Reach for Tomorrow

by Rita Bradshaw

  He swore again, the sound ugly, but this time Annie didn’t admonish him, and her voice was a whisper when she said, ‘What are you sayin’? By all that’s holy, lad, what are you sayin’?’

  He stared at her hard, and she at him, and then as Arthur’s snores began to reverberate in the narrow confines of the car once again Shane turned, very slowly and with measured control, and started the car.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Rosie was aware she needed to be strong as she sat facing Robert McLinnie over a pot of tea in the small café in a side street in Bishopswearmouth. It was the second Thursday in January, and he had written to her two days previously informing her he had some news about Molly but that it was imperative she told no one before she had spoken to him.

  She watched him now as he swallowed the contents of his cup, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and cleared his throat before saying, his voice very quiet, ‘You didn’t tell no one you were seein’ me?’

  ‘No. You asked me not to.’

  ‘Aye, aye.’ He cleared his throat again. ‘It’s on account of me mam you see, an’ Connie, of course. I don’t want them gettin’ the wrong idea . . .’ He straightened in his chair, screwing his buttocks into the seat, and in that moment Rosie realized he was highly embarrassed and wishing himself anywhere but where he was.

  She bent forward, and now her voice was as quiet as his when she said, ‘Robert, whatever you have to tell me will be between you and me if you want it that way, but of course I would like to tell Zachariah too.’

  ‘Aye, aye I can understand that, but this can’t be dealt with like a bull in a china shop.’

  By that she surmised that Robert - who she had heard through Jessie who had heard through Annie had been more than a little affronted at being left out of the rescue of Molly years before - was referring to Zachariah’s all-guns-blazing approach at Charlie Cullen’s establishment.

  Robert rubbed his face now as he said, ‘Look, Rosie, I don’t know quite how to put this, lass, I don’t straight, but it’s bin drivin’ me barmy the last few weeks an’ I need to get it off me chest. I remember you an’ Molly as little bairns see, we was all brought up together in a manner of speakin’, weren’t we?’

  ‘Yes, yes we were.’ She looked at his red face for a moment and then said quietly, ‘It’s about Molly, you said?’

  ‘Aye.’ And then he began to speak rapidly. ‘I happened to be in Newcastle afore Christmas with a couple of pals of mine. We’d had a few jars, you know how it is, an’ one of ’em suggested visitin’ a house he knows.’

  ‘A house?’ And then as Rosie looked into his eyes she said quickly, ‘Oh yes, I see.’ Annie had told her things were very bad again between Robert and his wife.

  ‘The lads had gone upstairs an’ I was sat waitin’ for ’em, I didn’t go up meself of course’ - Rosie wasn’t at all sure if she believed that but she nodded anyway - ‘an’ who should I clap eyes on but your Molly. It knocked me backwards, lass, I can tell you, an’ she’d ducked away an’ shut the door afore I could speak to her, but it was her all right. I’d stake me life on it.’

  Rosie stared at him, her heart thudding, and she forced herself to speak very calmly when she said, ‘When was this, Robert?’

  ‘Ah now, that’s the thing, lass. It was all of five weeks ago now, maybe six. I should’ve said somethin’ afore but like I said, I didn’t want it gettin’ back to Connie or me mam an’ them gettin’ the wrong end of the stick, see. But it’s bin like a ton weight on me shoulders since.’

  Rosie adjusted the collar of her woollen coat which suddenly seemed to be strangling her before she said, ‘Thank you, Robert, thank you so much for telling me, and I promise you I won’t tell a soul apart from Zachariah where I heard it and neither will he. You have my word on that.’

  ‘Aye, well that’s good enough for me, pet.’

  ‘Can you give me the address of this place?’

  ‘Aye.’ He shifted again in his seat. ‘But I’m tellin’ you, if your man barges in there like he did the other house, happen he’ll get more than he bargained for an’ it won’t do the lass no good neither. That place is not like on the dockside, Rosie.’

  Rosie nodded, her head whirling. What could she do?

  ‘She’s usin’ the name of Marybelle, by all accounts.’

  ‘Marybelle?’ Rosie’s voice was high now.

  ‘Aye.’ Robert nodded. ‘Rum ’un, ain’t it, but they all use fancy names - or so me pals tell me,’ he added hastily.

