The Urchin's Song

by Rita Bradshaw

  It didn’t help that Vera could barely read or write either; her friend’s letters were written in an enormous round childish hand and consisted, at the most, of four or five lines of painfully laborious script, holding nothing of the warm, vigorous woman she knew. She missed Vera more than she would have thought possible, and although there had been times in the past when she had been unable to get home for a month or more, she had always known she was within a carriage ride should the situation call for it. Now, in this alien world where no one spoke with a warm northern burr and where she’d felt enclosed in a strange, isolated bubble the last couple of months, she had secretly cried herself to sleep more than once. Which was stupid, daft, for a grown woman of seventeen years of age who had been charting her own destiny for five years or more, she chided herself vehemently. But she couldn’t help it. It would be better when she was working. She was longing, aching to throw herself into her work again. Nothing compared to stepping out on to a stage and singing and entertaining an appreciative crowd. She’d missed that too.

  And so she prepared for her debut on the London stage with dedication and enthusiasm and very little nervousness. This was something she understood, something she was good at. The rest of it - the niceties of middle- and upper-class conduct, the formalities of social etiquette and the hundred and one pitfalls it contained for the unwary - was not so enjoyable. But necessary. Oliver said so. And he was an experienced and respected agent who had been in the business longer than she had been alive, as well as being a gentleman by birth, so he should know. She could trust Oliver . . . couldn’t she? But she wished, she did so wish Vera was here.

  Vera herself, three hundred or so miles away in Sunderland, was in something of a quandary as she stared into her sister’s worried face. And when Betty said again, ‘What am I goin’ to do, lass? I can’t abandon her; Frank wouldn’t expect that,’ she had to restrain herself from saying harshly, ‘I’m not so sure about that. Didn’t you tell me he all but threw her out after the do with Josie?’ Instead she joined her hands together on the kitchen table, and leaning forward, said quietly, ‘You know very well that you can’t swing a cat in this place for bairns, an’ with the two rooms upstairs packed to overflowin’ and you sleeping downstairs as it is there’s not an inch of ground to put another bed. You’ve got enough on your plate bein’ mam an’ da to your own lot, Bett. An’ she’s a nasty bit of work, don’t forget that. Havin’ the accident, bad as it is an’ I don’t say the poor lass isn’t sufferin’, won’t change her basic nature.’

  ‘Aye, I know that. I’m expectin’ nowt in that line.’

  ‘An’ you say Barney can’t have her? I thought him and Prudence were all right again, and she’s good pals with Pearl.’

  ‘Oh aye, Barney and Prudence get on well enough, but since Pearl’s bin took bad with this disease of the blood or whatever, she can’t do nowt but lie in bed most days. Her mam’s round there every hour the good Lord sends accordin’ to Barney, worried sick Pearl’s mam an’ da are. It’s drivin’ Barney mad, especially ’cos he’s not sure how bad Pearl really is but that’s another story. Anyway, Prudence can’t go there.’

  Vera nodded slowly. By, talk about it never rains but it pours. Years Barney’s sister had worked at that laundry and never so much as the whisper of an accident, and then the girl had to go and get her hands caught in a calender. According to Betty, Prudence had been trying to untangle a sheet that had got caught and instead she’d got her hands entwined and they were dragged on to the hot steel bed and crushed by the rollers. The hospital had been good but she couldn’t stay there for ever, and they’d made it clear she wouldn’t be able to do much at first when she came out and would need a bit of looking after.

  ‘What about the other brothers? Can’t one of them put her up for a time?’

  Betty shook her head wearily. ‘Neville’s still off work with his legs an’ Reg’s not bin long gone back as you know. They’re all havin’ a right time of it an’ their wives are doin’ all sorts to try an’ make ends meet. An’ with Amos’s last bairn bein’ - well, not quite right . . .’ Here Betty’s voice dropped almost to a whisper; for the shame and shock of that happening was still reverberating round the family months later, and hadn’t been made any easier by Amos’s wife’s parents insisting there had never been anything like that on their side, and it must be down to Amos. ‘You can’t expect them to take Prudence on, can you? It wouldn’t be fair, lass.’

