after job, each paying less than the one he’d last applied for and, despite the paltry wages, all with a dozen men after them who’d done the work before.

  Jacob was almost tempted to take to his bed again, give up altogether, but Ruby was having their child, growing bigger and bigger, waiting for him, bright-eyed and expectant, when he returned to Foster Court after another dismal, unsuccessful day.

  ‘Never mind. Your luck might change tomorrow,’ she would say encouragingly when she saw his dejected face.

  One night, she came home from the Town Hall in a rage. ‘They’re making me leave,’ she said hotly. ‘All because of the baby. I said I felt fine, but they wouldn’t listen. They said I might fall and weren’t prepared to answer for the consequences.’ She grimaced. ‘And Martha Quinlan keeps threatening to let me go. I make her feel uncomfortable, she says, working my legs off while all she has to do is watch. In fact, she’s started giving me a hand. “It’s not right,” I keep telling her, “paying me to clean and doing it yourself.” You’d think I was an invalid or something,’ she finished indignantly.

  He wondered if Ruby had been a weaker person, not so independent, he might have risen to the occasion months ago, not given in. But she sapped any confidence he might have had, made him feel less than a man. Nothing got her down. Her initiative knew no bounds. Undeterred by the loss of her job, next morning she neatly wrote out half a dozen postcards and took them to pawnbrokers in the vicinity:

  RUBY O’HAGAN

  PAWNSHOP RUNNER

  Available to collect and redeem pledges

  Far and wide

  She was delighted with the response. Names and addresses were promptly supplied of people urgently in need of cash, but too ashamed to show their faces in the place where it could be had. From then on, she visited the shops every morning in case there’d been a telephone call or a note delivered when it was dark requesting the pawnshop runner to call.

  Without exception, the customers were women, not solely from better-off places like Aigburth or Princes Park. There were poverty-stricken families in the Dingle, too proud to let their neighbours know they had to pawn the man’s best suit on Monday to make ends meet, redeeming it for weekend use on Friday when the wages arrived. Ruby had to call at some ungodly hour, early morning or late at night, in case she was recognised, earning only a penny or twopence for her pains.

  Not all the pathetic bundles of bedding, children’s boots, canteens of cutlery, chiming clocks, o
r wedding rings, were redeemed. At the end of the week, Ruby might be told, ‘Sorry, luv. I can’t afford it. I’ll get in touch once I’ve got the cash together.’ Until then, beds would remain bare and childish feet unshod, or they might stay that way for ever.

  Mrs Hart, the nicest of her customers, had so far never redeemed a pledge. Her big house was gradually being stripped of the pretty things that had been wedding presents or had belonged to her or her late husband’s family since before she was born, to pay the ever-increasing debts of her son, the awful Max.

  ‘I’d get much more for the damn things if I sold them,’ she groaned, ‘But I pawn them in the hope that one day I’ll get them back, though where the money will come from, I’ve no idea.’

  ‘They only keep them six months, then they’re put up for sale,’ Ruby said as she nursed the growing kitten, appropriately called Tiger.

  At first she had been intrigued as to why so many apparently well-off women should so frequently require an urgent injection of cash. After a while she was able to tell the signs. There were women who drank, women who gambled, who overspent the housekeeping, who juggled a load of debts, borrowing from one source to pay off another. One sad lady she regularly called on was secretly supporting her dying father, unable to tell her husband because he wouldn’t approve.

  Some of the posh houses Ruby went in were anything but posh inside, with bare floors and mean furniture little better than Foster Court. The only decent things were the curtains on show to the outside world.

  She was becoming a familiar figure on the streets of the Dingle. ‘There’s the pawnshop runner,’ people would say as she walked by. ‘Which tuppenny-a’ penny toff are you off to see today, Ruby?’ they would call, but Ruby would smile enigmatically and put her finger to her lips.