  They talked some more after Robert had given her the name of the street and some directions from the last tram stop, but after Robert had left, Rosie sat for some minutes as a plan began to formulate in her mind. She had told Zachariah she was seeing an old friend today - that was true enough in a way, Robert was an old friend - and he wasn’t expecting her home until much later. She was going to tell him everything Robert had said, but . . . She wrinkled her brow as her mind raced on. If she could see Molly before that, now, wouldn’t that be best? Robert had said it could turn nasty but not for a woman on her own, what threat was she? And if she could talk to Molly, just talk to her. Oh, Molly, Molly. Excitement mixed with fear and apprehension made her stomach churn. She had to try, and if she was going to do it she had to do it now. Once she had talked to Zachariah he would try and stop her.

  Rosie got into Newcastle just before mid-day, and the bitterly cold winter’s day and grey sky didn’t add to the city’s scant charm. There were the same rabbit warrens of factories, back-to-back slums, chemical works vomiting out foul-smelling smoke and steelworks in the poor part of town where Robert had directed her to go as in Sunderland, but on a larger scale.

  Once in Newcastle, she had decided to take a horsedrawn cab rather than a tram - she would ask the driver to wait for her while she went into the house to speak to Molly; that way someone would be aware of where she was - and as it picked its way through the back streets and cobbled side roads she could barely sit still. She was going to see Molly - she simply wouldn’t take no for an answer, she told herself stoutly.

  It was some fifteen minutes before the cab arrived at Pauper’s Row - an unattractive name but very apt, Rosie thought, for the grim narrow street of terraced houses. Robert had told her that the house she wanted was set at the back of this street, all by itself and adjoining the stables of a large laundry, and sure enough when the cab turned the corner a large brick house was in front of them.

  The first surprise was that, in marked contrast to the endless houses in street after street through which she had just passed, this establishment’s front door was freshly painted and smut-free along with the bright green windowframes, and the heavily ornate brass knocker was shining.

  The curtains, which looked to be a dark patterned red, were draped across each of the five large windows - two either side of the front door and one directly above it - so that it was impossible to see into them, and there was a curl of grey smoke coming from one of the chimneys.

  ‘You’ll wait for me? I shouldn’t be more than half an hour at the most.’

  The cab driver looked back at the well-dressed young woman in front of him. She wasn’t the type to be going into this particular house, not if he knew anything about it, but he kept his thoughts to himself as he answered, ‘Aye, I’ll wait, lass. As long as it takes.’

  After a minute or so of almost continuous knocking, the door opened the merest crack and a somewhat quavery voice said, ‘You’re makin’ enough noise to wake the dead, so you are. Be off with you.’

  ‘Wait.’ As the door made to close again Rosie’s small boot shot into the space, causing the door to rattle somewhat, and the voice from within to say, ‘Eee, hold on, what’s your game?’

  ‘I need to speak to someone, it’s urgent.’

  ‘Urgent, you say? You lookin’ for work, lass?’

  ‘No. No, nothing like that.’

  ‘All right, don’t sound so uppity, lass. It’s the oldest profession in the world or so they
tell me.’

  ‘Please open the door.’

  There was a pause and then, ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘I need to speak to one of the girls. Marybelle. I’ve a message for her. Her mam’s been taken bad and is asking for her.’ It was the story Rosie had decided on during the journey from Bishopswearmouth.

  Silence again and then, ‘An’ who might you be?’

  ‘I’m . . . I’m her sister.’

  ‘Well, Marybelle ain’t ’ere.’ And then, as Rosie actually rattled the door, ‘’Ere, pack it in, you. I’m tellin’ you she ain’t ’ere, she’s gone, just the other night.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Well, that’s nice, ain’t it.’ There was another pause followed by, ‘Look, if I open this door an’ let you in, you ain’t gonna cause no trouble are you? You are by yourself? I don’t want to have to call Jimmy or Fred.’

  ‘I don’t want you to have to call them either.’

  ‘Well, lass, I tell you straight, if it’d bin a bloke with ’is hoof in me door I’d have bin tempted to break his ruddy foot.’

  The next moment the door swung wide on its hinges, and Rosie was confronted by the tiny wizened owner of the voice, but such was her surprise that at first she didn’t move.