  ‘It’s fairer than expectin’ you to do it. When all’s said an’ done, you aren’t even related to Prudence, Bett. Not really. An’ she’s bin a thorn in your side ever since you met Frank.’

  ‘Aye, I know, but still . . .’ Betty’s voice trailed away as Vera stared at her anxiously. Her sister had been doing so well since Frank had gone but the woman was still heartsore and had lost much of her usual chirpiness. Prudence would be the proverbial nail in the coffin. ‘No one else will have her - none of ’em can stand her.’

  Vera took a deep breath and prayed Horace would understand when she told him. ‘We’ll have her at our place, lass,’ she offered. ‘All right? There’s the spare room next to ours an’ she’ll be comfortable enough until she can go back to Newcastle again.’

  ‘Oh Vera, I couldn’t let you do that. She’d drive you round the bend, lass. Horace an’ all.’

  ‘Be that as it may.’

  ‘No, no, it’s not fair. You have the bairns afternoons as it is, lass, an’ I appreciate it more’n words could say.’

  Vera straightened up, before stretching and settling back in her seat with a sigh. ‘You’ve said yourself the others can’t or won’t have her, an’ you’re not prepared to let her take her chance as best she can.’ Personally Vera was of the opinion that Prudence’s type never sunk; they remained above water even if it meant staying afloat on the shoulders of those they were drowning. ‘True she wouldn’t be me first choice for a lodger, Bett, but there it is. Have they said how long they think it’ll be afore she’s fit to work again?’

  ‘They’re not sure. Months at least,’ Betty said unhappily. ‘But this isn’t your problem.’

  Vera stared across at her sister’s plump, worried face, and she said softly, ‘Aye, it is. Same as if the positions were reversed, it’d be yours.’ And she wouldn’t have minded having Prudence, in spite of the fact she’d got no time for Betty’s stepdaughter, except that it’d be bound to make things awkward with Josie if the lass came up for a visit. Still, she wasn’t about to do that for the time being, not with how things were in London, and however much she wanted to see her lass’s dear face she was glad Josie was out of harm’s way. With hindsight it was clear that it’d been a mistake for Josie to come back and play the halls in Sunderland. It had brought her to Patrick Duffy’s notice again and he wouldn’t have liked being thwarted a second time. By, there were some evil so-an’-sos in the world, but that man took the biscuit, he did straight.

  And then she was brought back to the matter in question by her sister saying, a broken note in her voice, ‘I dunno what I’d do without you, lass, an’ that’s a fact.’

  Neither of them was the demonstrative type but now Vera rose swiftly and walked round the heavy old kitchen table which took up most of the floorspace in the small room, and they put their arms round each other and remained quiet for a time, until Vera said, ‘That’s decided then. When she comes out I’ll have her - if she wants to come here, that is. She might want to stay in Newcastle with friends we don’t know about, of course.’

  Betty had sat up straighter as her sister had moved back to her seat. ‘The chance of Prudence havin’ any friends other than Pearl is about as likely as the rent man sayin’ God bless you,’ she said stolidly, pulling the worn shawl crossed over her enormous sagging breasts more tightly in to her skirt, before she added, her head cocked to one side, ‘They’re a mite too quiet up there for my likin’, lass. I bet the little devils are diggin’ the plaster out of the walls again an’ eatin’ it.’ And she disappea
red out of the room to check on her brood in the bedroom upstairs with a swiftness that belied her bulk.

  Vera sat in the warmth of the cluttered, untidy kitchen, her mind only half concentrating on the hullabaloo above her head which indicated Betty had been right about the plaster and her bairns, who were supposed to be getting ready for bed. She glanced across at the youngest Robson - a little girl of six months old - lying in the battered crib to one side of the range, but without really seeing her tiny niece.