  ‘Well? Ain’t you comin’ in now you’ve raised the whole ’ouse?’

  ‘Oh yes, yes. Thank you.’ Rosie was aware she sounded stunned but she couldn’t help it. The little woman was minute, no more than four-foot-nine at the most, but it wasn’t her thin frail frame in the black alpaca dress that had caused Rosie’s mouth to gape, but the incredible painted face above. She must be seventy if she was a day, perhaps a lot older, but the white and pink face, that bore a resemblance to painted enamel, would have looked strange on a woman fifty years her junior, and the vivid blue eyeshadow and thick red lipstick turned the whole into a brightly coloured gargoyle mask. And the wig . . . Rosie found she couldn’t take her eyes off it as she followed the little figure along the carpeted hall. She had never seen hair of such a vibrant orange in all her life.

  ‘Come in ’ere, this is where the customers wait for the girls.’ Rosie was led into a large and somewhat garish room, to the left of the wide curving staircase, full of low upholstered sofas and small occasional tables, and then the tiny woman turned to face her again, and the painted mouth smiled before saying, ‘Sit down, lass, sit down. I don’t bite. Me name’s Bridget by the way. Now, you’re askin’ after Marybelle?’

  ‘I know her as Molly.’

  The woman nodded slowly at Rosie’s flat voice, and then perched herself on the edge of a sofa. ‘Aye, aye.’ The watery blue eyes narrowed. ‘An’ you say you’re her sister? You’d be Rosie then?’

  Rosie’s heart leapt. Right up to this moment she had half feared Robert might have got it wrong but it was Molly he had caught a glimpse of.

  Rosie was aware of the painted gaze taking in every inch of her, and although her coat hid her condition to all but the most observant eyes she was sure the woman had noticed it, and now her face was slightly flushed as she said, ‘Yes, I’m Rosie. I don’t know if Molly is aware of it but I got married in the summer to Zachariah, the man we had been lodging with before Molly left.’

  ‘An’ does he know you’re here today, lass?’

  Rosie didn’t hesitate. ‘No, he doesn’t.’

  ‘I thought not.’ The old woman surveyed her for a moment or two before she said, ‘Well, you’ve ’ad a wasted journey an’ that’s the truth.’ And then, as Rosie went to speak, ‘It’s the truth, lass. If you want to search each room you won’t find ’er. She’s gone, she’s one of the lucky ones. Bin picked up by a gent.’

  ‘A gent?’

  ‘Aye. This is a better class house, in case you didn’t know, we don’t have no riff-raff in ’ere, none of your scum, not at our prices. No, we cater for them what ’as got a bit of taste.’ And then she took Rosie aback for the second time in as many minutes when she said, ‘You want a cup of tea? I always ’ave one about this time afore I get the girls awake.’

  Rosie stared into the amazing face for a moment and then she cleared her throat. ‘That would be very nice, thank you.’

  The little bird-like figure jumped up with an agility that belied her advanced years and, after ringing a bellcord at the side of the fireplace in which an unlit fire was neatly set out, she resumed her seat seconds before there was a knock at the door and a young uniformed maid popped her head into the room. ‘Tea, Carrie, for both of us mind, an’ put on a plate of that spice cake Ada made last night. This lass is eatin’ for two.’

  The girl nodded, after an interested glance at Rosie, and shut the door again.

  ‘Now, lass.’ The voice was quavery but nevertheless determined. ‘You tell me the real reason for this visit an’ cut the blather, eh? I wasn’t born yesterday an’ I’ve ’eard the one about the dyin’ mother more times than I’ve ’ad ’ot dinners.’

  Rosie looked into the pink-and-white face and made an instant decision, and as she began to talk, outlining the circumstances which had led to this minute, she left out nothing, even mentioning Charlie Cullen by name. The old lady listened without interrupting, and it was only after the maid had served the tea and disappeared again, and they had had a slice of the fruit cake and a cup of tea, that she said, ‘Well, lass, you’ve been honest with me an’ like deserves like. I don’t know where your Molly’s gone, an’ that’s the truth, but even if I did it’d be more than me life’s worth to tell you. You’ve ’eard of Charlie, you know what ’e’s capable of, an’ I’ve a good goin’-on ’ere. I know one of the gents was taken with your sister an’ wanted to set her up proper like, an’ that from Molly ’erself, she was full of it. He wanted ’er all to ’iself an’ ’e was prepared to pay for the privilege, an’ if the carriage an’ ’orses that picked ’er up last Friday night are anythin’ to go by, she’s in clover, lass. Aye, clover.’

  ‘She is sixteen years old, Bridget.’

  Bridget settled back in her seat, and now the old eyes held a kind of weariness as they surveyed this pretty young woman. It was a good few moments before she spoke, and then she said, ‘There’s three types of lasses that go on the game, Rosie,’ her voice almost conversational. ‘There’s them broken in as bairns, some of ’em no more than five or six, sometimes sold by their mam an’ da or picked up random like off the streets; Charlie’s arm is long. An’ then there’s them that need to feed their bairns, or their old mam an’ da, or whatever. An’ then there’s the other kind, the kind that like it, that want it; like a drug or drink. Now this might be ’ard to ’ear but your Molly is like that, an’ I know ’cos I was the same. An’ she wants the money an’ what it can do for ’er an’ all, she’s got ’er ’ead screwed on all right. She’s good at what she does, young Molly, she used to ’ave their tongues ’anging out, I’m tellin’ you. It caused some trouble with the other girls when the customers started linin’ up for Molly.’

  Rosie couldn’t listen to any more. She stood up abruptly, shaking her head as she said, ‘I’m sorry, Bridget, I know you mean well, but I just want to get her back.’

  ‘So’s she can run off again? Think on, lass, think on.’ Bridget rose now and her voice was kind. ‘She’s gone, she’s as dead to your mam an’ the rest of ’em as if she was six foot under. Leave it alone, I’m tellin’ you. She’s where she wants to be, doin’ what she wants. You’re strong, lass, I could see it the minute you walked in the door, an’ it took some guts for you to come here an’ in your condition. But your sister ain’t like you, lass. If there’s an easy way out Molly will always take it.’

  ‘You call this easy?’

  ‘Aye, aye for her, I do. Like I said, there’s all sorts on the game. Admittedly some of ’em are forced into it an’ it near kills ’em but Molly’ll be all right. She might even end her days like me, sittin’ pretty with a maid at her beck an’ call.’ The wry note in Bridget’s voice was tinged with bitterness. ‘You’re a bonny lass. You
’ave a fine bairn an’ make a good life for yerself, but forget your sister. The lass you knew has gone for good.’

  ‘I can’t forget Molly, Bridget. She’s my sister, I love her.’

  ‘Oh, lass, lass.’

  ‘Would you get a message to her? Please, Bridget, would you do that? If I write a letter--’

  ‘No. No letters.’ Bridget jerked away, walking across to the ornate fireplace and staring down into the neatly arranged coals. ‘Letters ’ave a way of workin’ themselves into the wrong ’ands an’ then all ’ell’d be let loose. Believe me, lass, no one crosses Charlie an’ gets another chance, an’ that’s how ’e’d see it if ’e found out. You don’t know the ’alf, lass.’

  Then the little figure straightened as it turned, and it was clear Bridget had reached a decision. She stared into Rosie’s anxious face for a moment, then said, ‘I’ll get a message to ’er meself, personal like, all right? But I can’t promise when.’

  ‘You will?’ Rosie’s face lit up. ‘Tell her I’m married to Zachariah and she’s going to be an aunty in the spring, Bridget. I live in Roker now, number seventeen The Terrace. Ask her to come and see me. And . . . and tell her I love her, we all love her, whatever she’s done. Make sure she understands that.’

  ‘Aye, aye, but I doubt you’ll ’ear owt, hinny.’

  ‘Oh thank you, Bridget.’ Rosie walked across to stand in front of the old woman, and took the wrinkled hands that were weighed down with rings and bracelets. ‘You don’t know what this means, you trying. Thank you.’

  ‘Don’t thank me yet, lass. It might be for nothin’.’

  ‘But you’re going to talk to her and that’s the main thing.’

  ‘You trust me word, then?’

  The bright sharp eyes were tight on Rosie’s face now, and when Rosie nodded, saying simply, ‘I do, yes, of course I do,’ the old woman shook her head.