  All this with Pearl; what was it about? Was the lass really ill or just making on? Certainly her collapse, two days after Josie had gone to London, had been genuine enough, and the resulting investigations in the infirmary had thrown up this blood problem which the doctors seemed able to do little about. Something to do with the blood not functioning properly, Barney had told Betty, but he couldn’t really be more specific because the doctors weren’t saying much beyond Pearl had to rest and eat nourishing food. But she’d seemed to get worse lately, not better. Barney was in two minds about it all, but then perhaps that wasn’t surprising with things being so bad between him and Pearl. She had played the invalid on and off since they’d been married to avoid her wifely duties, Barney had told Betty in a moment of bitter frustration. Supposedly ailing one moment, and the next gadding about shopping with her mother or whatever. Betty had said he’d spoken as though he was at the end of his tether.

  The thought brought anxiety flooding into her chest in a sick wave. She remembered the afternoon they had heard about Frank’s death and she had seen the way Josie and Barney were looking at each other in her kitchen. No, no, she wouldn’t believe it. Her lass was a good girl. Josie would never . . . Vera shut her eyes tight for a moment. Thank God Josie was down in London and Barney was up here; likely their paths wouldn’t cross in years. She was working herself up over nowt. She had more than enough to cope with here; she didn’t need to go out looking for more trouble.

  Vera reached for the big brown teapot in the middle of the table and poured herself a cup of lukewarm tea which she drank straight down.

  Aye, she was imagining things sure enough, but all the same she wouldn’t mention Pearl being middling to Josie. There was no need for the lass to be told, and it was better Josie concentrated on her new life down south where she was safe. Duffy wouldn’t bother her down there for one thing, and this other, this . . . figment of her imagination, would die a natural death if it wasn’t fed. Pray God.

  Chapter Thirteen

  He’d get it in the neck from Jimmy when he got back. Hubert hunched his shoulders at the thought, skimming a flat pebble across the water as he did so. He had walked the six miles from the East End to Seaham Harbour earlier in the day - something he occasionally did when the urge to escape his lot became overwhelming - but hadn’t stayed long at the harbour itself, walking back up the coast past Seaham and towards Hole Rock where he’d found a quiet spot away from it all.

  Normally, even on his worst days, he enjoyed the bustle and noise coming from the docks and outer harbour; the timber yards, iron and brass foundry and Bottle Works all adding to the vibrant life of the place. He usually spent some time watching the massive cranes in the dry harbour at the side of the South Dock, and walked down to the Bottle Makers Arms for a bowlful of thick mutton soup before he made his way back home. The last two years though, since the rebuilding and enlargement of the South Dock had begun, he hadn’t felt the same about the harbour, or maybe it was just that he was growing older?

  These days he was aware of the chaotic, slummy development stretching from the back of North Terrace in a way he hadn’t been when he’d first walked this way with Jimmy as a little lad of five or six, and again the ropery, foundry, gasworks, chemical works and the like which hugged the coast south of the docks hadn’t really registered on him. Probably because he’d been used to the pall of thick, noxious smoke and polluted air in the East End.

  He tilted his head in the dying sunlight of the cool May evening, drawing the cold fresh air redolent with the scent of grasses and faint tang of the sea deep into his lungs.

  Jimmy would be back from collecting the dues by now. Who would he have taken with him when he’d realised his brother had skedaddled? Albert maybe, and perhaps Harry. Both of them were big brawny numskulls who liked nothing better than beating the living daylights out of some poor soul, or scaring women and bairns witless. By, it was a filthy job, collecting what people owed Patrick. It made a rent man’s job appear sweet in comparison. At least the worst they threatened was getting the bums in when folk couldn’t pay. And why, why would people be so daft as to borrow money from Patrick anyway? Everyone knew his reputation. Still, if it was a question of Patrick or the workhouse, some of them chose the little Irishman although they usually lived to regret it. Once Patrick had a foot in, you were his, body and soul.

  Hubert shivered, although he wasn’t cold. Jimmy knew he hated collection days, which Patrick varied each week in order to gain the element of surprise on the debtors. There were always three of them on the job; one, himself usually, to knock on the door and ask for the dues while the two others stood in the background looking menacing. Together they would march down the streets, putting on a grim expression and looking mean. Many a time the way cleared before them like magic, bairns hightailing it to warn their das that the lickspittles, as Patrick’s hirelings were nicknamed, were coming.

  Some of the streets weren’t so bad, and where a man was in work there’d invariably be something paid off; folk would pay Patrick and keep the rent man waiting any day. But round where he’d been born - Long Bank and the quays and the rabbit warren of streets stretching east from the river - it was bad. Wretched dwellings with barely any furniture; stinking, filthy bairns with faces covered in scabs and hardly a stitch of clothing. By, he hated going there and watching Jimmy and the others throwing their weight about. Last week had been one of the worst times; he’d had to get mortalious that night to blot out that room and its occupants in Blue Anchor Yard.

  They’d climbed the stairs carefully, mindful of their creaking and rocking and the great holes in the skirting boards where rats lurked, and when Jimmy had struck a match to guide their way, lice had been crawling in their hundreds on the rotten walls. The family they’d been calling on had been on the top floor in a cell-like room which held eleven; the meagre amount of coal they’d had was kept in a cupboard and the rain was coming through the roof and soaking the foul-smelling flock mattress on the floor which was bedding for the whole lot of them. Pitiful it’d been, right pitiful, and still Jimmy and Albert had theatened and bullied the sick father whose body had been racked by St Vitus’s Dance, until the bairns had been screaming in fear and the mother had promised she’d have something for them the next week. And they all knew how she’d get it; she’d go and sell herself down at the dockside. It was all she could do because everything else had failed.

  Then there’d been Maling’s Rigg. The gloomy dank passage they’d entered had led to a room even worse than the other one but there they had drawn a blank. The father had committed suicide two days before and his widow and their six children had been taken to the workhouse just an hour before they’d got there.

  He’d go stark staring mad, he would, if he had to continue with the dues. He couldn’t do it any more, and he didn’t understand Jimmy over this. How could he act the way he did with folk who could’ve been them not so many years back, before Josie lifted them out of the pit they had been in? He sometimes even thought Jimmy enjoyed what he was doing; swaggering about as though he was Lord Muck.

  Hubert wiped the back of his hand across his brow which was damp with perspiration. It was getting these days so he didn’t know where Patrick Duffy left off and his brother began, and certainly Jimmy relished being known as Patrick’s favoured protégé. It made Hubert feel physically sick every time he heard Patrick refer to Jimmy as ‘son’, and it was happening more and more in the last couple of years. He sometimes thought Jimmy had forgotten he wasn’t
Patrick’s own flesh and blood. By, to be connected by blood with Duffy . . . Hubert’s upper lip rose as though he was smelling something unclean.

  How long could he go on like this, playing along with it all? But then he didn’t really have an option, did he, not unless he was prepared to be six foot under. Even Jimmy wouldn’t be able to protect him if Patrick decided he was for the jump. Would his brother stand up for him if it meant going against the man who had taken them in all those years ago when their da had gone missing? Hubert frowned to himself; a lone gull circling overhead in the clear blue sky causing his eyes to raise as it cried its lonely call. A couple of years ago he would have known the answer to that but now he wasn’t so sure. Jimmy had changed, hardened, or perhaps his brother had always been as callous as he was now, and Hubert hadn’t appreciated the fact until he’d met Josie again. Certainly since that night when he had been reunited with his sisters, he had begun to question everything more.

  Hubert let his eyes roam the vast expanse of blue water in front of him for a moment, before walking away from the tiny frothy waves lapping the beach and throwing himself down at a point where wiry coarse grass dotted with hundreds of tiny resilient wild flowers met the sand.

  He had listened to their Jimmy and Patrick jaw about Josie until he’d begun to believe she was this cold, brazen hussy they’d portrayed. This had been one of the reasons he had gone to see her that night. He’d needed to see for himself whether the memory he had of his elder sister - as a slight, fiercely protective little figure with melting brown eyes and a smiling mouth - was right or wrong. In spite of what Patrick had said, he’d found it nigh on impossible to believe that the Josie he remembered would have betrayed her brothers to the law. Not their da, oh no, he could have expected that all right, but him and Jimmy? She’d mopped their tears and wiped their backsides from when they were little babbies, and once she’d started the singing she’d fought their da all the way to clean up their home and make sure there was always food on the table and a fire in the range. They hadn’t had much, but the little they’d had had come from Josie sure enough.